The approach of Christmas week, was to bring the great event of
Elizabeth's year—namely, a visit from her eldest brother and his wife,
who were to return with Margaret and spend a few days at Winston.
Elizabeth evidently looked up very much to Mrs. Robert Watson, who,
she assured Emma, had been educated in a very superior way—a London
boarding-school—her father had been very wealthy, and her mother most
genteel; she had, too, an uncle, who was a knight, in London, and
quite a distinguished person there—so that altogether, Jane was an
honor to the family, whilst her talents and taste alone were
sufficient to procure distinction in the first circles.
Emma was uncertain, but most anxious to like her sister-in-law; she
felt half amused and half doubtful, whilst Elizabeth enumerated all
the advantages of Robert's grand marriage. However, she exerted
herself with the greatest good-will, to assist in the numerous
preparations necessary on such an occasion. Nothing was too good for
Jane—though Emma could hardly help wondering to see that the
drawing-room was to be used—the furniture and mirror uncovered—the
best china produced, and all the plate had out to grace their
visitors. For a brother and sister, she fancied this would have been
unnecessary; and she wished, with a sigh, that there had been more
consistency between their every-day life, and the appearance they were
now expected to make.
Elizabeth was one of the worst housekeepers possible; with a little
more system and management, her father's income might have produced a
respectable appearance at all times; but as there was not the smallest
attention given by Mr. Watson to his household affairs, beyond paying
the bills, and finding fault with the dinners, everything was in
confusion from one week to another. Elizabeth had much of the easy,
good-natured indolence of her father, but was spurred up by necessity
to unwilling exertions; and ill seconded by her untidy maid servants,
who knew she was too good-natured to scold; she was always excessively
put out of her way by preparations for company. Her total want of
arrangement, and the facility with which she was diverted from one
object to another, made her twice as long as necessary in every
occupation. Thus, for instance, it was in vain that she had promised
Emma to return to the china closet, and tell her which articles would
be wanted from thence; for happening to see Jenny awkwardly attempting
to clean some plate, she stayed so long to show her how to do it, that
Emma, in despair of her return, was induced to seek her, and with
difficulty persuaded her to resume her occupation up stairs.
Such was her ordinary mode of proceeding. In spite, however, of these
delays, and the loss of time incurred, the preparations were at length
complete; and Elizabeth having surveyed the dinner-table with much
satisfaction, and wished, with a sigh, that they could keep a foot
boy, returned to the drawing-room to wait the arrival of her visitors.
The happy moment shortly arrived, and with much noise and bustle Mr.
and Mrs. Robert Watson, Margaret, and all their luggage were safely
lodged in the family residence. Emma looked with much anxiety at both
her unknown sisters, but at Mrs. Watson first, of course; indeed, few
could have helped that, from the prominence which she assumed. She was
a tall, showy-looking woman, with a high nose, a high colour, and very
high feathers in her bonnet. She seemed much inclined to talk, and
received Emma very cordially. Margaret was excessively affectionate in
her manners, clung round her, called her "her dear new sister," her
"darling Emma," pushed back the curls from her cheeks to kiss her, and
spoke in the fondest, most caressing tone.
"Well you see, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Robert, "I have brought Margaret
back; but she is a naughty girl, and I am much displeased with her,
for I want to take her home again to Croydon on Saturday, and she says
she will not go."
This was said as Mrs. Robert was stroking down her long fur tippet,
and spreading out her hands at the fire, and concluded with a playful
tap on Margaret's cheek.
"Ah, dear Jane," said Margaret, "you know how I like being with you,
but indeed I cannot tear myself from sweet Emma immediately."
"Saturday!" cried Elizabeth; "you surely do not think of leaving us on
Saturday! That will be only three days—only half a visit; you promised
us a week."
"Did I?—no, sure I could not have done so: you know I cannot be so
long from my little girl, and she would break her heart without me."
"I wish you could have brought her," said Elizabeth.
"Quite impossible, my dear child, for I never like to take her out
without her own maid, and I know you could not give her a room to
herself as she has been used to. I am excessively particular about
her," she continued, turning to Emma, "too particular, perhaps, but it
was the way we were brought up—so you must not blame me."
"Of course not," replied Emma; "for doing what you think right, who
could?"
"I am sure," continued this anxious mother, in a tone of great
complacency, "I don't know how the poor little darling will get on
without me; she almost cried her eyes out when she found she was not
coming in the chaise, and I was obliged to pretend I was only going to
church, and should be home again very soon."
"Oh, sweet little darling!" cried Margaret; "I do so dote on that
child—little angel!"
Just at this moment, the brother entered the room.
"I say, Jane," cried he, "that confounded band-box of yours is
squeezed as flat as a pancake, and your new trunk is too wide to go up
these wretched narrow stairs; so what you are to do I am sure I don't
know—dress in the hall, I suppose."
"My band-box squeezed!" cried the lady, in dismay. "I have no doubt my
caps are all ruined absolutely: what shall I do!—how could it happen
to my band-box!"
"Do anything but bother me about it, that's all. Ah, Emma," holding
out his hand to his sister, "how do you do. It's a good while since we
met, isn't it? I suppose, Elizabeth, I may go up at once and see my
father before dinner?"
Elizabeth assented, and the whole party seemed about to separate.
"I suppose, Elizabeth," said Margaret, in a tone whose sharpness
jarred on Emma's ear and contrasted with the softness of her voice to
herself, "there's no letter for me from Kew, is there? But I dare say
if there were, you would not think of giving it to me for an hour."
Elizabeth assured her there was none, and then quitted the room, to
accompany her sister-in-law, and assist her toilette.
"Well, Emma," said Margaret, resuming her fondling tone, "how do you
like Winston? I am sure, but for one thing, I should never wish to see
it again," looking down, and trying to blush as she spoke; "_one_
attraction it has: have you seen any of the neighbours?—did you not go
to the ball?—do tell me all about it!"
"I think we must go and dress for dinner, Margaret," said Emma.
"Well, you can tell me then, for I suppose," added she, in an injured
tone, "you and I are to have one room—Elizabeth always takes care of
herself, and will be sure to put you upon me."
"No," said Emma, "Elizabeth has agreed that I should share her room."
"Oh," said Margaret—then paused a moment—"well, I was in hopes _we_
should have slept together—I am sure I shall love you so much, Emma."
"I am sure it will give me great pleasure if you do," replied her
sister; "but Margaret, if I cannot be of use to you, I must go and get
ready for dinner myself;" and she hastily escaped to her own room.
When Emma descended again, she found her brother alone in the
drawing-room, leaning over the fire-place, looking at a number of the
"Gentleman's Magazine," which, however, he tossed on the table when
Emma approached.
"Well, Emma," said he, lifting his coat-tails, and turning his back to
the fire, "so your aunt has thrown you off, and herself away, has she?
A pretty mess she has made of it with her marriage. Upon my word,
women are entirely unfit to be trusted with money in any shape, and
there ought to be a law against old fools of widows marrying again.
How our uncle could be such a confounded ass as to leave everything in
her power, I can_not_ conceive! Any one could have foreseen what has
happened. I hope the young husband will plague her heart out—no doubt
he will lead her a wretched life—she deserves it. But I think the old
gentleman might have given you something—a thousand pounds or so would
have done very well for you, and the rest would have been most
particularly acceptable to me just now. There was an investment
offered itself, a month or two ago, in which I could have, beyond a
doubt, doubled five thousand pounds in a very short time, and it was
particularly cutting to be obliged to let it pass me, because that old
man had behaved so shabbily. Upon my life, it makes me quite angry
when I think of it—and just to throw you back upon my father's hands,
without a sixpence—a burden—a useless burden upon the family—what
could he be thinking of!"
Emma was too much overcome by the many bitter feelings this speech
raised, to be able to reply; and her brother, seeing her tears, said:
"Well, I did not mean to make you cry, Emma; there's no good in
that—though I do not wonder that you should be mortified and
disappointed too. Girls are nothing without money—no one can manage
them but you shall come and try your luck at Croydon. Perhaps, with
your face, and the idea that you have still expectations, you might
get off our hands altogether. There was a young man at Croydon who was
very near taking Margaret. I really believe, would have had her, if
she had only a couple of thousand pounds, but you can but do your
best, so there, don't cry."
Before Emma had time to do more than wipe her eyes, her sister-in-law
entered the room very smart, and in high spirits, to find herself more
handsomely dressed than either of the Miss Watsons. She was much
discomposed, however, to find that her husband had not changed his
coat, or dressed his hair.
"My dear Mr. Watson," cried she, "how comes this about? Don't you mean
to make yourself tidy before dinner?"
"Do let me alone, Jane," said he, impatiently shaking off her hand; "I
trust I am tidy enough for my wife and sisters."
"Oh! but do come up, for my sake, and put just a sprinkle of powder on
your hair? I will do it in a moment for you. You really look quite
undressed; upon my word, I am ashamed of you. Your coat all dirty, and
quite unfit to be seen—do come."
"Do go! For goodness sake, do let me alone," said he, shrugging his
shoulders. "You women, who think of nothing but bedizening yourselves
out, fancy we have nothing else to do either. You are fine enough for
us both, so pray let me alone."
Mrs. Watson covered her mortification by an affected laugh, and
retreating to the sofa, cried out:
"Emma, do come, and let me have a little conversation with you,
there's a good girl."
Emma coloured, but obeyed the summons; and her sister, after surveying
her dress with satisfaction, seemed, for a moment, to hesitate how to
begin.
"You do not dress your hair, Emma, quite _en règle_—you understand
French, I suppose, now look at mine—your curls are too long—really,
it's a pity, for you have pretty hair—a nice color—very much the same
as mine. How odd," laughing, "that you should be so dark—like me—all
your sisters quite fair—you should not put your tucker so high—mine is
quite the _ton_—you see how the lace is arranged—how do you like
Winston? I suppose you have not much company? I dare say, it is dull;
you shall come to Croydon, as Margaret will not go back, and I will
shew you a little of the world. Have you been used to much company?"
"Not much," replied Emma.
"Well, then, Croydon will be a pleasant change. I wonder at that,
however, I thought your uncle was a man of wealth. My father saw so
much society; and, at my uncle's, Sir Thomas, I am sure I have met the
best company in London."
"Indeed," said Emma, not very well knowing what else to say.
"In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though
my friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I
believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high
relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London;
now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and
the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular
about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to
take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little,
they did very well for her. _I_ seldom wear them a second time. You
will come to Croydon—will you not?"
"Thank you, not this winter; you are very kind in asking me; but I
have been so short a time at home."
"Oh! but you must: I assure you, you will have much the best chance in
the winter, there are so many more young men in the country then. But,
perhaps, you have left your heart in Shropshire. Have you any little
charming love story to confide to me. Ah! you may trust me—I assure
you I am very discreet—I never betrayed Margaret the least in the
world."
Emma again declined the proposed visit to Croydon. Her sister-in-law
looked much surprised, and not quite pleased.
"Well I should have thought our house might have some attractions for
a young lady of your age; however, of course you know best, I hope you
will find something more pleasing here."
Emma was spared the trouble of replying by the entrance of Margaret
and Elizabeth, who were immediately engrossed by attentions to Mrs.
Robert, which soothed her into complacency again. Dinner speedily
followed; the early hour was a subject of comment on the part of the
visitors.
"Dear me, I wonder when I dined at three o'clock before—really a
little change is quite amusing, I am so glad you did not think it
necessary to alter your hour for me."
"I certainly would have fixed on any hour agreeable to you, Jane,"
replied Miss Watson good humouredly, "but my father has so long been
used to this time, that it would be very unpleasant to him to alter
it. But I dare say it seems very gothic to you."
"Oh, pray do not think any apology necessary, my dear child; you know
what an accommodating creature I am. There is nothing I hate half so
much as having a fuss made about me. Now really in some places where I
go, they will make me of so much importance, treat me so much as a
visitor—in short, I may say, look up so much to me, that upon my word
it is quite overpowering."
"I know you are very good-natured, to put up with our deficiencies as
you do, Jane," replied Elizabeth simply and sincerely, "and no doubt
they must strike you forcibly. I wish we could treat you better, but I
hope you can make a good meal even at three o'clock; you see your
dinner, all except a roast turkey which is coming presently."
"A roast turkey, Elizabeth!" said her sister-in-law, "after all this
profusion which I see around me. Upon my word, I am ashamed of giving
so much trouble; positively ashamed: such a dinner, and all for me.
Really I must forbid the roast turkey—I insist on that not being
brought. I cannot hear that you should be so put out of your way."
"But, my dear Jane," observed Elizabeth, "since the turkey is roasted,
it may as well come in here, as remain in the kitchen. Besides, I am
in hopes my father may be tempted to take some, as it is a favorite
dish of his—so the roast turkey we must have."
"Well, as you please," said the other lady, "only I hope you will not
expect _me_ to take any of it; I must protest against partaking any of
it at all."
"Do as you please, Jane," said her husband, interposing, "but because
you reject the turkey, I see no reason why _I_ should be deprived of
it, so I must beg Elizabeth not to mind your nonsense."
The party, after leaving the dining-room, were sitting amicably in the
best parlour, Robert Watson apparently asleep in an easy-chair, and
his lady holding forth to her sisters-in-law about her parties, her
acquaintance, and her manner of living at Croydon, when the sound of
carriage wheels on the gravel under the window, followed by the
house-bell, drew their attention and aroused their curiosity; who
could it be? perhaps Penelope, returned suddenly from Chichester—it
was just like her to come without giving notice; perhaps Sam, but he
was so unlikely to come at all—nobody could decide—but the opening
door seconding Jenny's voice, revealed the mystery, and shewed Tom
Musgrove!
Mr. Musgrove's share of the surprise was great—quite as great as what
he intended to occasion—when instead of being shewn into the little
dingy sitting-room as usual, and finding the two Miss Watsons sitting,
as he expected, by the melancholy light of a pair of sixes—he was
ushered into the best drawing-room, graced by the uncovered chandelier
and best sofa; and encountered in a blaze of wax candles, which almost
dazzled him, a group of ladies dressed for company. He really hardly
knew where he was, and glanced round with excessive astonishment.
"Really, Miss Watson," cried he, whilst shaking hands with her, "I
must apologise for this intrusion; I did not know you had company."
"You are exceedingly welcome," replied Elizabeth, with much more
good-nature than Emma approved. "It is my brother and sister: they
only arrived to-day."
"Yes," said Robert, who, on surveying Tom's appearance, so elegant and
finished as it appeared to him, in point of dress, felt much
mortification on remembering his own unpowdered hair, and morning
coat; "yes, we have not been long in the house—not long enough, you
see, to change our travelling costume: but just in time to sit down to
dinner."
Emma's cheeks glowed in spite of her wishes, at this speech, and she
stole a glance at the wife to see how she bore it. That lady's eyes
seemed merely to speak an internal triumph as she looked at her
husband, as if she meant, at the first convenient opportunity, to
enforce the propriety of Robert's taking her advice in future.
"Never apologise for your dress, my good sir," cried Tom, shaking
hands with him; "at least, not to me, for I shall consider it a
reflection on my own vile dishabille. But the fact is, I was passing
this way, being on my return from Osborne Castle, where I have been
spending a few days, and I could not go so near, without just stopping
to enquire how Mr. Watson goes on."
Margaret, who ever since his entrance, had been trying to attract his
attention, could now be repulsed no longer. She would speak, and be
spoken to; and the tone and manner in which she addressed Mr.
Musgrove, together with the pains she took to secure his having a
chair next her when they all sat down, showed Emma that she was by no
means reduced to despair about his supposed attachment.
"It is long since we have met," said she, in a soft, whispering voice,
looking up in his face with what was intended for an endearing smile.
"A week or two," said he, carelessly.
"Fie, naughty man—it is a month—a whole month—you ought not to be a
worse reckoner of time than myself—it was very kind of you to come and
welcome me home."
"Don't thank me for that: I did not know you were here, I assure you;
I knew you were not at the ball; but I thought it was a sore throat,
or something of that sort kept you away: have you really been gone a
month!—I could have sworn I saw you a week ago. Your sister has come,
I suppose, since you left?"
"Emma! oh yes, charming Emma—imagine my feelings at meeting her—I was
so anxious, but so fearful—timid as I am, you can fancy how afraid I
should feel at meeting a new sister. Can you not understand the
feeling?"
"Not the least in the world," cried Tom aloud; "I cannot fancy any one
afraid of meeting Miss Emma Watson."
"Is she not lovely—I think her quite beautiful—but, perhaps, you do
not admire dark complexions—tell me, which do you like best—brunette
or blonde."
Tom hesitated. Margaret herself was fair, which would alone have been
a sufficient reason for his asserting a preference for an olive
skin—but then Miss Carr was fair likewise—and he was a great admirer
of Miss Carr's. He, therefore, replied evasively—
"Your sister's is, no doubt, a very lovely complexion—I like dark
beauties excessively—but now and then one sees a blonde, whose tint is
relieved from the insipidity which usually attends it—Miss Carr, for
instance—did you ever see Fanny Carr?"
"No," said Margaret, almost pouting.
"She has the loveliest skin I ever saw—and a very nice little thing is
Fanny Carr, independent of her complexion—a very nice, lively,
bewitching little fairy, with those she likes—though, to be sure, she
can be disagreeable enough, I am told—but, Miss Watson," continued he,
jumping up to put an end to Margaret's whispers, "do let me help you
at the tea-table—why will you not make me of use—pray don't scruple to
call on me—I love to be of use to the fair."
"I know no way in which you can possibly assist me," replied
Elizabeth, "until the tea is ready to be handed round—unless you will
talk to and amuse my sister, Mrs. Robert, whilst I am obliged to sit
here."
This was a task which exactly suited Tom, as to a married woman, he
might be as gallant as he chose with perfect safety, and he devoted
himself with great zeal to this object. Nothing could prevail upon him
to take tea yet—as he had not dined, and he could not drink tea first.
"I dare say you dined three hours ago," said he, "but I, you know,
keep bachelor's hours, and at Osborne Castle we never sat down to
dinner until six or seven o'clock."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Robert, "but you must not suppose that I am used
to such early hours; at Croydon, I dare say it is nearer five than
four when _we_ dine."
"That would be too early for me," cried he, with a smile of
superiority, "I would as soon it were three as five—seven, or indeed
eight, suits me better; and I must get home to dinner to-night."
It was evident that the fact of his not having dined, gave him a happy
consciousness of vast mental superiority over his companions. But Emma
found herself sadly deceived in the hopes which she had ventured
fondly to cherish, that the dinner awaiting him would hasten his
departure. On the contrary, when the tea-things were removed, and the
card-table produced, a very slight hint from Mrs. Watson was quite
sufficient to draw from him a speech, which beginning with a statement
of the necessity of quitting them, ended, of course, with an assertion
of the impossibility of tearing himself away: and he was then quite
ready to join their party; keeping his dinner still in waiting, as a
subject to be reverted to whenever other topics failed him.
"Well, ladies," cried he, "what are we to play—what's your favorite
game, Mrs. Watson."
"Oh, we play nothing but Vingt'un at Croydon," said she, "all the best
circles play Vingt'un—it is decidedly the most genteel."
"Vingt'un—hum—very well—let it be vingt'un then," said Tom; "it's a
long time since I played it; Lady Osborne likes loo best—indeed, I
believe amongst people of at certain rank, loo is all the rage—but,
however, since you are bent on—commerce, was that what you said, Mrs.
Watson?"
"Oh, dear no," cried she, colouring, and overawed by the superiority
of his tone, "I merely mentioned vingt'un, but I quite agree with you,
it _is_ rather a stupid game, and I am quite tired of it. Suppose we
try loo to-night?" And she privately resolved to store up in her
memory the important fact, that Lady Osborne preferred loo to
vingt'un, and on her return to Croydon, astonish her former
acquaintance with her intimate knowledge of her ladyship's taste and
habits.
"As I happen to prefer loo to vingt'un," said Robert Watson, ashamed
of being supposed to following any one's fashions, yet, from habitual
servility to the great, afraid of asserting a difference of opinion;
"I see no harm in playing it, otherwise, had I liked any other game
better, I should certainly have seen Lady Osborne at Jericho before I
would have allowed her to interfere."
An idea crossed Emma's mind, that in all probability nothing could be
farther from Lady Osborne's wishes or notions, than influencing their
choice of a game; and that if their debate could possibly be revealed
to her, she would, perhaps, consider it impertinent in them, to make
her diversions a pattern for theirs. Loo, however, they were fated to
play; and Emma, who hated cards, thought with regret of the quiet
evenings she had formerly enjoyed so much, when chatting over her
needle-work with Elizabeth, or reading at intervals to her father some
favourite author.
Their party did not break up until supper-time, of which, of course,
Tom Musgrove was pressed to stay and partake. But he, who was
determined to call his next meal a dinner, felt himself forced to
refuse, although, in truth, he would much rather have accepted the
offer, could his vanity have allowed him to follow his inclination.
Mrs. Watson whispered to her sister, to ask him to join them at dinner
the next day, which Elizabeth acceded to with great cordiality. They
were to have a few friends to dinner, and if he could condescend to
eat at five o'clock, perhaps he might find it in other respects
agreeable, and they would be happy to see him. He hesitated and
demurred, not from any doubt as to his final determination, but
because he meant to give his acceptance a greater grace.
"As I am well aware of Mr. Musgrove's habits of intimacy with my
sister," said Mrs. Watson, simpering; "I shall conclude, if he refuses
now, it is poor unfortunate _me_, whom he despises and avoids."
"My dear Mrs. Watson," cried he, "you prevent my saying another word;
everything must give way before such an accusation. Even if Lord
Osborne himself sends for me—which is not unlikely—I shall refuse to
attend on him for your sake. Only do not expect me, Miss Watson, to
make any figure at your hospitable board. I shall be happy to look on,
as a spectator, but eating indeed must be quite out of the question."
"Very well; you shall do as you please, remember five o'clock."
"What a very delightful young man," cried Mrs. Watson, as soon as he
left the room. "Upon my word, I do not know when I have met one more
perfectly well bred and gentleman-like. I look upon myself to be a
pretty good judge—having had much opportunity of judging—more than
most young women, both at my dear father's, and my uncle Sir Thomas's;
and, really, in my poor taste, he is quite the thing. Such charming
vivacity, and yet, such attention when one speaks—and he really seems
to understand and appreciate one's feelings and sentiments so
thoroughly—and such a graceful bow; I assure you I am quite
delighted."
Elizabeth cast a triumphant look at Emma, as much as to say:
"Now, what do you say?" but Emma's judgment was not to be lightly
shaken. Margaret looked down amiably modest and tried to blush, whilst
she whispered:
"I am so glad _you_ liked him. I knew you would! Was it not attentive
to call to-day!" from which Emma inferred, that she took the
compliment of his call entirely to herself.