The aspect of the next morning did not promise any additional facility
for returning home; more snow had fallen during the night, and the
cutting wind which had accompanied it assured them that the lanes
would be still less practicable than before. Emma, assured by the
parting words of Lord Osborne that she was doomed to see and be seen
by him again, tried to compose her mind and features to bear the
threatened inspection. Instead of a visit from him, however, noon
brought down a little note from Miss Osborne, reminding her of a wish
expressed the night before to see the picture-gallery at the Castle,
and offering, if Mr. Howard would escort her up in time for luncheon,
to go round with her afterwards.
"Do you think your brother could spare the time to accompany me?" said
she to Mrs. Willis, after communicating to her the contents of the
note. "I should be so much obliged if he would—because—" she added
rather hesitating, "I do not like to go alone, lest I should encounter
the young lord."
"And you do not like him, my dear?" said Mrs. Willis with a bright
look.
"I do not mind him much," replied Emma; "but I think I would rather
not throw myself in his way: going alone would be almost like inviting
his escort. Will you ask your brother?"
"I will go to him immediately—but I have no doubt of his acquiescence,
and I can assure you in promising you Edward's company through the
picture-gallery Miss Osborne is securing you a _very_ great pleasure."
"It would I am afraid be encroaching too much on Mr. Howard's time,"
replied Emma, "to exact his attentions as a cicerone. Miss Osborne has
promised to go round with me herself."
"Miss Osborne sometimes breaks her word," said Mrs. Willis coolly;
"and as she has usually a good many engagements, perhaps you had
better trust to my brother since you seem determined to shun hers."
"I should not expect much intellectual gratification from Lord
Osborne's company, or his remarks on painting," replied Emma, almost
laughing at the idea.
Mrs. Willis left the room, to speak to her brother. She found him of
course in his study, from whence Charles had just been dismissed.
"Edward, are you busy?" said she.
"No; what do you want, Clara?" looking up for a moment and then
returning to his papers. "I was just coming to the parlour."
"It is not I, but Emma Watson who wants you."
Mr. Howard turned round to look at his sister with an expression half
pleased, half incredulous.
"Yes indeed, so you need not stare so; Miss Osborne has sent down to
ask you to bring her to lunch at the Castle, and go through the
picture-gallery afterwards—that is to say, she has promised to go
through the gallery, but you must be sure to accompany them."
Mr. Howard bent over his papers again for a moment in silence.
"Why do not you answer, Edward? There is nothing to prevent your
going, is there?—and I am sure you cannot dislike it."
"Oh, no—but Emma—what did she say to it?"
"She begged me to come and engage you as her escort, that she might
avoid falling into the company of Lord Osborne, who she seemed to
apprehend might be lying in wait for her. Elizabeth Watson does not
care for paintings, and means to remain with me."
"It will give me the greatest pleasure," said Mr. Howard, starting up,
and beginning to put away his books and papers. "Now, or at any time
she will name, I am quite at her service. When does she wish to go?"
"Immediately, I should think, as they lunch at one—that is, as soon as
she can get herself ready. I will go back and give her your message at
once."
They were soon on their way. The air was bright and exhilarating—and
it would have been very pleasant walking but for the ground being
exceedingly slippery. It may be doubtful whether Mr. Howard thought
this an evil, since it compelled his companion to lean on him for
support, up the steep ascent which conducted them to the castle. Even
with the assistance of his arm, she was obliged to pause and take
breath, before they had accomplished more than half the ascent. From
the point where they stood, they commanded a beautiful view—the
parsonage and the church lying snugly at their feet, and the snow-clad
country stretching out beyond, chequered with rich hanging woods of
beech on the sides of the hills, and thick coppices of underwood down
in the valley. Emma expressed her admiration with enthusiasm. Mr.
Howard assured her that if she would move a short distance along a
path to the left, she would enjoy a still more splendid panorama. The
snow had been swept from off the gravel, and Emma could not resist the
temptation, though it was diverging from their object. There was
plenty of time,—since they need not be at the castle till one—and it
was now little more than half past twelve. They turned into the path
accordingly, and soon reached the spot he had mentioned: from this
point they likewise had a peep at the castle, situated some way above
them; and whilst they were standing there, Mr. Howard observed:
"There is Lord Osborne just coming out at the side door, near his own
rooms—do you see him."
Emma perceived and watched him.
"I think he is taking the path to your house—is he not?"
"Yes, we shall meet him presently, if we turn and pursue our walk
upwards."
"Oh! then, pray let us stay here till he is gone past," said Emma,
hastily. "I do not wish to meet him in the least."
Mr. Howard looked so excessively pleased that Emma deeply coloured,
and was nearly thinking his eyes as troublesome as those of his former
pupil.
It will easily be believed that he did not press the proposition to
meet Lord Osborne,—on the contrary, he acquiesced with very good grace
in her wish to remain concealed till all danger of encountering him
was passed away. As soon as the winding of the path hid him entirely
from sight, they proceeded upwards and reached the castle without
further incident, having only consumed half an hour in a walk which
might have been easily accomplished in a third of that time. Yet Emma
did not find the walk tedious, and Mr. Howard never discovered the
period it had occupied.
They were shewn to Miss Osborne's own sitting room, where they found
her practising on the harp. Miss Carr was lounging amongst the soft
pillows of a comfortable chair—from which she hardly raised herself to
address the visitors. Her friend was extremely good-humoured and
civil. She pressed Emma's hand affectionately—enquired tenderly after
her health, and expressed herself excessively obliged by her coming.
"Luncheon is waiting," added she, "you will not see mama, she is never
visible of a morning—but did you not meet my brother?"
Emma coloured, and as she did not answer immediately, Mr. Howard
replied—
"We saw him at a distance—but he did not join us."
"I am surprised," said Miss Carr, "for I know he set off on purpose to
escort Miss Emma Watson up here. Which way did you come, to pass him?"
"It is easily accounted for," replied Emma, calmly, "Mr. Howard had
taken me out of the direct road to shew me a good view of the
castle—and Lord Osborne passed whilst we were looking at it."
"It is a pity you did not stop him," pursued Miss Carr, "he would not
then have had his walk for nothing."
Emma made no answer. She did not think it necessary to inform Miss
Carr that the honor of Lord Osborne's company was not a thing that she
coveted.
When their luncheon was over, Miss Osborne renewed her offer of
guiding Emma through the picture gallery—observing that they had
better not lose time, as there was no light to spare in a winter's
afternoon.
"But you must come too," continued she, addressing Mr. Howard. "I am
sure you know more about the pictures than I do—and are much better
worth listening to on _that_ subject, at least."
"Your humility, Miss Osborne, is most commendable," said he, with a
playful bow.
"Oh, yes, I am the humblest creature in the world—there are some
things in which I believe you and a few others are wiser than
myself—Greek and mathematics for instance."
"Your learning in those two branches did not use to be remarkable."
"Oh, I dare say I know as much as half those who have passed through
Eton—they learnt to forget—I forgot to learn—there is not much
difference."
"Not as you state it, certainly; apparently, you hold the learning of
your acquaintance rather cheaply."
"Well, perhaps I do—but, really, one seldom meets with _very_ wise men
in these days: one _hears_ such prodigies have existed in former
times—but, I dare say they were not at all like the generality of our
gentlemen companions, and would be sadly at a loss to comprehend our
amusements, could they re-appear on the scene."
"You know scholars are proverbially awkward, bashful and absent—and,
unless you would tolerate all those capital crimes, you need not wish
for them in your company."
"I look upon you as a scholar, Mr. Howard," said the young lady,
laughing.
"I cannot plead guilty to the impeachment, Miss Osborne."
"But I do not consider you particularly awkward nor intolerably
bashful—and—what was the third crime you laid to the charge of
scholars?"
"I forget."
"What intolerable affectation," cried Miss Osborne, "you want to be
accused of absence of mind. But here we are at the gallery. Now, Miss
Watson, make Mr. Howard tell you all about them."
The collection was really a very good one, and Emma was delighted.
Miss Osborne looked at two or three, then sauntered about the
room—looked out of the window—and, at length, returning to her
companions, said:
"I have just recollected an engagement, for which I must leave you—I
will be back as soon as I can; but don't hurry, and don't wait for me.
You may be quite comfortable here, nobody will disturb you."
She then left them to another protracted _tête-à-tête_; a particularly
pleasant circumstance to Mr. Howard, who found an increasing charm in
Emma's conversation.
When tired of walking about and straining their eyes upwards, they sat
down on a comfortable sofa in a recess, where they could at once enjoy
the view of a beautiful landscape, and converse comfortably.
"You surely must have been used to look at good paintings," said Mr.
Howard, "It is a taste that requires as much cultivation as any other
art. You evidently know how to look at a picture, and how to
appreciate its merit."
"I do not pretend to be a connoisseur, I assure you," said Emma.
"There is no occasion that you should—you have an eye and a taste,
which, lead your judgment right, and I can perceive that you are well
acquainted with the styles as well as the names of great artists."
"I almost suspect you of quizzing me," replied Emma, blushing, "have I
been saying or affecting more than you think I felt."
"You are unjust to us both in such an idea," cried he, "I should not
take such a liberty; and you are in no danger of tempting me."
"My kind uncle was extremely fond of the art," said Emma, "and he took
me to every good collection and exhibition within our reach. He
likewise took great pains to form and correct my taste; so that I
ought rather to blush at knowing so little, than receive compliments
on the subject."
"I do not know of what uncle you are speaking," said Mr. Howard, in a
manner that denoted his interest in her connections; "you forget that
I know almost nothing of your family."
"The uncle who brought me up; Dr. Maitland."
"Then you were not educated at Winston?"
"I—oh no—my home was formerly in my uncle's house—I have not been more
than two months resident in my father's family."
"I dare say you think me a very stupid fellow for not being aware of
this—but though I saw you were different from your sisters, and indeed
most of the young ladies of the neighbourhood, the reason never
occurred to me."
"You thought, I suppose, I was a sort of Cinderella," said Emma
laughing, "let out by some benevolent fairy on the occasion of one
ball, and that having once escaped into public, I could not be
repressed again."
"You know I had not been in your father's house, and had therefore no
reason to assign you an imaginary abode in the kitchen, in preference
to the parlour, where I had never been. But I own I was surprised by
your sudden apparition, since I had neither in ball-room or street,
town or country, seen or heard of more than three Miss Watsons."
"I can easily believe it—so protracted an absence will naturally sink
one's name in oblivion."
"May I ask if you are to return to your uncle's house?"
"Alas! no—my dear, kind uncle died not quite a twelvemonth ago—my aunt
has left England to settle in Ireland—and my home is now at my
father's."
"Is it not with rather a strange sensation that you meet your nearest
relations; they must be almost unknown to you."
"I have made acquaintance with one brother and two sisters," replied
Emma with something like a sigh; "But I have yet to meet another
brother and sister."
"It seems almost a pity," said Mr. Howard thoughtfully, "to bring up
one child apart and differently from the other members of a family, if
they are ultimately to be rejoined. At least I feel in my own case how
much I should have lost, had Clara been separated from me in
childhood. I suppose it rarely happens that a brother and sister are
so much together as we were—but we were orphans, and everything to
each other till her marriage."
"It does not do, Mr. Howard, to indulge in retrospective
considerations, if they tend to make one dissatisfied," said Emma,
with an attempt to check a tear or hide it by a smile; "my friends
wished to do everything for the best, and if the result has been
different from their intentions, they are not to blame. But I do not
know that I should choose to repeat the experiment for one under my
care."
"Do you like the neighbourhood?" enquired he, feeling that he had no
right to press the last subject further.
"I have seen so little; the weather has been so unfavourable, but it
does not strike me as being very beautiful about Winston. I was used
to fine scenery in the west of England."
"Then you will naturally think Winston flat and uninteresting.—Osborne
Castle and its park have beauties, however, which you cannot
despise—but in my enquiry I rather referred to the inhabitants—have
you pleasant neighbours about your father's house—I do not visit in
the village."
"We live so very quietly," replied Emma, who had no intention of
satisfying his curiosity as to their acquaintance, "that I have had no
opportunity of judging. I _saw_ a great many people at the ball, but
as you must have seen them too, you are as equal to decide on their
appearance as I am."
"You know Mr. Tom Musgrove of course?"
"A little."
"He is not a person of whom most young ladies answer so coolly; if I
put the same question to five out of six of my acquaintance, they
would reply with rapture—he is charming—divine—a perfect pattern for
all gentlemen."
"I understood he was a great favorite," observed Emma, still in the
same composed voice.
"I have been used to consider him such a perfect example in everything
relative to the important concerns of fashion and the toilette," said
Mr. Howard, gravely, "things which I know are of the first importance
in the eyes of ladies, that I have seriously proposed when I wish to
be particularly charming to copy him in the tying of his cravat."
"I am not quite sure whether I should think any one improved by
copying Mr. Tom Musgrove, from his cravat to his shoe-buckles: but I
have, I am afraid, a wicked prejudice, against any individual who is
considered _universally_ agreeable."
"Alas you discourage my young ambition; if to be universally agreeable
is to be hated by you, I shall leave forthwith my attempts at
pleasing. To how many individuals is it allowable to be friendly? to
how many cold? to how many repulsive in order to win your good
opinion."
"Impossible for me to answer without more data for my calculations.
You must tell me, to begin with, how many you have been in the habit
of flattering daily!"
"None, I assure you—there is not a more sincere creature under the
sun."
"I do not quite believe you—but if you will not own to that—with how
many do you consider yourself a particular favorite."
"That is an artful question—you wish to prove me guilty of general
agreeableness—but my native modesty stands my friend there: I do not
think more than two thirds of my acquaintance consider me a very
charming fellow—amongst ladies, I mean—of course, a man's opinion goes
for nothing."
"Ah, that is too many by half to please me—if you had always spoken
with sincerity, depend upon it your particular admirers would be less
numerous."
"But seriously, Miss Watson, why do you feel a particular enmity to
the general favorites of your sex!"
"Seriously then, because I mistrust them."
"You think then truth must be sacrificed to popularity? Is not that
rather a severe reflection on the taste of other women."
"I did not mean it as such."
"I never knew any one who did not profess to hate flattery."
"Very likely—but I go a step farther—I dislike the flatterer."
"And by what scale do you measure, so as to form a correct decision—is
your standard of your own merit so accurately settled, that you can
instantly perceive truth from flattery, appropriating just so much of
a compliment as you deserve, and rejecting the rest."
"I think, Mr. Howard, I am more inclined to decide on the value of
compliments from the character of the giver, than from my own. If an
individual either man or woman dares to say a disagreeable truth, I
cannot suspect them of an agreeable falsehood. Or if they are as ready
to praise the absent, as to compliment the present, then I listen with
more complaisance."
"It is fortunate for some men that all young ladies are not like you;
their stock of conversation would be reduced very low, if neither
praises of the present nor abuse of the absent were tolerated."
"I differ from you, Mr. Howard. If no one would _listen_ to slander
much less evil would happen in the world; much unhappiness would be
saved—much moral guilt would be avoided."
"True: call it by its right name—slander—and every one shrinks from
it; the habit of softening down our expressions leads to much evil—a
little scandal, nobody minds that."
"Most detestable of all is the flattery from mercenary motives. To see
a man—a young man courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her
money—one to whom he would, were she poor, hardly deign to address a
word—selling himself body and soul for gold—oh, it makes one
shudder—it tempts me to unjust, harsh thoughts of the whole species.
Hateful!"
Mr. Howard looked at his companion with considerable surprise. She
certainly was using rather strong expressions, and evidently felt
acutely what she was saying. As he, however, was perfectly ignorant of
the circumstances of her aunt's marriage, and never for a moment
thought of anything of the sort, an idea passed through his mind that
she might allude to himself and Lady Osborne, for though he could not
plead guilty to anything on his own part which deserved such
condemnation, it was possible his conduct might appear in this light
to her eyes. He did not stop to consider whether it was probable, or
in accordance with her character to make such personal reflections,
but fell into a reverie on the subject of his own manners, from which
he was roused by her addressing him again.
"I am quite ashamed, Mr. Howard, of having spoken so bitterly just
now—pray forget what I said if possible—at least do not decide on my
being a very ill-natured person because I spoke harshly—there are
sometimes circumstances on which to reflect invariably creates
unpleasant sensations—but the past is passed, and should not be
allowed to awaken angry feelings."
"I fancy we have strayed a long way from the point which awakened
these reflections," said Mr. Howard trying to recover himself
likewise. "Tom Musgrove was the commencement of our dissertation on
flattery."
"Mr. Musgrove—yes, so he was, but I had indeed forgotten it; my
thoughts were many miles off—they had gone back many months."
"Your opinion of him does not seem very high," observed he, much
relieved at the termination of her sentence.
"My opinion of him is of too little consequence to be worth
discussing," replied Emma: "I have not seen a great deal of him, but I
fancy my father does not estimate him very highly."
"But you cannot deny him the advantage of having plenty to say for
himself."
"Plenty indeed—sufficient to make any discussion amongst others on
that subject unnecessary."
"He is handsome too, in the opinion of most women."
"I do not deny it."
"And you know he has a very comfortable independence."
"On that point, Mr. Howard, I feel incredulous: independence is the
very thing he wants. His principal object seems to be to follow
another."
"I see you are hardened against him."
"You think me prejudiced, no doubt."
"I have no wish to combat your prejudice, or persuade you into liking
him against your will."
A pause ensued, when Emma suddenly starting from her reverie,
exclaimed,
"It is almost dusk—we must really return home."
"True, we can come again another day; I am sure you may come whenever
you feel disposed—I shall be most happy to escort you."
At this moment the door was thrown back, and Lord Osborne himself
appeared. After paying his compliments, he paused a moment, and then
observed,
"You must have a precious strong taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to
like to remain in the gallery even when it is too dark to see. I
suppose breathing the same air is pleasant to those who value the
art."
"We have stayed longer than we intended, my lord," said Emma; "and I
really feel much obliged to your sister for allowing me such a
pleasure; but we expected her to join us."
"It's a mighty fine thing to have such a lot of fine pictures, with
all the fine names tacked on to them. One or two I really like
myself—there's one of some horses, by somebody, excellent—and a Dutch
painting of dead game, which is so like you would really think them
all alive. Did you notice it?"
"Not particularly—I do not care much for still life."
"Howard there knows all about them: he has the names and dates and all
on the tip of his tongue. Don't you find it a deuced bore to listen to
it?"
"On the contrary, I am much obliged to Mr. Howard for the
information."
"Well I should be glad, for my part, of a piece of information: how
the—I beg pardon—I mean how the wonder did I contrive to miss you as I
was going down the straight path to the Parsonage."
"Because we did not come up the straight path, my lord."
"Well, on my honour, I just was surprised when I got there to hear you
were gone—stole away in fact. 'Holloa! how can that be!' said I, 'I
did not meet them—no indeed.' 'Did you not!' cried Mrs. Willis. 'Well
deuce take it, that is extraordinary!'"
"Did she say so indeed," said Emma with exemplary gravity.
"I don't mean to say she used those very words—she thought them,
though, I'm sure, by her look."
"But now, my lord, we must wish you good evening, or Mrs. Willis will
be waiting for dinner; and though I am not afraid of her swearing at
us, I do not wish to annoy her."
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Willis is mistress—I know—the Parson there, like
myself, is under petticoat government; nothing like a mother or sister
to keep one in order. I'll be bound a wife is nothing to it. One
cannot get away from a sister, and one can't make her quiet and
obedient—you see she has never undertaken anything of the kind, as I
understand wives do when one marries them."
"But I have heard, my lord, that they sometimes break their word and
rebel," said Emma with mock solemnity.
"Ah, but that must be the husband's fault, he gives them too much
rein—keep a strict hand on them, that's my maxim."
"I recommend you, however, to keep it a secret, if you wish to find a
wife; I assure you no woman would marry you if she knew your opinion."
"Seriously—well but I am sorry I said so then."
"Oh, never mind—there is no harm done as yet—I promise not to betray
you—but here we are at Miss Osborne's room, will she expect us to look
in—or shall we go straight home, Mr. Howard?"
"We'll see if Rosa's here," said her brother, opening the door as he
spoke. The room, however, was empty, and there was nothing to be done
but return home. Emma was vexed to find the young peer persisted in
escorting them. Though his conversation had been much shorter than Mr.
Howard's, she was far more weary of it. To hurry her walk, was her
only remedy, and the coldness of the air was a plausible excuse for
this. The space which had occupied nearly half an hour in ascending,
was now traversed in five minutes, and breathless but glowing, the
party reached the door of the parsonage. Here Lord Osborne was really
obliged to leave them, and Emma hastened to her room to prepare for
dinner.
"Well, Emma," cried Elizabeth, "I should like to know what you have
been doing all this time—what an age you have been gone!"
"Looking at pictures, Elizabeth—you know what I went for."
"I know what you went for indeed, but how do I know what you stayed
for. Pictures indeed—looking at pictures for two hours and a half—and
in the dark too!"
Emma laughed.
"Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?" cried she as her sister placed
a candle so as to throw the light on her face.
"Which have you been flirting with?" said Elizabeth taking her
sister's hand, and closely examining her countenance. "The peer or the
parson, which of your two admirers do you prefer?"
"How can you ask such an unnecessary question?" returned Emma,
blushing and laughing, yet struggling to disengage herself, "would you
hesitate yourself—is not Lord Osborne the most captivating, elegant,
lively, fascinating young nobleman who ever made rank gracious and
desirable. Would _you_ not certainly accept him?"
"Why yes, I think I should—it would be something to be Lady
Osborne—mistress of all those rooms and servants, carriages and
horses. I think I should like it, but then I shall never have the
choice!"
"So far as I am concerned, I do not think I shall interfere with your
power of accepting him—if he makes you an offer, do not refuse it on
my account."
"Very well—and when I am Lady Osborne, I will be very kind to Mrs.
Howard—I will send and ask her to dine with me most Sundays, and some
week days too."
"I hope she will like it."
"I will give her a new gown at Easter, and a pelisse or bonnet at
Christmas!"
"Your liberality is most exemplary, but in the midst of your kind
intentions to Mrs. Howard, I fear you are forgetting Mrs. Willis and
her dinner. If you do not finish your dressing quickly you will keep
them waiting."
Elizabeth took her sister's advice, and finished her toilette with all
possible despatch. It was singular that though invariably consuming
double the time that sufficed for Emma, the result of her efforts in
adjusting her clothes was much less satisfactory. She never looked
_finished_. Her hair was certain to fall down too low; or her gown
burst open, or her petticoat peeped out from underneath: she was
always finding a string, or a button, or a loop wanting, just when
such a loss was particularly inconvenient—always in a hurry, always
behind hand, always good-naturedly sorry, but always as far from
amendment.
The evening was spent in quiet comfort, far removed from the stately
grandeur of the yester-night's scene—they closed round the fire,
chatting and laughing, cracking nuts and eating home-baked cakes with
a zest which Osborne Castle and its lordly halls could not rival. They
talked of the snow melting, and Charles and his uncle too persisted in
the greatest incredulity on that subject. A hundred other things were
discussed, made charming by the ease and good-humour with which they
were canvassed, and then a book was produced. Shakespeare was placed
in Mr. Howard's hands, and he read with a degree of feeling and taste,
which made it very delightful to his listeners. Thus the evening
passed peacefully and quickly, and when they separated for the night,
it was with encreased good will and affection between the parties.