The morning opened in a way as promising to Lady Gordon's plans as could
be desired; bright and serene; a gentle air, not strong enough to wave
the flag upon the Castle turrets, rustled amongst the forest trees; a
deep blue sky, a cloudless sun, and the mist upon distant objects which
accompanies heat in this country, all promised everything most charming.
The whole party were in high spirits, and when, after their breakfast,
the ladies had put the finishing stroke to their toilettes, any
unprejudiced observer must have admitted that they all three looked very
captivating in their several ways.
Lady Gordon anxious to be on the appointed spot previous to the arrival
of any of the guests, soon started from the Castle, and the two young
ladies accompanied her.
The scene which had been chosen looked very lovely certainly, and the
marquees and trees in its vicinity, festooned with flowers, and
ornamented in many dainty devices, had a most tasteful air; but Emma
could not help thinking that the forest glade in its natural state would
have been more taste picturesque, and to her far more enchanting, than
with the gay flags and ornaments which now decked it. She thought of the
ages which had passed over those lordly trees; the generations of fair
faces, which had perhaps strolled beneath them; the histories of happy
or of broken hearts, which, could they but be known, would read so many
a moral lesson to herself. They looked so very old, those huge spreading
trees, with their giant trunks and wide extending branches; she quite
felt respect for such stability and strength. Their boughs had probably
waved
"O'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown."
and now another generation was to meet beneath them, and how many gay,
thoughtless hearts, would they this day shade.
They had not been long enough there for Miss Carr to be very tired of
waiting, nor for Emma to be at all anxious for a change of scene, when
the company began to arrive, and she had other amusement and occupation.
It was a very large assembly, and every one came prepared to enjoy
themselves, convinced that what Lady Gordon did must be wittiest and
most fashionable, if not
"Wisest, discreetest, virtuousest, best."
The band played, the sun shone, the green trees waved in the breeze, the
silks and muslins fluttered, fair checks reddened, bright eyes glanced,
sweet lips smiled, fairy forms flitted about, everything was elegant,
lively, agreeable—any thing but pastoral, not at all in the fashion of
an old French print of a Louis Quartorze fête champêtre. There were no
mock shepherdesses, with powdered heads and crooks in their hands; no
badly supported and out of character costumes; people came to act no
part but that of lively, and if they could be, lovely English ladies, in
the most fashionable gowns, meeting well-bred, well-dressed,
well-intentioned English gentlemen. There were smiles, and flattery, and
flirtations, and a little affectation, and some small share of folly;
but on the whole, it was an extremely elegant and well-satisfied party,
and every one was ready to tell every one else how excessively pleasant
it was, and how much more they preferred these delightful, unformal
parties, to the more usual, but less exciting, in-door assemblies.
To those who loved good eating and drinking, it could not fail of being
an agreeable re-union, for "the feast provided, combined," the
newspapers said on the occasion, "every delicacy of the season, which an
out door repast would admit of, in profusion, and the hospitable and
liberal-minded hosts were truly delighted to press on their nowise
reluctant guests, the choicest viands and the most refreshing products
of the vineyards."
In reallity, there was a great deal of pleasure afforded on the
occasion, and if there were some dissatisfied minds, it may be concluded
that they were those, who under no circumstances were likely to be
pleased.
Among the discontented was Margaret Musgrove, who came over with a
friend, in that friend's carriage, her husband driving the brother of
this lady, as he preferred anything to accompanying his wife. After
their arrival, he attached himself to this friend, and carried on with
her a very tender flirtation. Mrs. Harding Russell was a fine, dashing
woman, who very much enjoyed a flirtation with her friend's husband, and
was delighted to make herself conspicuous, and the wife uncomfortable.
Margaret would not have minded, had the brother been inclined to assist
her in paying her husband off—but this was not the case, he was a man's
companion, not a woman's, and never troubled himself to flirt at all.
Margaret for some time formed a very inharmonious third to the otherwise
lively duet which was performing between Tom and Mrs. Harding Russell,
whose company made her perfectly miserable; but at length she succeeded
in securing as a companion one of her former acquaintances, who though
he had long ago ceased to care for Margaret Watson, had no objection,
_faute de mieux_, to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Tom Musgrove.
When the greatest portion of the visitors was assembled, at a given
signal, the sides of the largest marquee were opened, and every one was
invited to the collation. Amidst the throng and pressure of this
occasion, Emma found herself within a a short distance of her
brother-in-law and his friend, and an unavoidable hearer of their
conversation. Mr. Corbet was enquiring—
"What has come over Lord Osborne to make him such a different fellow
from what he used to be? Why when I was here before, he was a fine,
dashing lad, quite ready to join in any sort of sensible fun; and now he
seems all taken up with women and girls. I remember when he would have
scorned to join in such trumpery nonsense as this; but when I proposed
just now that we should slip away to have a cigar and a little brandy
and water, hot and comfortable, he told me he must attend to his
sister's guests. Such a precious notion, 'pon my soul, I could not help
laughing to think of a fellow like him turned into a lady's companion; a
pretty thing indeed. If I were a peer of the realm, catch me troubling
my head about any sisters or mother of mine."
"'Pon my honour, I think," said Tom, "it's a monstrous pity he _is_ so
altered, for I am sure he's not the same person to me that he was; I
really think it is all for the sake of my sister-in-law, that pretty
girl who is here now, you noticed her I dare say."
"Not I, I never look after pretty girls of that class—those I can have
nothing to say to; there's an uncommon pretty girl at the lodge-gate,
who stared at me as I came in, I noticed her there, and winked at her as
hard as I could; and I intend to notice her again before I've done with
her; but what are other pretty girls to me—not my sort, eh Tom?"
Tom laughed so much, Emma did not hear what followed, but it ended with
a proposal that when they had had enough grub, they should adjourn to
the lodge to look after the rustic beauty.
By this time Emma had been borne by the throng into the interior, and
unluckily the place she found for herself, was close to Mrs. Harding
Russell and her brother-in-law. She did not expect much pleasure from
this vicinity, and could not, therefore, complain of disappointment, as
well as disagreeables during this part of the entertainment.
Mrs. Harding Russell for some minutes would not turn her head towards
Tom, and when he claimed her attention, she turned towards him with a
scornful smile and exclaimed:
"Oh, you are come, are you? I hope you did not hurry yourself on _my_
account, Mr. Musgrove. I should be sorry if you had put yourself to any
inconvenience."
"Indeed I have though. I have been making frantic exertions, and trodden
on at least a dozen toes to secure a place near you, convinced you would
enjoy nothing unless I were here to help you."
"Upon my word, a very pretty speech—just like a man though—quite what
one might expect from the vain sex. Pray do not take a seat, which I
have no doubt must be very disagreeable to you. I dare say somebody else
would change places with you: the young fellow talking to your
wife—Baker—Butcher—Barber—what's his name—I shall call him, he would do
just as well—he could hardly say less civil things."
"What did I say, anything rude? do you not know you were to take my
speeches by contraries—did we not agree so—it is so much safer: but you
know your power—your delight in tormenting me—caprice is so charming in
women—and _you_ know how to make it positively bewitching."
"Really I have not the slightest wish to bewitch you, nor can I believe
that I do so—I have no power over any one, least of all you—I who have
no charms, no graces—oh, no indeed, I do not expect civility, much less
attention from men."
"Fie, you slander yourself and me, and the whole race of men in such
assertions; you no charms—no graces—I should like to know where they are
to be seen, that is all, if you do not exhibit them. I am sure Mr.
Harding Russell would not say so, happy man!"
"What do _you_ know of Mr. Harding Russell?" enquired the lady turning
abruptly round to him.
"Nothing at all, except that like Roy's,
"His age is three times mine"—
shall I go on?"
"Say what you please, it is better to be an old man's pet than a young
man's slave," retorted she.
"Possibly, but you may reverse that saying—a young man would infallibly
become your slave, fairest."
The rest of the conversation need not be detailed, it was too
common-place, and trivial to deserve further notice; every one has heard
two under-bred and over-pretending individuals making fools of
themselves and each other, by their compliments and self-flatteries.
Very much rejoiced was Emma when the conclusion of the banquet at last
allowed her the relief of a change of neighbours and conversation. As
she was looking about for some one whom she could join, standing back a
little to allow the tide of finery and flutter to roll past, she
suddenly found Lord Osborne at her side.
"How came you to go all wrong, Miss Watson, at dinner?" enquired he
abruptly.
"I, my lord—how!" was her answer, rather puzzled.
"Getting down quite with the wrong set—you belonged to us, and had no
business at all with Mrs. Harding Russell, or women of that kind; I
looked for you, but you had given me the slip."
"Oh, is that all?" replied she, "I was really afraid I had committed
some glaring crime, from your lordship's reproaches, but if it was only
sitting near the wrong persons, I assure you I have done penance enough
already for that—I cannot say that I thought them very pleasant."
"I am glad of it," he replied with much animation, "you would have been
very different from what I fancied, if you had found any pleasure in
Mrs. Harding Russell."
Emma made no answer, and he immediately afterwards proposed her joining
Lady Gordon, to which she assented. They found, on joining the circle
round the hostess, that she was proposing for them a ramble through the
prettiest parts of the park, to see the waterfall and the fairy
fountain, and hear the echo, which was famous in the glen; there were a
number of young people round her, and they seemed just in a humour for
such an expedition. Some were to take carriages, some to go on foot, and
amongst this latter group were included Emma and also Miss Carr, who
seemed suddenly seized with a very decided partiality for Miss Watson,
which grew particularly strong whenever Lord Osborne approached.
Quite uninvited she linked her arm in Emma's, and would be her
inseparable companion in the walk. It was very pretty scenery through
which they had to pass, and the lively party with their gay dresses gave
it quite a novel effect. There was nothing like connected conversation
carried on, only lively remarks, and quick repartees, with quaint
observations from Sir William Gordon, who formed one of the party, and
matter-of-fact assertions from his brother-in-law, who was, however,
remarkably talkative for him.
In passing through one portion of the park under a sunny bank, they
startled some of the harmless speckled snakes which writhed themselves
away in haste, but not without causing much alarm and trepidation on the
part of some of the young ladies, who protested they had a natural
horror of such reptiles. This led the conversation into a new train, a
long discussion on natural antipathies, when all the young ladies were
called on by Sir William to declare what were their pet antipathies,
presuming that they all cherished some such amiable weakness. He in
return was immediately assaulted by an accusation of thinking ill of
young women—entertaining satirical ideas about them, and making
ill-natured speeches to them; which of course he denied, and the dispute
which this accusation brought on lasted till they reached the fairy
fountain.
Seated by the side of the spring was a brilliant, dark-eyed, beauty of a
gipsy, who seemed to be waiting their approach.
"Here's a part of the masque for which I was not prepared," cried Sir
William; "I wonder whether my wife sent this woman here."
Then advancing, he enquired what she wanted.
"I am waiting," she exclaimed with a smile, "to meet you all—not you,
Sir William," putting him back with her hand. "It is not you I wish to
see, but the young lord. Stand forth, Lord Osborne."
"Holloa! what now," cried he advancing—but another gentleman put him
back, and placing himself before the gipsy enquired why she called him
forth.
"I never called _you_, Arthur Brooke—who named your name?—keep in your
proper place, and be not hurried to assume that of others." Then rising,
she pointed to the spring and exclaimed, "Are you all come to drink at
the fairy spring? How will you do it—where are your glasses or your
pitchers?"
It was perfectly true they had all come to drink, but had forgotten or
neglected to bring any vessel with which to draw the water. After
looking at them for a moment, with triumph she exclaimed,
"You must then condescend to be beholden to the gipsy for your
draught—see here," and she produced, as she spoke, a small silver cup:
"Lord Osborne, take this cup and fill it for your guests."
Lord Osborne advanced and prepared to obey her. Sir William stopped him
by suggesting perhaps it was a magic cup which might work them harm and
woe.
"Scoffer!" said the woman. "It is a magic cup. Carry that cup steadily
to your lips, full to the brim, without losing a drop, and it betides
you success in your life's undertakings."
"Who will try the omen?" cried Lord Osborne. "For whom shall I dip?"
"Not me! not me!" exclaimed several of the young ladies addressed.
"Let me try first for myself," he said, and stooping filled the little
goblet to the brim, raising it steadily and carefully.
"A toast," cried Sir William, "you must not drink without a toast."
"Success to our secret wishes," said he, and drained the cup to the
bottom. "Will none follow my example," added he: then again filling the
cup, he presented it to Emma; she took it and drank a part, then
deliberately poured the remainder on the ground. The gipsy's eyes
flashed.
"You defy me," she said, "dark-haired girl—but ere the sun stands again
where it now does, your heart will be as heavy as your curls—your hopes
as dark as your eyes—tremble—for the approaching news—you, who have
dared to disregard my cautions."
"Whatever ill news may be in store for me," said Emma firmly, looking
up; "it will come quite irrespective of the water I just poured upon the
ground. I do not fear _you_. I have seen you before."
"Yes, we have met before; and I remember kindness with gratitude, and I
grieve that young hearts should break—but it must be so—triumph and
success to his lordship—but tinged with regret and sorrow—for he has
drank from the gipsy's cup. Who will have their fortunes told."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord Osborne, "How should she
know?"
"It is well to disbelieve, no doubt; but see now, you come to the fairy
well for water; but, without my help, you would have come in vain. So it
is with the future. You wish to draw knowledge from the dark bottomless
well of destiny; you may seek in vain, unless you condescend to borrow
of gipsy lore. Have courage and face the future."
"Oh! do not let us have any thing to do with her," cried one young lady.
"I am not afraid, I will have my fortune told," said Miss Carr,
advancing; "tell me, if you can, what will be my fate?"
"No," replied the young woman, turning away, "I dare not predict for
you—but one thing I foresee—disappointment and sorrow to you all—bright
hopes faded—joyous faces clouded—smiles changed to tears for some, and
the gayest hours cut short with grief and dismay. Farewell!"
She fled down the glen as she spoke, and a turn of the path hid her from
sight. A something of fear and chill fell on the whole party. Sir
William was the first to break the silence.
"Who is she, Miss Watson? she claims you as an acquaintance—where did
you ever see her?"
Emma told him that it was a long time ago—before last Christmas—when out
walking with one of her sisters. She did not explain that it was during
that well-remembered walk, when she had met Mr. Howard for the first
time after the ball, and he had accompanied them home. This young woman
had followed them on that occasion, and Emma had persuaded Elizabeth to
give her some relief from the kitchen, as she seemed almost famishing.
Having been struck by her beauty, Emma had instantly recollected her.
The waterfall and the echo, combined with meeting those who had gone
there in carriages, and detailing the adventure of the gipsy girl to
them, sufficed to restore most of the spirits which had been damped by
her predictions—and there was a great deal of merriment going on around
her—but Emma remarked that Sir William looked particularly thoughtful
and quite unlike his usual self.
"Are you brooding over the threatenings of the girl," enquired she,
coming to his side, "you look so uncommonly grave, I really think they
must have made an impression on you."
"I own they have," replied he.
"Oh! Sir William," exclaimed she, "I did not expect such superstition
from you. I am surprised."
"Are you," said he, looking fixedly at her; "do you not know that those
people seldom prophesy without some foundation to go on? They are quick
at guessing feelings and wishes, and combining them with past and
passing events; and extremely quick at learning any kind of news and
turning it to their own advantage. Their knowledge in this way is
astonishing; and I certainly feel afraid lest it may prove too
true,—that something to us unknown, has occurred to grieve us."
"You almost frighten me, Sir William," replied Emma, turning pale. "Your
attaching such consequence to words which appeared to me spoken at
random, seems quite like a reproach to me for treating them so lightly."
"Perhaps her predictions, after all, may be the worst things that we
shall hear," added Sir William, trying to shake off his gravity; "and
they will be quite fulfilled, if I make you so pale. You are tired—take
my arm!"
She could not deny it; and was glad to accept a seat in one of the
carriages to return to the Castle: whither the most delicate of the
guests now agreed to turn their steps, to rest and refresh themselves
after their exertions, previous to the ball at night.