The next morning, though ushered in by no change of the weather,
brought a very material alteration to the Miss Watsons. About eleven
o'clock, as the ladies were working together, their attention was
attracted by the sound of carriage wheels on the drive to the house.
Presently a note was handed to Miss Watson, accompanied by an
assurance that the carriage was waiting. With much surprise, Elizabeth
opened the dispatch. It was from her father, and contained information
to the effect, that wearied by their long absence, and finding that
the lanes were still blocked up, he had sent their man to the post
town for a chaise, in which they could return home, by taking the high
road, which, although greatly adding to the distance, was the safest
and most expeditious route they could adopt. He begged them to return
immediately in the post-chaise, and Robert could follow with their own
little vehicle after them. Kind as the family had been to them, the
girls were still glad of a prospect of returning home before Sunday,
being conscious that they could be ill spared from their father's
house, and that every hour of enjoyment to them, was probably
unpleasant and wearisome to him.
They could not be parted with, of course, without great regret and
many remonstrances on the subject of the dangerous nature of the
expedition they were undertaking. Charles, in particular, gave them
such repeated assurances that they would certainly be upset, that Emma
declared her belief that his foreknowledge arose from having bribed
the postilion to bring on a catastrophe. Mrs. Willis' object seemed to
be to overwhelm them with cloaks, furs, shawls, and everything she
could think of to fence the cold away, and Mr. Howard obviated all
difficulty about returning these articles, by volunteering to drive
over as soon as the weather permitted, and fetch them all back. Hopes
of a continued friendship closed the visit, and they parted on the
best possible terms.
Their return home was perfectly uneventful. There was not even the
cold to complain of—so well had Mrs. Willis succeeded in wrapping them
up.
Most cordial was the welcome they received from Mr. Watson; and
Margaret, too, really looked enlivened by the sight of them.
"I shall not let you young ladies go visiting again in a hurry," said
he good-humouredly, "I began to think one of you must have eloped with
Lord Osborne, and the other with Mr. Howard. I assure you, we have
been very dull without you."
Such was his salutation—Margaret's ran as follows:
"Well, I hope you have been having pleasure enough—and that you will
have brought home some news to enliven us. I am sure I am almost dead
of stupidity and dulness. Not a creature have we seen—not an
individual has come near us. Some people contrive to keep all the
amusement—all the luck—everything that is good and pleasant to
themselves."
The astonishment of Margaret, when she heard the detail of what had
occurred, was excessive; she was ready to cry with vexation and envy,
to think of her sisters having so much to amuse them—of which she did
not partake. With jealous anger she insisted on knowing every
particular, for the sake, apparently, of tormenting herself to the
uttermost, and being as miserable and ill-used as possible.
Every dish at dinner—every jewel in Lady Osborne's necklace—every word
said to be spoken by the ladies at the castle, and every amusement
suggested by the inhabitants of the parsonage, was an additional sting
to her mind; and she was more than ever convinced that it was an act
of the most barbarous injustice, the not allowing her to accompany her
sisters—though nothing could be more evident than the total
impossibility of such an arrangement. In vain did Emma try to turn the
conversation to some less irritating topic; Margaret pertinaciously
returned to the original theme, and insisted on learning every thing
which her sisters could tell her.
There are various tastes amongst the inhabitants of the world; some
delight in making themselves happy, some in just the reverse;
Margaret's pleasure was to fret; her pastime was to vex herself. Had
she been the only victim to this peculiar taste, there would have been
less harm in it; but, unfortunately, her father and sisters were
likewise sufferers, and in as much as they were involuntary sufferers,
and really took no pleasure in her vexation, it was rather hard upon
them to be involved in the same calamity.
In progress of time the snow melted from the ground, and the
inhabitants of the rectory at Winston were again set free from
confinement. As soon as the roads became at all passable, Emma began
to catch herself wondering when Mr. Howard would redeem his promise of
coming to fetch the articles with which his sister had supplied them.
She likewise detected herself in what she considered another failing;
this was looking round the untidy rooms of her father's home, with
their dingy carpets, faded curtains, papers soiled by the hands of the
servants and children, and tables unpolished and scratched, and
contrasting them mentally with the clear and cheerful aspect of the
apartments where Mrs. Willis was mistress. The grandeur of Osborne
Castle had none of the charms in her eyes which Mrs. Willis' little
parlour presented, and she came to the conclusion that the happiest
thing in the world must be to preside over such an establishment with
such a companion. Those feelings, however, she did not openly express,
in which she differed from Elizabeth, who repeatedly declared that she
wished she could make their house resemble Mr. Howard's.
One morning, shortly after their return home, Tom Musgrove, whom they
had not seen since that event, was ushered into the parlour.
Margaret, who happened to be alone, was instantly all agitation and
bustle, trying to persuade him to take her chair by the fire, as she
was sure he must be cold, or to accept the loan of her father's
slippers whilst his boots were sent to the kitchen to dry.
He persisted, however, in declining her tender attentions, declaring
she wanted to make an old man of him before his time, and placing
himself on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his hands
behind him, half whistled an air.
Margaret sighed.
"It is long since we have seen you," said she; "and the time has
passed very wearily."
"Hum," said Tom, stopping in his tune. "Where are your sisters, Miss
Margaret?"
"Oh, they are at home again," replied Margaret. "I believe Emma is
with my father, and Elizabeth in the kitchen. Did you hear of their
being away so long?"
"How long?" cried Tom.
"From Wednesday to Saturday: there was I left without a creature to
speak to except my father and the servants, snowed up in the house,
and if they had only taken me with them, I should have enjoyed it as
much as they did."
"I dare say; but how came they to go?" said Tom, who though really
knowing nothing about it, was determined to learn all he could without
betraying his ignorance.
"Oh, they wanted to return Mrs. Willis' visit, and they went over in
the pony-chaise, and then the snow came on and stopped them there all
that time. I dare say they liked to stay, for I have no doubt but they
might have come home had they tried. At last my father was obliged to
send for a post-chaise to fetch them home in, and they came on
Saturday."
"And they liked it very much, did they?"
"Oh yes, of course—was it not hard I could not go too? I am always
thwarted and ill-used."
"I wish your sister Emma would come down; she is always shut up in
your father's room; I called here on purpose to see her."
"I dare say she will come presently—do sit down here; I am sure you
ought to rest yourself; you seem to have had a very dirty ride."
"You could not go and call her, I suppose?"
"Oh no, she will come when she has done reading to my father. Do take
something—a biscuit and a glass of wine, or something of that kind."
"Quite unnecessary, I have but just breakfasted. I do not keep such
gothic hours as some of my friends do. I am able to please myself—a
free and independent man."
"No doubt a happy one. Ah, Mr. Musgrove, you are most fortunate. You
cannot tell the misery, the low spirits, the—the—in short all we poor
helpless women suffer from, how much heart-breaking sorrow we endure
in silence—bitterness of heart of which the world knows nothing."
Tom only whistled again in reply to this very pathetic address, then
turning round began to examine the ornaments on the chimney-piece.
Even Margaret could not quite blind herself to the change in his
manner since the period when her smiles seemed the object he most
coveted.
Presently he began again.
"Whilst your sisters were at Howard's did they see much of the
Osbornes?"
Before Margaret had time to give an account of the visit to the
Castle, Elizabeth entered the room.
"So I understand, Miss Watson, you have been playing the truant, and
been obliged to be brought back almost by force."
"And are you come to congratulate or condole with me on our return?"
"I am come to wish you joy about being overwhelmed in the snow. I
little thought when I was last at Osborne Castle we were such near
neighbours."
"When were you there?" cried Elizabeth.
"Let me see—I think it was Thursday. I am there very often, but I
think Thursday was the last day. How droll it would have been had we
met."
"Emma," cried Miss Watson, as her youngest sister just then entered
the room, "Mr. Musgrove says he was at the Castle on Thursday."
"Oh," said Emma.
"I wonder we did not hear of it," pursued Elizabeth. "Miss Osborne
never mentioned it."
"How do you like Miss Osborne," enquired Tom, who wanted to appear
perfectly well informed as to what had passed, and was, therefore,
ashamed of asking questions which might betray his real ignorance.
"She seems a very pleasant, amiable young lady," replied Elizabeth,
"don't you think so, Emma."
"Yes," replied she, quietly.
"Did she know you were friends of mine, Miss Watson? Miss Emma, did
she not talk about me?"
"No, indeed," replied Emma, with much satisfaction; "we never heard
your name mentioned the whole time we were in company with her."
"How did you hear we had been there," enquired Elizabeth.
"I think Osborne mentioned it on Saturday, when I saw him for a
minute," then seating himself by Emma, who was a little apart from the
others, he whispered; "He told me the beautiful, but obdurate Miss
Watson had been at Howard's parsonage. Why do you treat him with such
scorn, Miss Emma? You will drive my poor friend to despair."
"I should be sorry to think that I merited your accusation, Mr.
Musgrove: scorn cannot be a becoming quality in a young lady."
"Nay, there can be nothing unbecoming which you can do; youth and
beauty have unlimited privileges," whispered he again. "Miss Osborne
vows you eclipse Miss Carr in beauty, and she would rather have you
for a friend. She is dying to be introduced to you."
"It is quite unnecessary to inflict such a death upon her even in
imagination, Mr. Musgrove—for our acquaintance has progressed too far
for that phrase to be at all applicable to it."
"Yes now, I dare say; Osborne told me, but I forget, you went over the
castle I think."
"No, we did not."
"You did not! that was unlucky; I wish I had known you were going, I
would have been there, and I could have suggested it to Miss Osborne;
I dare say she would have shewn you all the rooms."
"She offered to do so, but we put it off till another time; we thought
we should be too hurried."
"It's a pity you did not dine there; its something quite grand to see
all the plate—I quite enjoy it—they give such good dinners."
"You do not seem aware that we _did_ dine there," replied Emma, "and,
as I had seen other large establishments before, I saw nothing so very
astonishing at their table."
"You did dine there—yes—but that was in a family way; the thing is to
see a regular great dinner—twenty people sitting down—that is what I
like."
"I am not fond of large dinner parties; unless one has a very pleasant
neighbour they are apt to be dull."
"Very much so—very much so indeed; I quite agree with you, a little,
quiet, social dinner—where one person can talk and the others listen,
that is pleasant. You get every thing hot and quickly—that's the
thing!"
Emma did not feel called on to answer, and presently he added:
"I should like to have _you_ for a neighbour at such a dinner."
Emma was still obdurately silent, and Mr. Musgrove, to recompense
himself, turned to Elizabeth, and began to talk to her.
As soon as her attention was released Emma left the room, and throwing
on a bonnet and cloak, determined to take refuge in the garden as the
day was fine, and she longed for fresh air. Hardly had she quitted the
entrance, however, when her attention was attracted by the sound of
wheels in the lane, and looking up her cheek crimsoned with pleasure
at perceiving Mr. Howard.
The pleasure was certainly mutual, judging from the alacrity with
which he sprang from the carriage to meet and address her. There was
no mistaking the look and air with which he advanced, it was the
genuine expression of a cordial welcome, met with equal though more
bashful cordiality on her side.
He was come, of course, to redeem his promise of fetching back his
sister's property; she would have come also, but she had a cold which
confined her to the house. But he had another object in his visit—he
was the bearer of an invitation to herself and sisters to attend a
concert at the Castle, which was to take place in the afternoon, and
to be followed by a ball in the evening. Miss Osborne hoped they would
excuse her mother's not having called on them; she scarcely ever paid
visits, never in the winter, or she would have accompanied her
daughter to the Vicarage when they were there.
Emma read the note which was addressed to herself, and felt very much
pleased. It contained, besides the invitation to the ball for herself
and sisters, a most pressing request that she would pay a lengthened
visit at the Castle; over this she pondered long, and then ended with
coming to no conclusion, suddenly remembering that she was detaining
Mr. Howard out of doors, when she ought to have allowed him to enter
the house.
"You will find Mr. Tom Musgrove sitting with my sisters," continued
she; "but if you will be so kind as _not_ to mention the contents of
the note before him, you would greatly oblige me."
"Could I not see Mr. Watson?" replied Mr. Howard; "I wish to call on
him, and perhaps when my visit to him is over your sisters will be
disengaged."
"Certainly; I am sure my father would have great pleasure in seeing
you," said Emma much gratified; "allow me to show you the way."
She ushered him accordingly to her father's dressing-room, and having
witnessed the very cordial reception which Mr. Watson offered him, she
was about to withdraw, but her father stopped her.
"I am sure you can have nothing particular to do, Emma, so you may
just as well stay and talk to Mr. Howard—I like very much to hear you,
but you know I am not strong enough to converse myself."
"I am sure, my dear father, nobody talks half so well when you are
equal to it, but indeed you must not fancy yourself unwell, or you
will frighten Mr. Howard away."
"When Mr. Howard has reached my age, my dear, and felt half the pain
that I do, from gout and dyspepsia, he will be very glad to set his
daughter to talk for him, my dear; so I beg you will stay."
"I wish I enjoyed the prospect of realizing your picture, my dear sir;
a daughter exactly like Miss Emma Watson would be indeed a treasure."
"But remember it is to be purchased at the expense of gout, and you
must not look for it these thirty years, Mr. Howard," said Emma
laughing. "When the sacrifice is complete you will talk in a very
different strain."
Mr. Howard _looked_ very incredulous, but said nothing more on that
subject.
Emma then mentioned the note she had received; her father began to
murmur.
"The Osbornes will all turn all your heads with their balls and their
visits, child," said he pettishly. "I wish you had never known them."
Emma looked down.
"I am sure I do not wish to go, if you dislike it," said she, in a
voice which rather trembled.
It was evident to Mr. Howard that she _did_ wish it very much.
Mr. Watson began again.
"What am I to do if you are going away for two or three days? You are
but just come home as it is—I cannot do without you."
"Then I, at all events, can stay with you," replied Emma cheerfully,
"and my sisters can do as they please."
Annoyed at the gentleman's selfishness, Mr. Howard felt inclined to
interpose, but doubted whether he should not do more harm than good.
Emma knew better, or acted more wisely in not contradicting him, for
like many irritable people, the moment he found himself unopposed, he
began to relent, and said in a more placid voice,
"What's the invitation, read it again, Emma, I am not quite clear
about it."
Emma complied.
"Well, I do not know; she does not want you all to stay over the
ball—and as Elizabeth will be at home, perhaps I could spare you for a
day or two."
"Elizabeth would like to go to the ball too, papa."
"Yes, yes, but then she and Margaret would come home at night, and I
should not be all day alone. I think you might go—you must have a
post-chaise and a pair of horses to take you, I suppose, and bring
your sisters back again. Would you like it, my dear?"
"Very much, sir, if it does not disturb you."
Like it indeed—the words served but coldly to express the pleasure
with which her heart beat at the idea. It was so very kind of Miss
Osborne to think of her in that way, and it was so very pleasant to
see how much consequence Mr. Howard attached to her acceptance of the
offer. She had not dared to look quite at him; but the first glance
she had ventured on, showed in his face an expression of deep
interest, not to be mistaken, and now looking up, she met his eyes
fixed on her with a look which immediately sunk hers again to the
ground, and seemed to call all the blood from her heart to her cheeks.
"I am sure," cried he, speaking hurriedly to relieve her
embarrassment, "Miss Osborne would have been exceedingly disappointed
had you settled otherwise. I can venture to assert, sir, that Miss
Osborne is very fond of your daughter, and extremely anxious to
cultivate her acquaintance."
"I dare say, I dare say, why should she not; but I hope Emma does not
flatter her to win her good will."
"I hope not, sir," said Emma, "I should despise myself if I did."
"It is impossible that it should be necessary," cried Mr. Howard.
"Miss Osborne is not to be propitiated by flattery, and it would
require, on Miss Emma's part, nothing beyond her natural manners to
produce a wish to carry on the acquaintance."
"I suppose Miss Osborne desired you to make civil speeches for her,"
said Mr. Watson, laughing.
"No, I do it of my own free will, my dear sir."
Mr. Howard's visit was long and lively; Mr. Watson was evidently
cheered by it, and pressed him to renew it.
"I am afraid I ask what is not agreeable," continued he; "I dare say I
am dull and unpleasant; but if you knew what a treat it is to me to
see cheerful faces, you would not wonder at my selfish wish. You, Mr.
Howard, and Emma do me good."
There was something very pleasant to Emma's ears in hearing her name
thus connected with Mr. Howard's; and it was not unwelcome to the
young man either, who warmly pressed her father's hand, and promised
readily to come as often as he could.
"And mind, Emma, when he does come, you bring him to me," said her
father; "it is not every young man that I care to see. Your Tom
Musgroves, and such young dandies, are not at all to my mind; but a
young man who listens to what his elders say, and does not flout and
jeer at them, but shows a proper respect to age and experience, that's
what I like. I shall be happy to see you, Mr. Howard, whenever you can
come."
After renewing his promise to be a regular and frequent visitor, Mr.
Howard was conducted by Emma to the parlour, from whence they found
Tom Musgrove had departed. Her two sisters looked up as if surprised
to see Emma and her companion; but their pleasure much exceeded their
surprise, when they learnt the nature of the embassy with which he was
charged. Margaret especially, who had formed most exalted ideas of the
nature and felicity of a visit to the castle, was at first in a
perfect rapture. She was certain that the whole affair would be in the
most superlative style of excellence; that Miss Osborne must be a lady
of first rate taste and talent; that the company would be select in an
extraordinary degree, and in short that she should never have known
what grandeur, beauty, elegance, and taste meant, but for Lady
Osborne's invitation to the concert and ball. She determined to do her
best to make her court to the whole family of Osbornes, and had great
hopes of becoming an especial favorite with them all. It was not till
after Mr. Howard's departure, which took place after a visit of about
ten minutes, that a cloud came over her bright vision. She then learnt
the sad fact that Emma was invited to remain at the castle, but that
she herself was to return home.
This discovery made her very angry; she could comprehend no reason for
such a marked preference; why should Miss Osborne invite Emma who was
the youngest, and exclude herself; it really surpassed her
comprehension; it was most extraordinary; she had a great mind not to
go at all; she would let Miss Osborne see that she was not to be
treated with neglect; she was not a person to come and go at any one's
bidding; if Miss Osborne could ask Emma, why not herself too; she
surely had as much claim to attention. Then she turned to Emma and
required her to promise that she would not accept the invitation. But
Emma said she had done so already. She had written a note which Mr.
Howard had charge of; and she was not to be induced to retract.
Margaret grew quite angry, accusing her of being mean-spirited and
servile, fawning on Miss Osborne, and winning her favor only by her
base concessions; she said everything which an irritated and jealous
temper could suggest, and tormented Emma into tears at her crossness
and ill-will.
"I wonder you mind her, Emma," remonstrated Elizabeth, when she
discovered that her sister's eyes were red, and wrung from her an
acknowledgment of the cause. Elizabeth had not been present when the
discussion which pained Emma so much, had taken place. "It's not the
least use fretting about Margaret's ill-temper and teazing ways—she
always was a plague and a torment from a child, and there's no chance
of her being any better. She is so abominably selfish. But I cannot
bear her to make you cry."
"I dare say you think me very foolish," replied Emma, wiping her eyes,
"but I have never been used to be crossly spoken to, and it quite
upsets me."
"No, I don't think you foolish, Emma; you are only much too good and
tender for this situation. I shall be glad when you are married and
safe with Mr. Howard, and nobody to scold you or make you spoil your
beauty by crying."
"Nonsense, Elizabeth."
"It's not nonsense, Emma, I believe he is very good-natured, and I
dare say you will be very happy with him. How long were you
_tête-à-tête_, with him, before you brought him into the parlour?"
"We came from my father's room then."
"Oh, you need not apologise; I think you were quite right to have a
comfortable chat with him, before bringing him into Margaret's
company. It is but little conversation you can have when she is by. I
saw you with him in the garden."
Emma blushed.
"I assure you we did not stay there five minutes; he came to call on
my father, and we went to him immediately."
Elizabeth only answered by a look; but it was a look which shewed that
she was not in the least convinced by Emma's assertions, but only
wondered that she should think them necessary.
END OF VOL. I.
T. C. NEWBY, Printer, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish-sq.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber's Notes:
○ A few cases of inconsistent spelling were regularized.
○ Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.
○ "beant" on page 70, word retained. A contraction of be not,
probably. See also "woant" on page 143.
○ The spelling of Shakespeare was corrected. There were two
instances of the name, one spelled correctly, the other
incorrectly.