by Jane Austen
“You have not been long in this country, I understand,” said he, in the tone of a gentleman. “I hope you are pleased with it.”
He was rewarded by a gracious answer, and a more liberal full view of her face than she had yet bestowed. Unused to exert himself, and happy in contemplating her, he then sat in silence for some minutes longer, while Tom Musgrave was chattering to Elizabeth; till they were interrupted by Nanny’s approach, who, half-opening the door and putting in her head, said, —
“Please, ma’am, master wants to know why he ben’t to have his dinner?”
The gentlemen, who had hitherto disregarded every symptom, however positive, of the nearness of that meal, now jumped up with apologies, while Elizabeth called briskly after Nanny “to tell Betty to take up the fowls.”
“I am sorry it happens so,” she added, turning good-humouredly towards Musgrave, “but you know what early hours we keep.”
Tom had nothing to say for himself; he knew it very well, and such honest simplicity, such shameless truth, rather bewildered him. Lord Osborne’s parting compliments took some time, his inclination for speech seeming to increase with the shortness of the term for indulgence. He recommended exercise in defiance of dirt; spoke again in praise of half-boots; begged that his sister might be allowed to send Emma the name of her shoemaker; and concluded with saying, “My hounds will be hunting this country next week. I believe they will throw off at Stanton Wood on Wednesday at nine o’clock. I mention this in hopes of your being drawn out to see what’s going on. If the morning’s tolerable, pray do us the honour of giving us your good wishes in person.”
The sisters looked on each other with astonishment when their visitors had withdrawn.
“Here’s an unaccountable honour!” cried Elizabeth, at last. “Who would have thought of Lord Osborne’s coming to Stanton? He is very handsome; but Tom Musgrave looks all to nothing the smartest and most fashionable man of the two. I am glad he did not say anything to me; I would not have had to talk to such a great man for the world. Tom was very agreeable, was not he? But did you hear him ask where Miss Penelope and Miss Margaret were, when he first came in? It put me out of patience. I am glad Nanny had not laid the cloth, however — it would have looked so awkward; just the tray did not signify.” To say that Emma was not flattered by Lord Osborne’s visit would be to assert a very unlikely thing, and describe a very odd young lady; but the gratification was by no means unalloyed: his coming was a sort of notice which might please her vanity, but did not suit her pride; and she would rather have known that he wished the visit without presuming to make it, than have seen him at Stanton.
Among other unsatisfactory feelings, it once occurred to her to wonder why Mr. Howard had not taken the same privilege of coming, and accompanied his lordship; but she was willing to suppose that he had either known nothing about it, or had declined any share in a measure which carried quite as much impertinence in its form as good-breeding. Mr. Watson was very far from being delighted when he heard what had passed; a little peevish under immediate pain, and ill-disposed to be pleased, he only replied, —
“Phoo! phoo! what occasion could there be for Lord Osborne’s coming? I have lived here fourteen years without being noticed by any of the family. It is some foolery of that idle fellow, Tom Musgrave. I cannot return the visit. I would not if I could.” And when Tom Musgrave was met with again, he was commissioned with a message of excuse to Osborne Castle, on the too-sufficient plea of Mr. Watson’s infirm state of health.
CHAPTER 4
A week or ten days rolled quietly away after this visit before any new bustle arose to interrupt even for half a day the tranquil and affectionate intercourse of the two sisters, whose mutual regard was increasing with the intimate knowledge of each other which such intercourse produced. The first circumstance to break in on this security was the receipt of a letter from Croydon to announce the speedy return of Margaret, and a visit of two or three days from Mr. and Mrs. Robert Watson, who undertook to bring her home, and wished to see their sister Emma.
It was an expectation to fill the thoughts of the sisters at Stanton, and to busy the hours of one of them at least; for as Jane had been a woman of fortune, the preparations for her entertainment were considerable; and as Elizabeth had at all times more goodwill than method in her guidance of the house, she could make no change without a bustle. An absence of fourteen years had made all her brothers and sisters strangers to Emma, but in her expectation of Margaret there was more than the awkwardness of such an alienation; she had heard things which made her dread her return; and the day which brought the party to Stanton seemed to her the probable conclusion of almost all that had been comfortable in the house.
Robert Watson was an attorney at Croydon, in a good way of business; very well satisfied with himself for the same, and for having married the only daughter of the attorney to whom he had been clerk, with a fortune of six thousand pounds. Mrs. Robert was not less pleased with herself for having had that six thousand pounds, and for being now in possession of a very smart house in Croydon, where she gave genteel parties and wore fine clothes. In her person there was nothing remarkable; her manners were pert and conceited. Margaret was not without beauty; she had a slight pretty figure, and rather wanted countenance than good features; but the sharp and anxious expression of her face made her beauty in general little felt. On meeting her long-absent sister, as on every occasion of show, her manner was all affection and her voice all gentleness; continual smiles and a very slow articulation being her constant resource when determined on pleasing.
She was now so “delighted to see dear, dear Emma,” that she could hardly speak a word in a minute.
“I am sure we shall be great friends,” she observed with much sentiment, as they were sitting together. Emma scarcely knew how to answer such a proposition, and the manner in which it was spoken she could not attempt to equal. Mrs. Robert Watson eyed her with much familiar curiosity and triumphant compassion: the loss of the aunt’s fortune was uppermost in her mind at the moment of meeting; and she could not but feel how much better it was to be the daughter of a gentleman of property in Croydon than the niece of an old woman who threw herself away on an Irish captain. Robert was carelessly kind, as became a prosperous man and a brother; more intent on settling with the post-boy, inveighing against the exorbitant advance in posting, and pondering over a doubtful half-crown, than on welcoming a sister who was no longer likely to have any property for him to get the direction of.
“Your road through the village is infamous, Elizabeth,” said he; “worse than ever it was. By Heaven! I would indict it if I lived near you. Who is surveyor now?”
There was a little niece at Croydon to be fondly inquired after by the kind-hearted Elizabeth, who regretted very much her not being of the party.
“You are very good,” replied her mother, “and I assure you it went very hard with Augusta to have us come away without her. I was forced to say we were only going to church, and promise to come back for her directly. But you know it would not do to bring her without her maid, and I am as particular as ever in having her properly attended to.”
“Sweet little darling!” cried Margaret. “It quite broke my heart to leave her.”
“Then why was you in such a hurry to run away from her?” cried Mrs. Robert. “You are a sad, shabby girl. I have been quarrelling with you all the way we came, have not I? Such a visit as this, I never heard of! You know how glad we are to have any of you with us, if it be for months together; and I am sorry” (with a witty smile) “we have not been able to make Croydon agreeable this autumn.”
“My dearest Jane, do not overpower me with your raillery. You know what inducements I had to bring me home. Spare me, I entreat you. I am no match for your arch sallies.”
“Well, I only beg you will not set your neighbours against the place. Perhaps Emma may be tempted to go back with us and stay till Christmas, if you don’t put in your word.”
Emma was greatly obli
ged. “I assure you we have very good society at Croydon. I do not much attend the balls, they are rather too mixed; but our parties are very select and good. I had seven tables last week in my drawing-room. Are you fond of the country? How do you like Stanton?”
“Very much,” replied Emma, who thought a comprehensive answer most to the purpose. She saw that her sister-in-law despised her immediately. Mrs. Robert Watson was indeed wondering what sort of a home Emma could possibly have been used to in Shropshire, and setting it down as certain that the aunt could never have had six thousand pounds.
“How charming Emma is,” whispered Margaret to Mrs. Robert, in her most languishing tone. Emma was quite distressed by such behaviour; and she did not like it better when she heard Margaret five minutes afterwards say to Elizabeth in a sharp, quick accent, totally unlike the first, “Have you heard from Pen since she went to Chichester? I had a letter the other day. I don’t find she is likely to make anything of it. I fancy she’ll come back `Miss Penelope,’ as she went.”
Such, she feared, would be Margaret’s common voice when the novelty of her own appearance were over; the tone of artificial sensibility was not recommended by the idea. The ladies were invited upstairs to prepare for dinner.
“I hope you will find things tolerably comfortable, Jane,” said Elizabeth, as she opened the door of the spare bedchamber.
“My good creature,” replied Jane, “use no ceremony with me, I entreat you. I am one of those who always take things as they find them. I hope I can put up with a small apartment for two or three nights without making a piece of work. I always wish to be treated quite en famille when I come to see you. And now I do hope you have not been getting a great dinner for us. Remember, we never eat suppers.”
“I suppose,” said Margaret, rather quickly to Emma, “you and I are to be together; Elizabeth always takes care to have a room to herself.”
“No. Elizabeth gives me half hers.”
“Oh!” in a softened voice, and rather mortified to find that she was not ill-used, “I am sorry I am not to have the pleasure of your company, especially as it makes me nervous to be much alone.”
Emma was the first of the females in the parlour again; on entering it she found her brother alone.
“So, Emma,” said he, “you are quite a stranger at home. It must seem odd enough for you to be here. A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner has made of it! By Heaven! a woman should never be trusted with money. I always said she ought to have settled something on you, as soon as her husband died.”
“But that would have been trusting me with money,” replied Emma; “and I am a woman too.”
“It might have been secured to your future use, without your having any power over it now. What a blow it must have been upon you! To find yourself, instead of heiress of 8,000 or 9,000 l., sent back a weight upon your family, without a sixpence. I hope the old woman will smart for it.”
“Do not speak disrespectfully of her; she was very good to me, and if she has made an imprudent choice, she will suffer more from it herself than I can possibly do.”
“I do not mean to distress you, but you know everybody must think her an old fool. I thought Turner had been reckoned an extraordinarily sensible, clever man. How the devil came he to make such a will?”
“My uncle’s sense is not at all impeached in my opinion by his attachment to my aunt. She had been an excellent wife to him. The most liberal and enlightened minds are always the most confiding. The event has been unfortunate; but my uncle’s memory is, if possible, endeared to me by such a proof of tender respect for my aunt.”
“That’s odd sort of talking. He might have provided decently for his widow, without leaving everything that he had to dispose of, or any part of it, at her mercy.”
“My aunt may have erred,” said Emma, warmly; “she has erred, but my uncle’s conduct was faultless. I was her own niece, and he left to herself the power and the pleasure of providing for me.”
“But unluckily she has left the pleasure of providing for you to your father, and without the power. That’s the long and short of the business. After keeping you at a distance from your family for such a length of time as must do away all natural affection among us, and breeding you up (I suppose) in a superior style, you are returned upon their hands without a sixpence.”
“You know,” replied Emma, struggling with her tears, “my uncle’s melancholy state of health. He was a greater invalid than my father. He could not leave home.”
“I do not mean to make you cry,” said Robert, rather softened, — and after a short silence, by way of changing the subject, he added: “I am just come from my father’s room; he seems very indifferent. It will be a sad break up when he dies. Pity you can none of you get married! You must come to Croydon as well as the rest, and see what you can do there. I believe if Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds, there was a young man who would have thought of her.”
Emma was glad when they were joined by the others; it was better to look at her sister-in-law’s finery than listen to Robert, who had equally irritated and grieved her. Mrs. Robert, exactly as smart as she had been at her own party, came in with apologies for her dress.
“I would not make you wait,” said she; “so I put on the first thing I met with. I am afraid I am a sad figure. My dear Mr. W.,” (to her husband) “you have not put any fresh powder in your hair.”
“No, I do not intend it. I think there is powder enough in my hair for my wife and sisters.”
“Indeed, you ought to make some alteration in your dress before dinner when you are out visiting, though you do not at home.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is very odd you should not like to do what other gentlemen do. Mr. Marshall and Mr. Hemmings change their dress every day of their lives before dinner. And what was the use of my putting up your last new coat, if you are never to wear it?”
“Do be satisfied with being fine yourself, and leave your husband alone.”
To put an end to this altercation and soften the evident vexation of her sister-in-law, Emma (though in no spirits to make such nonsense easy), began to admire her gown. It produced immediate complacency.
“Do you like it?” said she. “I am very happy. It has been excessively admired; but sometimes I think the pattern too large. I shall wear one tomorrow that I think you will prefer to this. Have you seen the one I gave Margaret?”
Dinner came, and except when Mrs. Robert looked at her husband’s head, she continued gay and flippant, chiding Elizabeth for the profusion on the table, and absolutely protesting against the entrance of the roast turkey, which formed the only exception to “You see your dinner.” “I do beg and entreat that no turkey may be seen today. I am really frightened out of my wits with the number of dishes we have already. Let us have no turkey, I beseech you.”
“My dear,” replied Elizabeth, “the turkey is roasted, and it may just as well come in as stay in the kitchen. Besides, if it is cut, I am in hopes my father may be tempted to eat a bit, for it is rather a favourite dish.”
“You may have it in, my dear; but I assure you I sha’n’t touch it.”
Mr. Watson had not been well enough to join the party at dinner, but was prevailed on to come down and drink tea with them.
“I wish we may be able to have a game of cards tonight,” said Elizabeth to Mrs. Robert, after seeing her father comfortably seated in his arm-chair.
“Not on my account, my dear, I beg. You know I am no card-player. I think a snug chat infinitely better. I always say cards are very well sometimes to break a formal circle, but one never wants them among friends.”
“I was thinking of its being something to amuse my father,” said Elizabeth, “if it was not disagreeable to you. He says his head won’t bear whist, but perhaps if we make a round game he may be tempted to sit down with us.”
“By all means, my dear creature. I am quite at your service; only do not oblige me to choose the game, that’s all. Speculation i
s the only round game at Croydon now, but I can play anything. When there is only one or two of you at home, you must be quite at a loss to amuse him. Why do you not get him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I have played at cribbage most nights that we have not been engaged.”
A sound like a distant carriage was at this moment caught; everybody listened; it became more decided; it certainly drew nearer. It was an unusual sound for Stanton at any time of the day, for the village was on no very public road, and contained no gentleman’s family but the rector’s. The wheels rapidly approached; in two minutes the general expectation was answered; they stopped beyond a doubt at the garden-gate of the parsonage. “Who could it be? It was certainly a postchaise. Penelope was the only creature to be thought of; she might perhaps have met with some unexpected opportunity of returning.” A pause of suspense ensued. Steps were distinguished along the paved foot-way, which led under the windows of the house to the front door, and then within the passage. They were the steps of a man. It could not be Penelope. It must be Samuel. The door opened, and displayed Tom Musgrave in the wrap of a traveller. He had been in London, and was now on his way home, and he had come half-a-mile out of his road merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. He loved to take people by surprise with sudden visits at extraordinary seasons, and, in the present instance, had had the additional motive of being able to tell the Miss Watsons, whom he depended on finding sitting quietly employed after tea, that he was going home to an eight-o’clock dinner.
