The next morning, as the ladies were quietly sitting together, and
just as Emma was beginning to expect the arrival of her sister to take
her home, a loud knock was heard at the door, which gave audible
notice of a far more masculine hand than that of Elizabeth Watson.
There was hardly time, however, for more than a brief wonder on the
subject, when Mr. Musgrove was announced. The stiffness of Mrs.
Edwards' reception, and the cold tranquillity of Mary's manners,
seemed to make no impression on him; at least, so Emma judged from
there being no abatement of that air of self-complacency which had
early struck her as belonging to him.
After the opening compliments to the party, he turned to Emma herself,
and presenting a note, observed that this would, in part, explain and
excuse his intrusion. It was from Elizabeth to herself, to say, that
as her father had found himself better than usual, he had suddenly
resolved to go to the visitation which happened that day, and in
consequence of his thus employing the chaise, she could not come, as
she had promised, to bring her sister home. She added, that she did
not, in the least, know what Emma could do, only if the Edwardses
asked her to remain, she thought that was the best thing that could be
contrived.
After pondering over this unwelcome note for several minutes, Emma was
just about to state the dilemma to Mrs. Edwards, when Tom Musgrove
broke in.
"I had an interest, Miss Emma, in bringing that note, and a message
besides, from your sister, which you must allow me to state. I met
Miss Watson in the village seeking for a messenger, and offered to do
her errand, as she told me the object of it, on condition that she
would sanction my bringing you home in my curricle. Believe me, it
will be with the greatest delight that I will drive you to Winston,
and the carriage is now at the door waiting for the honour of your
occupation."
Emma looked a little distressed.
"Did Elizabeth really wish me to come home that way," said she,
hesitating.
"I assure you, my proposal had her full and unqualified consent, and
you have only to say the word, and now—in half an hour—an hour—two
hours time—any time—I am at your service."
"I am much obliged to you," replied Emma, embarrassed between her fear
lest she should be supposed intruding on her hostess, and her extreme
dislike of encouraging any appearance of intimacy with Mr. Musgrove;
"but I do not think it is in the least degree necessary that I should
give you the trouble. The walk is nothing, and I dare say I can easily
find a person to carry my few things."
"The _trouble_ is nothing, Miss Emma," cried he, "but the walk
cannot be ranked in that way; three—four miles—what is it—five
perhaps—and such mud and dirt to get through—and after dancing all
night too: indeed it must be impossible. And there stand my
horses—useless—unemployed save by my unworthy self—indeed you _must_
accept my offer."
Emma would not yield; she was quite determined to encounter any
inconvenience rather than accept the offered seat; and the more
pressing he became the firmer her refusals grew.
Mrs. Edwards, who had been quietly listening to what was passing
between them, no sooner ascertained that the inclination of her young
visitor was decidedly opposed to an offer, which _she_ would have
deemed it in the highest degree indecorous to accept, than with a very
unusual warmth of manner on her part, she interposed, and greatly
relieved Emma by saying:
"If Miss Watson can wait until after luncheon, I shall have great
pleasure in conveying her home in our coach."
This well-timed offer was gratefully and gladly accepted, but Tom
loudly interposed.
"But you know, Mrs. Edwards, that is contrary to all your rules—quite
impossible to have your horses out to-day, after their night-work.
Surely you cannot really and seriously mean such a thing—and my
curricle here to make it quite unnecessary."
"I do really mean it;" replied Mrs. Edwards steadily, "our carriage
and horses are quite at Miss Watson's service; and I am happy to
relieve her from the risk which she evidently apprehends in so dashing
an equipage as your curricle. She will, no doubt, feel much safer in
our coach!"
The gentleman bit his lip, but was forced to yield; and turning to
Emma, enquired:
"How did it happen, Miss Emma, that none of your sisters were at the
ball?—I don't think I saw them there all the evening."
"My eldest sister," answered Emma coldly, "could not leave my father,
and she is the only one at home now."
"Oh, indeed; why how long have the others been away?" then without
waiting for an answer, he continued—"How did you like our ball last
night? I suppose you did not keep it up much after I was gone!"
"When did you leave the room?" enquired Emma, pleased to give him the
retort courteous, for his affected ignorance about her sisters.
"Oh, I did not stay after the Osbornes' party went away—I was tired
and bored."
"And _we_ enjoyed ourselves nearly two hours after that," cried Emma,
"and as the room was less crowded with idlers who would not dance, I
think it was particularly pleasant."
"Upon my word, I wish I had known that, I really should have been
tempted to come back, after seeing Miss Carr to the carriage," said
Tom, "but you know, Mrs. Edwards, sometimes when one's particular
friends are gone, one fancies all the rest will be dull—so I went to
my room."
"Possibly," replied Mrs. Edwards, "but I am used to judge for myself
in such matters, and therefore am not likely to be misled in the way
you are now regretting."
After remaining as long as he could without very great rudeness, and
receiving no invitation to stay and take luncheon, Mr. Musgrove drove
off in his curricle, exceedingly astonished at the fact of the offered
seat in it being so firmly rejected.
It was something quite new to him, for he had been used to consider
the other Miss Watsons as quite at his disposal, and could hardly
imagine that one of the family could have ideas and feelings so
diametrically opposed to her sisters'.
According to her promise, Mrs. Edwards' carriage safely conveyed Emma
to her father's house in the course of that afternoon, Mary Edwards
accompanying her, but not remaining many minutes, as she well knew
their dinner hour was approaching, and she did not wish to be in their
way.
No sooner had she withdrawn, than Elizabeth began expressing her
extreme surprise at the fact of the Edwards' coach, coachman, and
horses being considered in a state fit for use the day after the ball,
as they always used to rest when they had been out at night.
"Only think of their sending you home, my dear Emma, I cannot tell you
how surprised I am—_I_ never knew such a thing done before."
"I assure you, it was very kindly done, Elizabeth; and not only was
the carriage placed at my service, but Mrs. Edwards' manner became
much more friendly from that time."
"Well, I wonder you did not accept Tom Musgrove's offer—or did he not
make it—or did you get my note?"
"Yes; he brought the note; but, indeed, dear Elizabeth, I was so
unprepared for your proposing, or allowing him to propose such a
thing, that I thought you had, probably, known nothing about it; and
that the whole was a device on his part. How could you imagine, after
what you had yourself told me, that I would allow him to drive me
about in that way. I could not do such a thing."
"Indeed, I had some scruples, Emma, about it; I did not like throwing
you together in that way, but I could see no other means of your
getting home—and I did long for that. Who would have thought of the
Edwardses having out their coach? But I never, for a moment, expected
you would refuse him. I don't think I could have done such a
thing—though, I dare say, it was quite right; I should not have had
the resolution to resist such a temptation!"
"It was no temptation to me; and, therefore, required no extraordinary
resolution Elizabeth. I thought it wrong, besides,—but I certainly
should have disliked it."
"You do not mean to say you dislike Tom Musgrove!" cried Elizabeth, in
great surprise; "did you not dance with him? Did he not ask you?"
"He did ask me, and I did not accept him," replied Emma, smiling at
her sister's amazement, "but his manners do not please me; and I do
not think that, having accepted him last night as a partner, would
have made me wish for him to-day as a driver."
"Well, tell me all about it," cried Elizabeth, "I am longing to hear
all about the ball. Who did you dance with? How did you like it—give
me the whole history."
Emma complied, and related, as minutely as possible, all the events of
the preceding evening. Elizabeth's surprise on hearing it was extreme.
"Good gracious!" cried she, much agitated; "dance with Mr. Howard?
Well, Emma, how could you venture? were you not frightened out of your
wits? Dance with the man who plays at cards with old Lady
Osborne!—whom she seems so fond of—well, you are the boldest little
thing possible! And you say you were not afraid?"
"No, really," said Emma, "why should I be—he was quite the gentleman,
I assure you."
"Oh, yes!" said Miss Watson, "a gentleman, of course he is; but, why
should that prevent your being afraid? Did you talk to him? How did
you know what to say?"
"There was no difficulty about that," replied Emma, "he was very
agreeable and we had a great deal of conversation."
"Well, I am glad you were so noticed, Emma," said her sister, kindly;
"I knew you must be admired; and, really, am rejoiced that you have
made so good a beginning. Dance with Mr. Howard—refuse Tom
Musgrove—and come home in Mrs. Edwards' coach! I wonder what you will
do next!"
"Come home in my own, we will hope," said Emma, laughing; "like a good
girl in a fairy story—very grand in a gilt coach and four."
Elizabeth then proceeded to enquire about Mary Edwards and Captain
Hunter; and the inference which she deduced from Emma's narrative, was
extremely unfavorable to her brother's prospects. She declared she
would write to Sam that evening, and tell him he had no hope.
"But here comes Jenny with the dinner. Poor Emma! you will not dine as
well as you did yesterday. There is only fried beef—for, as my father
was gone out, and I hardly expected you, I did not think it worth
while to get any thing more. If I had been sure of your coming, I
would have got you a chop."
"Quite unnecessary, dear Elizabeth, I do not care what I eat," replied
Emma, as she moved her chair to the table.
"That is so pleasant of you, Emma," said Elizabeth, "I must say, with
all your refinement, you are easier pleased than either Pen or
Margaret. How very comfortably we could live together."
Mr. Watson returned from the visitation and the dinner in very good
spirits.
"I am very glad I went," said he, "people were all very kind, and the
dinner was very good. I don't know how many people told me they were
glad to see me, and I had some capital venison—there was turbot too,
and hare soup—all excellent—and a very civil young clergyman, a very
nice young man indeed, would help me down to dinner, and took care I
had a warm seat, and saved me the trouble of calling for things. I
thought it very kind of him, I think his name is Howard. He asked
after my daughter too—I don't know which he meant at all—but I suppose
you can tell amongst yourselves. I really don't know when I passed a
more pleasant afternoon!"
The next morning, however, brought a different story. The unusual
exertion combined with turbot and venison, brought on a violent fit of
the gout, and for a day or two the girls hardly left their father's
room, or had any other pursuit or occupation than attempting to
relieve his pain, or amuse his intervals of rest.
The third day after the ball, whilst Jenny was slowly preparing the
dinner-table in the parlour, with more noise than despatch, the two
girls standing over the fire looking at her movements, the door-bell
was heard following the tread of horses on the gravel at the entrance.
"Who can that possibly be?" cried Elizabeth, "run and let them in,
Jenny—no, stop, I think you had better not—just say your master is
ill."
Jenny bustled off—leaving the knife-basket on the floor, and the cloth
half opened on the table. A moment of silent suspense followed, when
in reply to some mutterings of Jenny, they heard through the door
which she had left open Tom Musgrove's voice—
"Oh, never mind, we will go in all the same; we came to enquire for
Mr. Watson."
And another voice, laughing harshly, was heard, and steps along the
passage, which excited Elizabeth to such a degree, that she hastily
twitched off the unspread cloth, and threw it into a chair behind the
door—which she had just time to do, before the visitors presented
themselves unannounced; for Jenny was too much astonished at the event
to find tongue to utter the names of Lord Osborne and Mr. Musgrove;
but stood with her mouth open gazing in the passage. Elizabeth felt
excessive surprise at this unexpected visit, to a degree which almost
made her unconscious of what she was doing. Shame at being detected by
Lord Osborne in dining at three o'clock, and doubt how to behave to
him—an inclination to apologise for her homely appearance, plain
stuff-gown and untidy room, which, however, was fortunately checked by
her uncertainty how to express herself properly, all contended in her
mind; when the first gush of surprise was abated, it was quite a
relief to her, to shake hands with her old friend Tom Musgrove, and to
see him seat himself without ceremony. Emma, on the contrary, felt
this intrusion extremely impertinent and ill-bred; what excuse was
there for Lord Osborne calling in this way; there never had been any
acquaintance previously between the families, her father had never
been noticed by the inhabitants of the Castle, nor invited there as
many of the neighbouring gentry were; and now that he was ill, and
they knew it, she was indignant that they should thus force themselves
on her sister and herself.
Her own curtsey was as stiff and reserved, as if she had been taking
lessons of Mrs. Edwards; and she resumed her seat without feeling the
slightest inclination to converse herself, and being almost displeased
with Elizabeth for the easy manner in which she allowed, or perhaps
encouraged, Tom Musgrove to address her. Lord Osborne's visit was
certainly meant for Emma, for he placed himself near her, and sat some
minutes with his eyes fixed on her countenance, until she began to
think he meant to preserve the same conduct in her father's house, as
he had done at the ball.
At length, however, he spoke:
"It's a beautiful morning; ain't you going to walk to-day?"
"No, my Lord," replied she quietly, raising her eyes from her work, "I
think it is too dirty!"
"You should wear boots," said he, "nankeen with block tops, look very
nice, when a woman has a pretty ankle."
She had nothing to object to his taste, and did not reply.
"Do you ride?" continued he.
"No, my lord."
"Why not? every woman should ride; a woman never looks so well as on
horse-back, well mounted, and in a handsome habit—you _should_
ride—don't you like it?"
"There are, sometimes, other impediments, my lord, besides want of
taste, even to so becoming an amusement," replied Emma, gravely.
"Eh? I don't understand," resumed he, "what prevents you?"
"I have no horse," replied Emma, thinking _that_ the shortest way of
finishing the subject, and reducing it to the level of his capacity.
"Then your father should keep one for you," observed he.
"My father cannot afford it," said Emma, decidedly; "and I have no
wish to act in a way inconsistent with our circumstances."
"Poor is he? how uncomfortable!" said Lord Osborne, "why, what's his
income, do you suppose?" continuing in the tone in which he would have
questioned a day labourer as to his wages.
"It is a point upon which I never thought myself entitled to enquire,"
she replied, drawing herself proudly up, and speaking in a tone not to
be misunderstood.
Lord Osborne looked at her with surprise, which was gradually
converted into admiration at the beautiful effect of the colour which
dyed her cheek as she spoke. An idea crossed his mind that, perhaps,
he had not been sufficiently civil, and he tried to soften his voice,
and put on a more winning manner.
"The hounds meet next Monday about a mile from here, at Upham—will you
not come and see them throw off. It's a pretty sight."
"I do not think it will be in my power, my lord."
"I wish you could—did you ever see it?"
"Never."
"Well, you cannot imagine how gay it is; we have such a capital
breakfast always at Upham Lodge; then the scarlet coats round the edge
of the cover; the horses—the talking and laughing, the ladies who
drive over to see us—though I often think them rather a bore—then the
great burst when the dogs do find; and off they go away, and we after
them, and forget every thing in the world, except one wish, to be in
at the death. You cannot think how exciting it is. Do come."
"Thank you, my lord; but I must be satisfied with your description. I
cannot accept your invitation."
"Perhaps you are afraid of the cold; my sister caught a dreadful cold
one day, when she came in an open carriage, and it was wet; are you
thinking of that?"
"No, for I did not know it before."
"Didn't you? She was ill a month; I was monstrous sorry for her—for
you see it was partly my fault; I persuaded her to come; I don't know
how it is. I rather like to have her with me—some men don't."
Emma could hardly suppress a smile at this eloquent demonstration of
his fraternal affection. She began, however, to think that if Lord
Osborne liked his sister there might be some good in him; which,
before, she had been inclined to question. The gentlemen sat long,
although Tom Musgrove, at least, must have been perfectly aware that
he was encroaching on their dinner hour; and Emma was growing
exceedingly weary of the looks of Lord Osborne, who sunk into repeated
fits of silence, which were interrupted by abrupt and disconnected
questions or observations. At length, they were all roused by the maid
servant, who, putting her head into the half-opened door-way, called
out:
"Please ma'am, Master wants to know why he beant to have any dinner
to-day!"
This very unmistakeable announcement, brought a deep blush to
Elizabeth's cheek, who, interrupting her chat with Tom Musgrove, said:
"Very well, Jenny, I hear."
The gentlemen now rose to go, and, to Emma's great relief, took leave;
Elizabeth calling briskly after the maid, as she was shewing them out,
to tell Nanny to take up the fowls immediately.
"Well," said she, drawing a long breath when the room was once more
quiet, "what are we to think of this? I wonder whether Lord Osborne
saw the knife-tray? I hope he did not notice, or what he thinks of us
dining at this hour!"
"I must say, I think it was taking an unwarrantable liberty," cried
Emma, "calling in this way—very impertinent and disagreeable—though he
is a lord, what right has he to intrude on us?"
"Do you think so, Emma? well, it did not strike me so—I was only
hoping he would not notice the table-cloth or the steel forks. I know
they have silver ones every day at Osborne Castle. I wish Jenny had
not began putting out the things, or had not brought that tiresome
message."
"He never called here before, why should he come now without excuse or
apology?" persisted Emma.
"Why, to see you to be sure—and very good use he made of his eyes. Now
really, Emma, you ought not to quarrel with him, for it is evidently
admiration of you that brings him here."
"I do not care for admiration without respect, Elizabeth, and I hope
the visit will not be repeated."
Her father's opinion quite coincided with hers, when he came to hear
of the visit in question. There had been no acquaintance between old
Lord Osborne and himself, he observed, and he would have none with his
son, of whom he had formed a very moderate opinion; and as to Tom
Musgrove, he was always coming when he was not wanted, and scampering
after Lord Osborne in an absurd way: what right had such a Tom Fool as
he to interfere with his dinner hour, or cause the roast fowls to be
overdone.