It was to be a very grand thing, indeed, the next day; and Elizabeth,
seldom entertaining company, was quite in a fidget about the dinner,
and tormented Emma all the time she was undressing, with questions,
which could not be answered, and fears which could not be dispelled.
"Suppose Mr. Robinson were to be very cross, Emma, you cannot imagine
how disagreeable he is then—or only fancy if the soup turns out ill,
what shall I do? Do you really think my black satin gown good enough;
I think nobody will see, by candle-light, where the cream was spilt;
and it does not look ill—how tired you look, Emma; well, I will not
tease you, only I want to know how did my aunt manage about—oh!
by-the-bye, I'll ask Jane that." So Emma never learnt what it was,
being too weary to ask.
A short silence followed.
"Now you see," burst out Elizabeth afresh, "you see, Emma, what Jane
thinks of Tom Musgrove—you must change your mind."
"No, indeed; her liking him can make no difference to me," replied
Emma, quietly.
"Oh, Emma! I did not think you so conceited, to think of your setting
up your opinion against Jane's, a married woman, and so much older and
more experienced; I could not have expected it."
"I do not set up my opinion against her, I only differ in taste," said
her sister meekly, being very anxious to be allowed to go to sleep.
"You are quite impracticable, and, I fear, very obstinate," returned
Elizabeth, with a gravity which made Emma smile in spite of her
weariness. Then followed another long silence, and she was dropping
into a comfortable slumber, when she was startled by Elizabeth
springing up, and exclaiming: "Oh! I quite forgot—what shall I do?"
"What is the matter?" enquired Emma, quite alarmed.
"Why, I forgot to tell Nanny to be sure and put the custards into the
safe, for there's a hole in the corner of the larder, where the cat
gets in, and she will be certain to eat them all before morning."
"Oh," said Emma, as her eyes again closed irresistibly, and whether or
not her sister quitted her bed to go down and rectify her error, she
could not tell, for she, at length, dropped fast asleep.
Emma spent the greater part of the next day in her father's room. It
was much more agreeable to her than the drawing-room; and Elizabeth,
with all her good qualities, was not equal to her as a nurse, and
really loved society and conversation, or rather chit-chat, so much as
to be very glad to believe her sister's assertion, that she took
pleasure in attending on her father. Mr. Watson, though indolent and
self-indulgent, was a scholar, and enjoyed the pursuits of literature
when not attended by too much labour. Emma found, as he recovered,
that there was much to be gained by intercourse with him: she read to
him both in English and French, and only regretted that she could not
also assist him in Latin or Greek. Hour after hour she had devoted to
amusing him, and felt herself well repaid by the affection he
manifested in return; and now that the society down stairs, of course,
compelled Elizabeth to absent herself, she rejoiced that it made her
presence doubly necessary. She could not like her sister-in-law—she
saw so much of peevishness in Margaret's general manner as to expect
the same would be manifested to her, and Robert had so pained and
shocked her by their first _tête-à-tête_, that she never approached
him without dread lest he should renew so painful a subject.
A proposal to remain with her father all the evening, instead of
appearing at dinner was negatived. He would not permit her to do so,
as it really was not necessary for his comfort, and he expected
amusement from her description of the dinner-party after it was over.
It was not a very large one; the size of their dining-parlour forbade
that—besides their own party of five, there made their appearance Mr.
and Mrs. Robinson, the country apothecary and his wife; Mrs. Steady,
the widow of a former curate, who lived in the village, and Mr.
Martin, who was doing duty for their father during his illness. To
these had been added, as we already know, Tom Musgrove; and happy
would it have been for the others had he been omitted, as it was
impossible for so fashionable a young man to be guilty of such rustic
simplicity as to be punctual. The guests whose appetites were set to
that particular hour, displayed sundry symptoms of extreme impatience,
and Robert Watson vented certain unintelligible ejaculations which
were commonly supposed to be murmurs at his tardiness. Mr. Martin, a
very absent individual, not having his wife at hand to remind him
where he was, leant his head on his hand, and fell into a fit of
abstraction. Mr. Robinson, who was making himself agreeable to Mrs.
Watson, internally comforted himself with the hope that this long fast
would be productive of evil to their digestive faculties, which he
should be called in to set to rights.
Mrs. Steady was condoling with Elizabeth on the expected consequences
of this delay, anticipating that the beef would be over roasted, and
the chickens boiled to rags, and comparing this ill-bred fashionable
behaviour with the regularity and decorum of her late lamented Steady.
Emma was laboriously trying to talk to Mrs. Robinson, who looked all
the while as if she thought that somehow the delay was all her fault,
and feared to drop out a syllable, lest she should be punished for it;
whilst Margaret who had dressed herself with unusual care, sat in a
state of feverish impatience by the side of her sister-in-law,
whispering to her, every few minutes, that she was sure some shocking
accident had happened to _him_—_he_ little knew the misery he caused
her—and other ejaculations of a similar character.
Half an hour passed in this manner, when Robert approached his sister,
in a glow of indignant hunger that could be no longer suppressed.
"Really, Elizabeth, I think this is too bad—there's no occasion that
we should all starve, because that young fellow is not hungry—ten to
one but he has forgotten his engagement, and we may wait till supper
time for our meal, and he none the better. Do order dinner, I say, and
leave him in the lurch for his inattention."
"Oh fie, my dear Mr. Watson!" cried his wife, quite shocked to think
her husband should be guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite;
"Oh fie—sit down to dinner without our guest—you cannot really think
of such a thing; you cannot possibly mean it—what does it matter if we
dine now, or an hour hence? I am sure _we_ do not keep such early
hours ourselves. I have seen too much of fashionable life to be much
surprised at his tardiness. You cannot expect punctuality from such a
very agreeable, pleasant young man!"
"Pooh, pooh, Jane, I tell you, you know nothing about it. I cannot
expect pleasure from such a very unpunctual young man—that's what you
should say—it's very rude,—and he is very ill bred—and would never do
for business."
"Business! Tom Musgrove do for business!" cried Margaret, indignantly,
"I should think not—whoever thought of business and Tom Musgrove in
the same breath?"
"Not many, I dare say," observed Robert, contemptuously, "but if he
has no business to occupy him, the less excuse is there for his
preposterous conduct."
"My dear," said Mrs. Watson, with decision; "he is very genteel—and
genteel people, when they have an independent fortune, are not obliged
to be so regular as others—Tom Musgrove is very genteel."
"You know nothing about it," cried Robert, snappishly—for when a man
is hungry, he not only dislikes contradiction himself, but,
invariably, is liberal with it to others. "If a man simpers and
whispers, and makes a few pretty—pretty speeches to _you_ women, you
set him down, forsooth, as very genteel—though he never pays a bill—if
he can help it—is supercilious to his equals—and keeps a whole party
waiting for dinner. Plague take such gentility, say I. Elizabeth, I
shall ring the bell for dinner."
He did as he said, whilst his wife sat ruffling up and swelling with
indignation at his retort. Determined not to hear her he walked away
and stationed himself at the window, which commanded a view of the
road. She, not able to address him, and resolved he should know her
opinion, audibly exclaimed—to her neighbour—that she _did_ know what
gentility was, for she had seen a great of genteel company at Sir
Thomas's—and that great allowances were to be made for young men who
were always wild and eccentric creatures.
Emma, who heard all this, could not help mentally considering where
those allowances were to cease, since Mrs. Watson did not seem
disposed to make them for her husband—though, in her judgment he
seemed the person most entitled to claim them. Perhaps he had outgrown
his right—or exhausted his share—possibly, the title to them ceased at
marriage—or, may be, his wife alone was not called on to accommodate
him in that way. In the present instance, as she was remarkably
hungry, she was glad Robert carried his point, and she walked into
dinner with not one degree less of pleasure, because Mr. Musgrove was
not there.
A dinner party, like the present, was not likely to be productive of
much that could be called conversation. Mr. Robinson contradicted Mr.
Martin about the laws concerning poor-rates; and, after being meekly
yielded to by that worthy divine, found himself in his turn,
pronounced perfectly misinformed, and laboring under an erroneous
impression by his good friend, Robert Watson—who just allowed him to
go on long enough on a subject of which he was ignorant, to give
himself an opportunity of triumphing over him.
Just as Mr. Robinson was beginning to look very purple and red, and to
glance at his wife to see how _she_ looked—and just as poor, humble,
meek, Mrs. Robinson was hurriedly talking nonsense to Emma about green
peas, in order to shew that she did not notice her master's defeat,
the door opened and Tom Musgrove bustled into the room.
"Beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Watson," cried he, ostentatiously
parading up to her, "But, upon my word and honor, I could _not_ get
here sooner."
("Whose fault was that?" muttered Robert.)
"Can't think how it happened."
("Only because you started too late.")
"I am excessively sorry—glad you didn't think it necessary to wait."
("Confound the puppy—does he think we are an hour eating our soup.")
"Pray don't make any difference for me. I dare say I can make a dinner
of what I see. The mutton, no doubt, as good cold as hot."
("Good enough for you, any way.")
"Pray don't send for the soup again! It is not in the least
necessary."
"Well, since you are so kind as to say so," said Elizabeth, simply, "I
will let you do as you please—I dare say the soup will not be very
good now—and it's not pleasant, I know, to have it back! Simson is
handing you a chair—pray sit down;" and as she spoke—the waiter, who
was no other than the parish clerk, acting for the night in this
capacity, thrust a chair against Mr. Musgrove's legs with such zeal,
as very nearly upset him, and quite caused him to jog Mrs. Steady's
elbow as she was in the act of lifting a glass to her lips, much to
the damage of her respectable grey silk gown. When things come to the
worst, they must mend—so says the proverb—and the company found it
true on this occasion, so far as the disagreeable noise and bustle of
his entrance was concerned. But this was not the case with Tom
himself—who, really chilled and hungry, sat down to only half a
dinner, more than half cold—and whose vanity compelled him to abstain
even from what was yet before him, lest he should be supposed guilty
of the vulgarity of having an appetite. Had the struggles of his mind
been exposed, perhaps, even Emma might have pitied him—or, at least,
have admired the heroic constancy with which he sacrificed himself at
the shrine of fashionable indifference. Unknown and unnoticed,
however, were the efforts of his self-denial, and like modest worth,
or unpatronised genius, they found their only reward in the internal
satisfaction of his mind. As, however, he was a talker by profession,
and always inclined to lead in conversation, their party gained much
in liveliness, by the addition of his society. He flattered Mr.
Watson—joked with Elizabeth—quizzed Mrs. Steady—and threw admiring
glances at Emma, with laudable mirth and perseverance. Mrs. Robinson
was soothed—Robert Watson silenced—and Mr. Martin aroused by his
jocularity—whilst poor Mrs. Robinson was actually able to finish her
dinner in tolerable comfort, so much was her husband's brow cleared
from the threatened storm, which had before alarmed her.
With secret weariness, Emma watched for the signal to withdraw from
the dinner-table, but Elizabeth was too much entertained to be at all
in a hurry to rise, and it was, at length, to Mrs. Robert Watson that
her thanks for a release were due.
Emma almost forgave her assumption on the occasion, in consideration
of the beneficial effects arising from it. It was in vain, however, to
hope that release from weariness would follow a secession from the
dinner-table; everything seemed so intolerably dull, that she was
enraged with herself for her own stupidity, feeling convinced that the
want of interest in all around her must arise from too much
self-engrossment; she tried accordingly to school herself into
listening to the platitudes of Mrs. Steady, or the boastings of her
sister-in-law with something like attention; but she tried in vain;
her mind was continually wandering away to some distant subject, or
was only recalled to the objects present, to calculate the number of
minutes before the probable time of their departure. She did not doubt
their being all amiable and excellent persons; but they certainly were
not interesting characters; Mrs. Steady, in particular, next whom she
was seated, seemed much fitter to knit stockings or make jam, than to
keep up an intellectual conversation.
The weariest evenings, however, have an end: and this, like all
others, terminated at last. Whist and loo—even the supper itself—were
all finished; and when Mr. Martin had succeeded in putting on Robert's
great coat; and secured, instead of his own, the old clerk's hat,
which had been carefully hidden behind the door, he, the last of the
party, disappeared, and Emma stole away without waiting to hear her
brother Robert's animadversions on the dinner.
The succeeding day was much too wet and stormy to allow any of the
females the relief of change of air and scene; but Emma, in the
stronghold of her father's apartment, felt less disturbed than she
could have expected. If there was storm abroad, there was anything but
fair weather within the house. Mrs. Watson was affronted with her
husband, and revenged herself by praising Tom Musgrove, and indulging
in severe strictures on those whose birth and early education
incapacitated them from judging of manners and fashion. These refined
and elegant inuendos had all the effect she could desire—irritating
her husband the more, because he could not treat them as personal and
offensive, without at the same time admitting the implied inferiority
of his situation in life, and opportunities of information and
improvement. Accordingly, he could only testify his extreme
displeasure by a general crossness to all around him, never speaking
except when an opportunity to say something disagreeable presented
itself. The novelty of such a domestic scene, by no means gave it any
charms in Emma's eyes, and she could not help considering that if Jane
was annoyed by her husband's temper, it would, at least, be wiser to
try to soothe and amend it, than, by irritating his infirmity,
encrease the source of her own discomfort. The pleasure of fretting
and galling any one, was beyond her comprehension, requiring abilities
and understanding, similar to those of her sister-in-law, properly to
appreciate.
Compared with this scene of strife, her father's company was perfect
happiness, and she delighted in burying her own discomforts in a
volume of Shakespeare, or Boswell's delightful reminiscences of his
idol.
Yet Elizabeth seemed really to regret that the visit was so short, and
tried, though vainly, to persuade both her brother and wife to prolong
their stay.
Robert was determined to go on Saturday; and Jane, who knew it would
be vain to oppose him, wisely took her part with a good grace, and
resolved to make it appear to be her own free will likewise.
"It is not the slightest use to press me, Elizabeth," he said, with
more truth than graciousness; "you know I can be a very determined
character when I please. I flatter myself, I have as much firmness and
decision of mind, as any woman in England. When I have taken a
resolution, I _have_ taken it."
"But why take this resolution, Jane; if Robert must go to business,
why not stay here by yourself, and let us have a little time to enjoy
your society."
"It is very strange," said the lady, affecting to laugh, and turning
to Emma. "I always have such extreme difficulty in getting away from
this sister of yours. Indeed, I may say the same of all, or most of my
friends. 'My dear Mrs. Watson, do come!' writes one. 'My dearest
friend, you must stay' cries another. I am positively torn to pieces
between them all. My sweet friend Lady Browning was just the same when
I was with her at Clifton—upon my word, it's quite distressing."
Emma was saved the trouble of answering by Elizabeth again
interposing.
"You would have no trouble at all if you would only yield now—there is
nothing to prevent you."
"My dear Elizabeth, you who are not a wife and a mother can little
understand the feelings of one filling such a doubly responsible
situation. I am absolutely dying to get back to my little darling
Marianne."
"What a pity that you could not bring her," said Elizabeth; "but
still, I dare say, she could do very well without you for a day or two
more."
Before Mrs. Watson had time to answer, her husband returned to the
parlour.
"I have been trying to persuade Jane to prolong her visit, Robert; I
do so wish you could both remain."
"It's no use to bother, Elizabeth," replied he, roughly; "I cannot
stay, and Jane shall not, and there's an end of it."
"Well, I can only say I am very sorry; I am sure we shall be
dreadfully dull when you are gone."
Even this prospect caused no relenting in the heart of the obdurate
Robert, who still persisted in his plan, perhaps, with the more zest
because he delighted in tormenting both his wife and sisters.
"When shall you come and see us at Croydon, Elizabeth?" said her
sister-in-law, after a short pause; "there are several things I want
very much to show you. You should see the curtains—the new curtains in
the drawing-room—they look so handsome—all my choice: it is not
everybody who can choose curtains to advantage—requires great tact and
judgment."
"It does not require any marvellous judgment to empty a husband's
purse, guessing from the wonderful facility some ladies of my
acquaintance display," growled Robert, from behind the Weekly London
Newspaper, which his father took in second-hand. "Positively, this
paper is a fortnight old: what a place—I saw it before I left
Croydon—one might as well be buried alive!"
During this soliloquy, Elizabeth without listening in the least to her
brother, was eagerly replying to Mrs. Robert's offer.
"You are extremely kind Jane, to give me such pleasure; you know there
is nothing I should like better, but I must not think of it—indeed I
must not. I do not think my father would like my leaving home whilst
he is so ill. Margaret is so useless a housekeeper, and hates the
trouble so much—and Emma being the youngest, perhaps it would not do:
if Pen were at home, it would be different: she makes a capital
housekeeper, and she amuses my father when he is well too—I think when
Pen comes back, I think I might be tempted."
"I should think our house might offer a very pleasant change to any
young lady shut up so much as you are in this miserable place. I am
sure most of my friends are more anxious to stay than go."
"Oh, it is not that I doubt the pleasure," replied Elizabeth; "it
would be a great treat to me, I am sure. But you must not be angry at
my refusing now."
"Angry! I am not a person to be angry about trifles—it is not my way
to fret or take on, I leave that for those who have no other way of
showing their dignity but by growling at everything. People blessed
with my birth and education need not resort to such pitiful means to
look grand and important."
Emma sighed many times to see the temper of her brother so
uncomfortably irritable, and grieved again and again in secret, over
the destruction of some of her most fondly cherished hopes. All her
life she had wished for fraternal affection; much as she had loved her
uncle and aunt, she had always wished to know and love her brothers
and sisters. The vain wishes she had expended on this subject now rose
up to haunt her memory with the thought that she had been ungratefully
slighting the good she had enjoyed, for the sake of unknown objects
which still evaded her. True she was now acquainted with five members
of her family; but of these how little there was to attach, in the
three last met, she hardly liked to own even to herself. Robert was
surly; Jane conceited, Margaret fretful—and all seemed self-occupied.
She tried to check these thoughts, she was shocked at her own
wickedness in conceiving such things, but the feeling was there, even
when not clothed in words, and she could not eradicate it.
Elizabeth she dearly loved already, but from what she heard, she
fancied Penelope would not be very agreeable—and her last hope was in
Sam. If he would only love her—be a friend, a companion to her—she
still flattered herself this was possible, for Elizabeth certainly
seemed to like him, and one letter of his, which Emma had heard, gave
her a favorable impression of his character. With the fond idea of
being loved by one brother at least, at some future time, Emma saw her
eldest brother and his wife depart without any of the regret which
afflicted both her other sisters, having strong internal convictions
that the house would be now more peaceable.