A month of tranquillity and peace of mind, passed in the society of Miss
Bridge, was sufficient to restore Emma Watson to all her former health
and more than her former beauty. When Lady Gordon wrote to remind her of
the promised visit, she was almost sorry to go. Yet her heart would
flutter a little at the notion of again visiting Osborne Castle—of being
again in the vicinity of Mr. Howard, of seeing, hearing, meeting him
again. It was very foolish to care so much about it—extremely so when he
had so completely shown his own indifference, and yet she could not help
feeling a good deal at the idea of meeting.
She called it curiosity to see how he was looking, when she admitted
that thoughts of him had anything to do with it; but more often she
persisted that it was affection for Lady Gordon, or a wish to see her
old neighbourhood, or to visit Osborne Castle in the summer. In short,
she found a hundred surprisingly good reasons why she should wish to go
to Osborne Castle, any one of which would have been sufficient had it
only been true, but as they were mostly imaginary, she never felt quite
deceived about them in her own mind. This was provoking, as she would
have liked, had she been able, to convince herself that she no longer
took any interest in Mr. Howard. She had, however, a right to remember
his sister with regard, and she readily owned to herself that she should
be extremely glad to renew her acquaintance with Mrs. Willis. She hoped
to see Margaret again, and judge of the comparative happiness of her
married life. Yet she looked back with regret to the four past weeks and
reckoned them as some of the happiest she had ever known. Elizabeth had
spent part of the time with her, and she had enjoyed herself so very
much.
The more she had known of Miss Bridge, the better she had liked her, and
the parting was accompanied with mutual regrets and hopes of meeting
again.
It was June when she returned to Osborne Castle—June with its deep blue
skies—its sunny days—its delicious twilight; June with its garlands of
roses scenting the air, and its odoriferous hay-fields. The weather was
such as any lover of nature must revel in—delicious summer weather—fit
for strolling in the shade or sitting under trees, making believe to
read, whilst you were really watching the birds flitting among the
bushes, or the bees humming in the flowers—weather for enjoying life in
perfect listlessness and idleness—when scarcely any occupation could be
followed up beyond arranging a _bouquet_ or reading a novel. So thought
and so declared the young bride when her husband pressed her to engage
in any serious pursuit; she enjoyed the pleasure of teasing him by her
refusals perhaps rather more than she ought to have done, but she never
teased him very far now; she knew what he would bear, and ventured not
to go beyond it.
"I am glad Emma Watson is coming today," said she, as she threw herself
on a seat in the flower-garden; "you will have something else to look at
then besides me, and I shall quite enjoy the change."
"Are you sure of that, Rosa?" said he doubtfully.
"Why you have not the impertinence to suppose that I value your
incessant attentions," said she; "can you not imagine how tired I am of
being the sole object of your love. Emma Watson shall listen to the
grave books you so much love, shall talk of history or painting with
you, shall sit as your model, and leave me in my beloved indolence."
"May I enquire if you suppose you are teasing or pleasing me by this
arrangement, Rosa—is it to satisfy me or yourself?"
"Oh, don't ask troublesome questions; I hate investigations as to
meanings and motives—all I want is to be left alone, and not asked to
ride or walk when I had rather lie on a sofa in quiet."
"Shall I leave you now then, my dear little wife?" enquired he
smilingly, and offering to go as he spoke. "I have a letter to write
now, and you can stay here in solitude."
He returned to the Castle, she remained musing where he left her, and
thus it happened that when Emma was announced, she found the young
baronet alone in their morning sitting-room. He laid down his pen and
advanced to meet her with great cordiality, desiring a message to be
sent to summon his lady.
After expressing the pleasure it gave him to see her again, he observed:
"Who would have thought, Miss Watson, when we last met, that I should be
receiving you in this castle; did you prognosticate such an event?"
"Not precisely," replied Emma, "so far as concerned myself; but as
relating to Miss Osborne—I mean Lady Gordon—any one must have foreseen
it."
"I assure you, when such things are foreseen, Miss Watson, it most
frequently happens that they never come to pass. I have repeatedly seen
instances of this kind." He spoke with an arch smile, and a faint idea
passed through her mind that she was in his thoughts at the moment; an
idea which might, perhaps, have embarrassed her more had it not been
swallowed up—annihilated entirely by a more powerful sensation, as the
door opened and Lady Gordon entered with Mr. Howard.
It was fortunate that the enquiries of the former—her expressions of
pleasure, and her caresses, were an excuse for Emma's not immediately
turning to the gentleman—had they been obliged to speak at once, it is
probable their dialogue would have been peculiar—interesting but
unconnected—as the man said of Johnson's dictionary. As it was, they
both had time to collect their thoughts—and when they did turn, were
able to go through their interview with tolerable calmness; but Emma had
the advantage—as ladies frequently have where circumstances require a
ready tact and presence of mind. Indeed, they did not start on fair
ground—since she had only one set of sensations to contend with and
conceal—he had more—for, besides the emotion which the sight of her
occasioned him, he had the double evil of being convinced it was
contrary to the requisitions of honour, to feel any extraordinary
pleasure in her company. Had not Lord Osborne made him his confidant
relative to his attachment, or had Howard boldly owned to his lordship
at the time, that he entertained similar views, all would have been
right, and he might openly have expressed the interest which he now was
compelled carefully to smother. His address was cold and formal—the very
contrast to his feelings—and extremely ill done likewise; Emma, chilled
by the reception so different to what she had ventured to expect, began
to fear her own manners had been too openly indicative of pleasure at
the sight of him; and determined to correct this error she almost
immediately followed Lady Gordon, who had sauntered towards the
conservatory.
"Come here," said the young hostess, linking her arm in Emma's, "let us
leave the gentlemen to discuss the parish politics together. Mr. Howard
came on business, and Sir William dearly loves meddling with it. Now,
you must tell me all the news of Croydon. Have you no scandal to enliven
me?—with whom has the lawyer quarrelled? or to whom has the apothecary
been making love."
Emma colored and laughed a little. Lady Gordon smilingly watched her.
"To you, I suppose, by your blushes, Miss Watson; well, that gives me a
higher idea of _his_ taste, than I have been accustomed to form of
country-town doctors. How many lovers have you to boast of? Beginning
with Lord Osborne, and ending with this nameless son of Esculapius?—tell
me all.
"Indeed, I have no such honors to boast," replied Emma, "no one has
sought me, and probably no one ever will:" this was followed by a little
sigh.
"Nay, do not be so desponding—a little chill is nothing," cried Lady
Gordon, "but I am not going to pry into your secrets. This conservatory
has given us enough of trouble in that way already. By the way, you
will, of course, like to go over and call on your sister, Mrs.
Musgrove—when will it suit you?"
"To-morrow, if you please," replied Emma, gratefully; Lady Gordon
promised that the means of conveyance should be at her service, and they
proceeded to discuss other topics.
She insisted on detaining Mr. Howard to spend the afternoon and to dine
with them—pleading, as a reason, the absence of his sister, who was away
on a visit; and when this point was carried and settled, she led them
out into the flower garden again, and loitered away the rest of the
intervening time, amidst the perfume of summer flowers, and the
flickering lights and shadows of the alcoves, and their gay creeping
plants. It was the day and place for love making; who could resist the
fascinating influence of sweet scents, sunshine, murmuring fountains and
soft summer airs? Not Mr. Howard, certainly! Gradually his frozen manner
melted away—his purposes of reserve were forgotten, and he became once
more the Mr. Howard of Emma's first acquaintance, pleasant and
gay—sensible and agreeable.
Lady Gordon left them several times together, whilst she occupied
herself with her flowers or her tame pheasants; and each successive time
of her absence, there was less check and constraint in his manner; and
when, at last, she totally disappeared, and they were left without other
witnesses in that delightful spot, than the silent trees, or the
trickling waters, his reserve had disappeared altogether, and she could
converse with him as in former times.
"Have you enjoyed your visit at Croydon, Miss Watson," enquired he,
presently.
She looked surprised at the question.
"Enjoyed it," she repeated—then, after a momentary hesitation added, "I
wonder you can apply such a term to circumstances connected with so much
that is—that must be most painful."
He was exceedingly vexed with himself for the question, and attempted to
make some excuse for the inadvertence.
"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of bitterness
in her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of our misfortune
would remain, when we ourselves were removed from sight. _I_ ought
rather to apologise for answering your question so uncivilly."
"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed,
Miss Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former
friends in that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the
misfortune—the Providential dispensation, which in removing your
excellent father from among us, robbed us likewise of you and your
sisters."
"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with
tears—she turned away her head.
"It was of course a terrible wound to you," said he softly, and stepping
up quite close to her, "but not one which you need despair of time's
healing; _your_ good sense, _your_ principles must assist you to view
the occurrence in its true light. It must not sadden your whole life, or
rob you of all pleasure."
"True—but there are other sorrows connected with it—" she stopped
abruptly, then went on again, "however I have no right to complain. I
have still _some_ friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the
loss of _all_ those whom I reckoned amongst my friends; though an event
of that kind is a good touch-stone for new and untried friendships."
"Can you imagine," cried he eagerly, "that such a circumstance can make
the shadow of a difference to any one worth knowing. It is, I own, too,
too common—but surely _you_ have not met with such instances."
She shook her head and looked half reproachfully at him: in her own
heart, she had felt inclined to charge him with this feeling.
"I should have thought," continued he warmly, "you would have said—at
least you would have found it like the words of the old song, that—
"Friends in all the old you meet,
And brothers in the young."
"I believe it is not usual," replied she trying to speak playfully, "to
attach much value to an old song—we may consider that as a poetical
fiction."
He looked very earnestly at her and said:
"You fancy friends have deserted you, owing to a change in your
prospects—do not—allow me to advise you—do not give way to such
feelings—they will not make you happy."
"They do not make me _un_happy, I assure you," said she with spirit;
"the value I place on such fluctuating friendships is low indeed."
"In one single instance, perhaps, it may be so—but you had better not
dwell on such ideas; they will create eventually a habit of mind which
must tend to produce secret irritation and uneasiness. The allowing
yourself to think it—much more expressing that thought _can_ do you no
good, and each repetition deepens the impression!"
He spoke so gently, with such a low, earnest tone, she could not resist
or for a moment longer indulge her half-formed suspicions relative to
him and his sister. Whether he had guessed her feelings she could not
tell; his eyes were fixed on her with too much of interest to allow her
to attempt reading the whole of their meaning. She never liked him so
well as when thus, and with justice, reproving her.
"I dare say you are right," said she meekly, "I will try to repress such
feelings—indeed I am ashamed I ever gave them utterance—and here too,
where I have been so very kindly welcomed!"
"And I am to imagine then," continued he, "that Croydon offers few
attractions to you—a country town is not usually agreeable except to
those who love gossip, of which I do not suspect you; but you must have
found some compensations."
"It was a great pleasure to look forward to Elizabeth being so
comfortably settled," replied Emma, "I like my future brother very much,
and am pleased with his family. I have no doubt of _her_ happiness—and
the style of life will not be irksome to her—but I love the country, and
country pursuits, and was right glad to exchange the noisy streets of
Croydon for the delightful groves of Burton—its meadows and
green-lanes."
"You have not then been the whole time at Croydon?"
She explained—he had certainly been in a state of complete darkness as
to her movements lately; and she really felt a momentary mortification
that he should have been contented to remain in such profound ignorance.
Yet she also rejoiced that he had never heard anything relative to the
course of events which had occasioned her so much pain at Croydon, and
driven her from the place. He knew nothing of Mr. Morgan.
How much longer they would have been content to loiter in that pleasant
flower-garden cannot now be known, but they were only induced to leave
it by the sound of the gong, which summoned them to the Castle to
prepare for dinner. The hour which they had thus enjoyed had been one of
the pleasantest to Emma which she could recollect, and the witchery of
it to Howard himself would have been quite unrivalled, had his
conscience been easy on reflection, with regard to Lord Osborne's plans
and hopes. He tormented himself with the idea that it was unjust to his
friend to take advantage of his absence; yet a flattering hope dwelt in
his heart, that _she_ had shown no reluctance to the interview; nay, if
his wishes did not deceive and mislead him, there was a glance in her
averted eye, and a rich mantling of colour over her cheek once or twice,
which spoke anything but aversion.
And if so—if he really had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a
partiality so delightful, was he not privileged—more than
privileged—bound in honour to her to prove himself deserving of such
feelings, and capable of appreciating them. This conviction gave him a
degree of confidence and animation quite different from the manners he
had exhibited when they had previously met at Osborne Castle, and Emma
found him as pleasant as in the earlier stage of their acquaintance.
"Are you still partial to early walks, Miss Watson," enquired Sir
William in the course of the evening, "or is it only in frosty winter
mornings that you indulge in such a recreation."
"Ah, I had a very pleasant ramble that morning," said Emma, "at least
till the rain came and spoilt it all."
"A very mortifying way of concluding," said Sir William, laughing, "for
I came with the rain. I wish you had not put in that reservation."
"I am not so ungrateful as to include you and the rain in the same
condemnation," replied she, "you were of great assistance in my
distresses."
"But if you wish to indulge in the same amusement now, you will have
abundance of time, as Lady Gordon is by no means so precipitate in her
habits of rising and performing her morning toilette, as to compel her
guests to abridge their walks before breakfast. Perhaps as a compliment
to you, and by making very great speed she may contrive to complete her
labours in that way by ten or eleven o'clock."
"Well, I do not pretend to deny it," said Lady Gordon, "I am excessively
indolent, and dearly love the pleasure of doing nothing. But Sir William
is always anxious to make me out much worse than I am."
"But you have not answered my question as to your intentions for
to-morrow, Miss Watson, and I have a great wish to know whether you are
proposing an excursion; because I think it would be much more agreeable
if we can contrive to walk together, and if I know at what time you
intend to start, I will take care to be in the way."
"Is he serious, Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma.
"It is a most uncommon event if he is so, I assure you," replied the
young wife, "and, indeed, I would not take upon myself to assert such a
thing of him at any time—"
"Do not believe all the scandal my lady there will say of me," returned
Sir William, "but just say at once that you will walk to-morrow morning,
and that you will be particularly happy if I and Mr. Howard will join
you."
Emma blushed deeply, and hardly knew what to answer, but Lady Gordon
saved her the trouble of replying, by exclaiming at the presumption and
self-conceit of her husband, declaring that he had completely reversed
the proper order of things, and that he deserved a decided negative from
Emma, for having expected her to profess such extraordinary satisfaction
at his company.
Emma made believe to consider the proposal entirely as a joke, but
somehow, without knowing exactly how, it was settled that the proposed
excursion should take place, and that Mr. Howard was to meet them at a
particular spot, from whence they were to ascend the hill behind the
Castle to enjoy the prospect bathed in a morning's sunshine. Lady Gordon
privately gave her husband many injunctions not to interfere with the
lovers, and whilst keeping near enough to take away all appearance of
impropriety, to be sure and give them plenty of time for quiet
intercourse. In return for her consideration, he only laughed at her,
and accused her of a great inclination to intrigue, assuring her she had
much better leave such affairs to take their chance.
The walk, however, took place as was planned, and was exceedingly
enjoyed by all three, though Mr. Howard did not take that occasion of
declaring his passion: indeed he would have had some difficulty in
finding an opportunity, as Sir William did not follow Lady Gordon's
suggestions of leaving them together.
Mindful of her promise, Lady Gordon sent her guest over the next morning
to pay her first visit to Mrs. Tom Musgrove. It was with rather a
feeling of doubt and hesitation that Emma ventured to her sister's
house; anxious as she was to see her and judge for herself, and curious
to observe the manners which Tom Musgrove adopted as a married man, she
could not help some internal misgivings as to the result of her
investigations.
She had never seen the house before, and though she had been previously
warned of the fact that it had no beauty to recommend it, she was not
exactly prepared for the bare, unsheltered situation, and the extreme
unsightliness of the building itself. Tom had always spent too much
money on his horses and their habitation, to have any to spare for
beautifying his house during the days of his bachelorship and he was far
too angry at the constraint put upon him in his marriage, to feel any
inclination to exert himself for the reception of his bride. She had
therefore no additions for her accommodation, no gay flower-garden, not
even any new furniture to boast of, and her glory must consist alone in
the fact of her new name, and her security from living and dying an old
maid.
Most people would have thought that security dearly purchased, but if
such were Margaret's thoughts, she had not as yet given utterance to
them.
Emma found her lying on a sofa, and in spite of her very gay dress, and
an extremely becoming cap, evidently out of spirits and cross, yet
wanting to excite her sister's envy of her situation.
"Well, Emma," said she, sharply, "I am glad you have come over to see
me, though I must say I think your friend, Lady Gordon, since she is
such a great friend of yours, might have paid me the compliment of
calling with you."
"She thought it would be pleasanter if we met first without her," said
Emma, cheerfully, "but she desired me to express the pleasure it would
give her to see you and Mr. Musgrove at Osborne Castle any day you would
name!"
Somewhat mollified by this unexpected attention, Margaret smiled
slightly, then again relapsing into her usual pettish air, she observed,
"I think you might say something about the house and drawing-room—what
do you think of it?"
Emma was exceedingly puzzled what to answer, as it was difficult for her
to combine sincerity with anything agreeable; but after looking round
for a minute she was able to observe that the room was of a pretty
shape, and had a pleasant aspect.
"It wants new furnishing sadly," continued Margaret, pleased with her
sister's praise; "but Tom is so stingy of money, I am sure I do not know
when I am to do it. Would not pale blue damask satin curtains look
lovely here—with a gold fringe or something of the sort?"
"Rather expensive, I should suppose," replied Emma; "and perhaps
something plainer would be more in character with the rest of the house
and furniture."
"I don't see that at all," retorted Margaret; "do you suppose I do not
know how to furnish a house—of course I should have everything to
correspond. I have a little common sense, I believe, whatever some
people may choose to think of it. At home indeed I was always considered
as nothing, but as a married woman I am of some importance, I believe!"
"It was not your taste that I doubted," replied Emma, and then stopped,
afraid lest she should only make bad worse by anything she might venture
to say.
"I should like to know what you _did_ doubt then," said Margaret
scornfully. "Perhaps you thought we could not afford it; but there I
assure you you are quite mistaken—Tom's is a very ample income, and he
can as well afford me luxuries as Sir William Gordon himself."
"I am very glad to hear it," replied Emma composedly.
Margaret thought a little, and then enquired how Elizabeth was going on.
Emma's account was very satisfactory, or at least would have been so to
any one really concerned in Miss Watson's welfare; but Margaret would
probably have felt better pleased had there been some drawback or
disadvantage to relate concerning her; being not altogether so well
satisfied with her own lot, as to make her quite equal to bearing the
prosperity of her sister.
"And so she is really going to marry that man, in spite of his brewery;
well, I wish she had more pride—proper pride; I must say I think a
clergyman's daughter might have looked higher—and she should consider
_my_ feelings a little. I should have been ashamed to marry any one not
a gentleman by birth and situation!"
"We have not all the same feelings," replied Emma willing to propitiate;
"and I do not wonder at her liking Mr. Millar, he is so excellent a
man."
"You think so, I dare say," said Margaret scornfully; "but a girl like
you has seen far too little of the world to be any judge of what men are
or ought to be. There is nothing so deceptive as their manners in
company—_I_, who must be allowed to have more power of judging, and
indeed in every respect to be your superior, never saw anything
remarkable in Mr. Millar: a certain coarseness and grossness—a something
which irresistibly reminded one of a cask of double X, was much his most
distinguishing characteristic."
"I never observed it, and indeed Margaret I think you do him injustice,"
said Emma with spirit; "I am sure he has nothing coarse about him,
either in mind or person."
"I think it is very unbecoming in you to set up your opinion in
opposition to me. I have had far more experience, and my position as a
matron places me in a much more competent situation for judging of men
and manners."
Emma did not again attempt to contradict her, and Margaret, pleased with
her supposed victory, enquired with some good nature and more vanity, if
her sister would like to see her jewel-box. Emma, aware that she wished
to exhibit it, good-naturedly expressed pleasure at the proposal, and
was in consequence immediately desired to ring the bell to summon her
maid to fetch it.
With much self-complacency, and a considerable wish to make her sister
envious, all the new trinkets were exhibited by the happy possessor, and
amongst many which owed all their value to being perfectly modern and
just in fashion, were some few ornaments which would have been valued
anywhere for their intrinsic worth, although antique in their setting,
and differing decidedly from the style of ornament then in vogue.
"Those belonged to Tom's mother," observed Margaret, rather
contemptuously pushing aside the trinkets in question; "I believe the
stones are rather good, and if they were only new set, I should like
them very well, but they are monstrous old things now, set as they have
been."
Before Emma had time to reply or to express any opinion at all on the
subject of the trinkets, the door was violently thrown open, and with a
sound which indicated that he was luxuriating in very easy slippers, Tom
Musgrove entered the room.
"I say Margery, girl," he began in a loud voice, but stopped on seeing
his sister-in-law. "Hey, Emma Watson! why I did not know you were here!
By Jove! I am glad to see you."
He advanced towards her, and not satisfied with taking the hand which
she extended to him, he saluted her on the cheek with considerable
warmth, and detaining her hand, he stared her in the face with a look of
admiration which was quite offensive to her.
"Upon my word, Emma, you are looking more lovely than ever, blooming and
fresh. I need not ask _how_ you are—those bright eyes and roses speak
volumes. I am glad to see you, indeed I am."
"Thank you," said Emma, turning away her head and struggling to release
the hand which he retained with a most decided grasp; "I am glad to see
you and Margaret looking so well."
"Oh! Margery there—yes, I dare say, she is well enough—but, as for me, I
am sure it must be something miraculous, if I am any thing remarkable in
that way"—he glanced at his wife and shrugged his shoulders with an air
that excited disgust, not pity, in Emma.
"And so you are come to enliven us, Emma,—that's monstrous good of you,
'pon my honor. I hope you are going to stay here some time."
"You are very kind," replied she, "but I am staying with Lady Gordon,
and only came over here for a short visit to Margaret."
"So there, you see," cried Mrs. Musgrove, "_my_ relations are as much
noticed at the castle as you are; so you need not plume yourself so much
on that head, Tom!"
"I do not wonder that Sir William likes to have a pretty girl to stay
with him," replied Tom, again staring at Emma, who coloured highly with
indignation at his impertinence. "Ah! ha! how you blush," added he,
coming close to her and attempting to pinch her cheek, which she,
however, avoided. "Why, how monstrous coy you are," exclaimed he, "what!
are you afraid of me?—fie, fie—you are my sister, and should have no
naughty ideas in your head."
"I will trouble you, Tom, to leave my sister alone; I do not approve of
your taking personal liberties with her; be so good as to treat her with
the respect which is due to a relative of mine," exclaimed Margaret,
half rising from her sofa to speak with greater energy.
"Ha! ha! so you are jealous Margery," said Tom, throwing himself on a
seat beside Emma, and rolling about with laughter, "that's a good joke
'pon my soul—a capital joke, indeed—to be sure, considering all
things—it's natural enough; but really, I cannot help laughing at
it—indeed, I cannot, though I beg your pardon, Emma, for doing so."
Emma looked most immoveably grave, and would not give him the smallest
encouragement in his hilarity, whilst Margaret muttered quite audibly:
"What a fool you do make of yourself, to be sure."
"So you are exhibiting your necklace box again," observed he,
sarcastically, as he caught a glimpse of the case beside her. "Upon my
honor, I do not believe there is another woman so vain of her trinkets
between this and Berwick—you are always shewing them to every body."
"Well, and what if I am? I suppose I may if I like—it does nobody any
harm that ever I heard of," retorted Margaret, quite angry. "I see no
more wonder in a woman's shewing her jewels, than in a man exhibiting
his horses, dogs, and guns. I have known instances of that peculiarity
in some of my acquaintances, quite as well deserving of ridicule, as my
sister's wishing to see my ornaments could be."
"I dare say, the horses and the dogs were much better worth looking at
than your trumpery;" replied he, "why, the only things in your
assortment worth any thing, are the topaz set which belonged to my
mother; all the rest is mere rubbish."
"What those frightful old things! upon my honor, Tom, I am ashamed of
wearing such monstrous, heavy, old-fashioned articles—but having once
belonged to your mother, of course they must be wonderfully precious."
Emma here interposed to deliver Lady Gordon's message, and to request
them to name a day for accepting it. A debate ensued as to the most
convenient day on which to fix, which presently branched off into a
violent dispute as to whether the invitation in question was intended as
a compliment to Tom or his wife; each maintaining the opinion, that the
honour of the invitation was all due to themselves.
At length, however, Emma contrived to persuade them to settle the point
in question; and two days from that time, was fixed on for the dinner
visit, and soon after this point was arranged, Emma took her leave.
Much as she was grieved by what she had witnessed, she could not be
surprised at it, when she considered the circumstances under which the
union had been formed. Tom was reckless and unkind; Margaret peevish and
fretful, without energy of character to make the best of her situation,
or strength of mind to bear with patience the evils in which she had
involved herself. No doubt, if Tom had loved her, she would have been
fond of him, and any sensation beyond her own selfish feelings, would
have done her good; but forced into the marriage against his will, love,
or any thing resembling it, was not to be expected from him; in
consequence, her own partiality could not survive his indifference; and
there was a mutual spirit of ill-will cultivated between them, which
boded ill for their future peace.
Emma reflected on all this as she drove home, from her very
unsatisfactory visit, and was only roused from these unpleasant
considerations, by finding the carriage stopped suddenly soon after
entering the park. On looking up, she perceived Sir William and Lady
Gordon, who enquired if she would like a stroll before dinner, instead
of returning at once to the castle. She assented with pleasure, and
quitting the carriage, they took a pleasant path through a plantation,
the thick shade of which made walking agreeable even in the afternoon of
a June day.
"Suppose we go and invade Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon, "this path
leads down to the vicarage—let us see what sort of a housekeeper he
makes, without his sister to manage for him!"
"Always running after Mr. Howard, Rosa," said Sir William. "Upon my
word, I shall be jealous soon: yesterday flirting in the
flower-garden—to-day visiting at the vicarage; if things go on in this
way, I will take you away from Osborne Castle very soon."
"Yes, _you_ have reason to be jealous, have you not? when men leave off
pleasing their wives themselves, they always dislike that any one else
should do it for them"—replied Lady Gordon smiling saucily. "You know
you are always thwarting me yourself, and naturally wish to keep me from
more agreeable society, lest I should draw disadvantageous comparisons."
"But the comparisons are not fairly drawn under such circumstances,"
suggested Emma, "for Mr. Howard's way of treating Lady Gordon can be no
rule for his probable way of tyrannising over some future Mrs. Howard."
"Of course not," replied Sir William, "but I observe, Miss Watson, you
take it for granted that he _will_ tyrannise over a wife when he has
one; is that your opinion of men in general, or only of Mr. Howard in
particular?"
"Of men in general, no doubt," interposed Lady Gordon: "Miss Watson has
lived too long in the world not already to have discovered the obvious
truth, that all men are tyrants when they have the opportunity, the only
difference being, that some are hypocrites likewise, and conceal their
disposition until their victim is in their power, whilst others, like
yourself William, make no secret of it at all."
"I am glad you acquit me of hypocrisy at least, Rosa; it has always been
my wish to be distinguished for sincerity and openness, I never indulged
in intrigues or meddled in manœuvres, or sought for stratagems to carry
out my wishes."
He accompanied this speech with a peculiar smile which made his lady
colour slightly, as she well knew to what he alluded; she did not reply,
and they walked on some time in silence.
At length Emma observed that it was a remarkably pretty walk which they
were pursuing. Lady Gordon told her that they were indebted for the idea
and plan of it to Mr. Howard; he had superintended the execution of some
other improvements which Lady Osborne had effected, but this one had
originated entirely with him. It was the pleasantest road from the
vicarage to the village, and was so well made and drained as to be
almost always dry although so much sheltered. The idea that he had
planned it, did not at all diminish the interest with which Emma
regarded the road they were discussing; and her eyes sought the glimpses
of distant landscape seen between the trees, with pleasure materially
heightened by the recollection that it was to his taste she was indebted
for the gratification.
This sort of secret satisfaction was brought suddenly to a close, by
finding herself quite unexpectedly at a little wicket gate opening upon
his garden. She had not been aware the house was so near; but the
nature, not the source of her pleasure, was changed; it still was
connected with him, and the beauty of his garden quite enchanted her.
When she had previously seen it in the winter, she had felt certain it
must be charming, but now it proved to surpass every expectation she had
formed; and she was internally convinced that a love of gardening, and a
taste for the beauties of nature, were sure signs of an amiable and
domestic disposition in a man, which promised fair for the happiness of
those connected with him.
They found him hard at work constructing some new trellis work for the
luxuriant creepers which adorned his entrance; his coat off, and his
arms partly bare for the greater convenience of his labours.
"We have taken you by storm, to-day," said Lady Gordon, smilingly
holding out her hand to him, "I like to see your zeal for your house."
"Really," said he, holding up his hand, "these fingers of mine are not
at all fit to touch a lady's glove; when we assume the occupation of
carpenters, we ought to expect to be treated accordingly."
"And when we intrude on you at such irregular hours, we ought to be
thankful for any welcome we can get," replied Lady Gordon.
"Indeed, I take it most kind and friendly of you to come," answered he,
his eyes directed with unequivocal satisfaction towards Emma. "My garden
is better worth seeing _now_, than when you were last here," added he,
approaching her.
"It is lovely," replied Emma, honestly speaking her mind, "what
beautiful roses. I do not think I ever saw such a display of blossoms."
"I am glad _you_ admire it," said he, in a low voice, "though, after the
conservatories and flower gardens of the castle, I am afraid it must
look rather poor."
"I would not make unjust comparisons," replied Emma, "but I think you
need not dread it if I were inclined to do so. It is not grandeur or
extent which always carries the greatest charm."
"And would you apply that sentiment to _more_ than a garden?" asked he,
very earnestly, fixing on her eyes which unmistakeably declared his
anxiety to hear her answer.
He was not, however, destined to be so speedily gratified as he had
hoped; for, quite unconscious that he was interrupting any peculiarly
interesting conversation, Sir William turned round to enquire the name
of some new shrub that struck his eye at the moment.
Recollecting himself after replying to the baronet's question, he
invited them to enter the house to rest; but this Lady Gordon declined,
declaring that she preferred a swelling bank of turf, under a tree, to
any sofa that ever was constructed. The ladies therefore sat down here,
and begging to be excused for one minute, Mr. Howard disappeared, going,
as Sir William guessed, to wash his hands and put on a coat, that he
might look smart and fit for company. Lady Gordon laughed at the idea of
a clergyman making himself smart, or of Mr. Howard treating her as
company; but Sir William was proved to be partly right, since it was
evident on his return that he had been employing part of his absence in
the way that had been suggested; but to dress himself had not been his
sole object, for he re-appeared with a basket of magnificent
strawberries in his hand, which on a warm afternoon in summer had a
peculiarly inviting appearance.
Lady Gordon accepted them eagerly, declaring that she knew his
strawberries were always far better than any the Castle gardens ever
produced. As to Emma, she was certain she never tasted any so excellent
in her life, nor was she ever before pressed to eat with so winning a
smile or so persuasive a tone of voice.
"I wonder you take so much pains to beautify this place, when you are
almost certain of being soon removed from it," said Lady Gordon.
"The occupation is in itself a pleasure," replied he, "which more than
repays me for the exertion, and after your brother's liberality in
making the house and garden as comfortable as possible, it would be very
bad if I could not do my share in keeping it so, even if I am not to
remain as possessor; but I by no means anticipate a change with the
certainty which you seem to do."
"I have no doubt in the least that the moment Carsdeane is vacant, my
brother will offer you the living, and as the rector is very old and
infirm it seems hardly possible that it can be long first."
Mr. Howard was silent for a few minutes, and when he spoke, it was on
another subject; but not with the gaiety with which he had before
conversed; in fact, he was secretly meditating on the extreme
desirableness of quitting his present vicarage, if ever Lady Osborne
came to reside again in the neighbourhood. Nothing could be much more
unpleasant than a meeting between them, and he longed to learn from her
daughter whether there was any chance of such a catastrophe; but as yet
he had not found courage to enquire, fearing her penetration might have
led her to guess the past events, or her mother's indiscretion might
have made her acquainted with them.
"Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon soon afterwards, "you are under an
engagement to Miss Watson, to give her another lecture on the paintings
in the Castle gallery."
"I remember hoping for that pleasure," said he; "but I could hardly have
flattered myself that Miss Watson would remember it for such a length of
time."
"Indeed I do though," replied Emma; "I have a very good memory for
promises which are likely to afford me pleasure, and if I did not fear
encroaching too much on your time and patience, should certainly claim
that one."
"And I assure you I have no wish to shrink from my promise; but any time
you will name I will be at your service," said he with a look of lively
pleasure, "excepting to-morrow, when I am particularly engaged."
"There is no desperate hurry, I dare say," interposed Sir William; "you
can postpone your engagement without material inconvenience, I should
think, for a day or two, after waiting nearly six months."
"Oh yes, Miss Watson is come to pay us a long visit," added Lady Gordon;
"so you may easily settle on the day and hour at some future meeting."
"Any time will do for me," said Emma quietly.
"And are you really going out for the whole day to-morrow?" enquired
Lady Gordon.
He assented.
"Then we will come down and rifle his strawberry-beds—shall we not Miss
Watson?" continued she.
"I protest that will be most unfair," exclaimed he; "since I give you
willingly all I have, and only request, in return, the pleasure of your
society."
"That is so pretty a speech I can do no less than say in reply, that we
shall be most happy whenever Mr. Howard will indulge us with the honour
of his company: come whenever you can—the day after to-morrow Mr. and
Mrs. Musgrove dine with us, will you meet them?"
He accepted with pleasure, though perhaps he would have preferred their
absence to their company.
After loitering away a couple of hours on his lawn, Lady Gordon rose to
take her leave, and even then she pressed him so earnestly to accompany
them up the hill, to assist Miss Watson, who she was certain was
fatigued by her long walk, that he could not have refused had it been an
unpleasant task she was imposing on him, instead of the thing which he
liked best in the world, and was really wishing to do.
The encouragement which he received from Lady Osborne herself was so
obvious, that had his suit depended only on her, he would have felt
neither fear nor hesitation as to the result; but as the wishes and
tastes of another person were to be consulted, and there seemed far more
doubt as to the direction which those took, he still debated whether or
not he should venture to put his influence to the proof, and rest all
his hopes on a single effort.
He accompanied them home, but Emma denied that she was tired, and would
not accept the assistance of his arm, because she misinterpreted the
hesitation with which it was offered, fancying it was done unwillingly,
and solely in compliance with her friend's directions. This discouraged
him; he did not recover from the disappointment, and in consequence
would not enter the Castle, but persisted in returning to spend a
solitary evening at the vicarage. There Emma's smile and Emma's voice
perpetually recurred to his fancy, and he occupied himself, whilst
finishing the work which they had interrupted, in recalling every word
which she had said, and the exact look which had accompanied each
speech.