by Jane Austen
Elizabeth’s silent shake of the head and swimming eyes told him only too plainly how little she relished either alternative.
He clasped her hand with a strong, affectionate pressure, and said no more.
So it was with the most eager interest and concern that, some days afterward, Elizabeth handed her sister the letter from Ireland, and waited to hear its contents, which Emma proceeded to read aloud, making her way with some trouble through the cramped and crossed lines.
My dearest Niece,
I have but just received yr letter written in October. Alas! I have all too much reason to believe that Missives directed to me frequently go astray or fail of delivery. Those who should be solicitous for my Comfort are not within the house, or do not care, and oh! how many times, how many many times do I lament the loss of my kind, sweet-tempered, thoughtful, obliging little Niece and her ever-welcome attentions and ever-loving ways! Here I am surrounded by gross and ignorant Rustics, who do not care whether I live or die, and often leave me for Hours at a time unattended and solitary.
My husband Capt O’Brien has not yet fulfilled his promise of taking me to his own house, Carahoy in County Cork; indeed at times I begin to wonder whether such a house really exists. When I mentioned it to my brother-in-law, Mr Fergus O’Brien, he burst into a loud, rude laugh and told me ‘the place was little better than a ruin, I was far better off where I am’ – which filled me, as you may imagine, with the liveliest Apprehensions. At present we still reside with Mr Fergus in his house, Castle Knocka. Castle! It is liker to a Tenement than a castle. Heaven only knows how many indigent families scramble about in its basement quarters, and my brother-in-law’s household is most indifferently governed by a stout Slut named Mrs Hegarty whose manifold functions I dare only guess at. She slops about Barefoot with a great hank of black hair hanging down her back and behaves to me with the greatest Incivility.
Oh, my dear Emma, how often, how very often, do I long to be back with you in our snug quarters in the Foregate! How safe, how happy and content we were, visiting the Circulating Library, taking coffee at Oates’s, meeting our acquaintance in the Abbey precincts. I have no acquaintance or callers here, save Father Maloney, who goes a-hunting with my husband and brother-in-law five days a week – and, to be sure, some very unruly hogs who invade the lower floors at the slightest opportunity.
I do not know how long my Health will survive this existence of incessant rain, cold rooms, vile food served in Squalid conditions, and Boorish neglect. And my husband less charming than he was used to be, not so kind as he was – but on that score I must not let my pen run away with me. My Lips are sealed.
Do not write to me at this address, however, dearest Emma, for Captain O’Brien proposes next week to remove to the City of Dublin, where we are to attend the races. My hopes of more comfortable circumstances there are counterbalanced by an acute dread that my husband will gamble away immense sums on betting and Hazard, as he did when we passed through that City on our way hither. I will write again when I can give you some reliable Direction in Dublin—
Your afflicted Aunt
The two sisters stared at each other in consternation when Emma had finished reading.
‘Oh, poor Aunt Maria!’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘I recall you had said, from the tone of her earlier communications, that you feared she was beginning to repent of her rashness, that she was not as happy as she expected to be – but I had not thought – never anticipated – anything so bad as this . . .’
‘I feel so helpless – so wholly unable to do anything.’
Emma stared at the blotted black scrawl of her aunt’s writing as if it might yield some clue to her whereabouts. ‘By this time she will doubtless be in Dublin – but who knows at what address? And I have no money – I could not travel to Ireland – and if I could, where should I look for her? And if I found her, what assistance could I render? What could I do? She is married to this wretched man. Oh, if only we had some sensible male person to help and counsel us – if only Robert were other than what he is . . .’
‘Or if we could tell my father – but we must not do that,’ agreed Elizabeth. ‘For it would distress him so terribly in his enfeebled state – his only sister – she that was used to be so comfortable and lively – reduced to such a sad and anxious pass – oh, what a dreadful alteration in her life.’
The two sisters were silent, thinking of their poor aunt with dismay and deep anxiety.
‘I do not know how you can be so convinced, Elizabeth,’ burst out Emma presently, ‘that marriage is a woman’s best hope. When its chances are so hazardous! I had far rather be an old maid than make such a terrible error as that of my aunt.’
‘But,’ said Elizabeth, ‘that is because you have not yet been in love, Emma. When love enters, judgement flies out of the window. And, after all, poor Aunt Maria has made only one such mistake; her first choice was both prudent and well rewarded.’
‘But I am better informed than you,’ said Emma, ‘and I can tell you, for my aunt told me, that Uncle Turner was not her first choice. She had been courted by a young naval lieutenant, with whom she was very much in love, but her parents would not permit the match until he was more advanced in his profession. And that was never to be, poor dear, for he met his death in the battle of Sangre Grande, and so she was persuaded by Grandfather and Grandmamma to accept Uncle Turner. Who, it must be said, made her a most kindly and solicitous husband, and left her a large fortune . . .’
‘Which she is now in process of losing to this wretch,’ sighed Elizabeth. ‘Well, her story appears to show that such decisions are best left to parents.’
‘What if there are no parents to consult?’
‘Some older friend . . .’ said Elizabeth hesitantly. ‘Some person of judgement and repute – a clergyman, perhaps, one such as Mr Howard. I would certainly be prepared to take his advice on such a question . . .’
Would you, Elizabeth? Even though he appears to be on the point of making a somewhat ill-advised step himself? Emma was on the point of asking this question, but just then James led round the pony and chair, for Elizabeth had been persuaded to take one of her rare excursions into Dorking to visit the milliner for new laces and ribbons, to buy an ounce of gum tragacanth from the pharmacy, and to pay a call on her friend Mary Edwards. The unstated object of the last visit being to discover, if possible, the true situation regarding the legacy from the rich uncle in Plymouth, Lord Osborne’s intentions, Miss Edwards’s wishes, and poor Sam’s chances.
‘Do not concern yourself about our father,’ Emma said, kissing her sister goodbye. ‘I will put my head around his door every fifteen minutes. And will remain in the room with him if he desires company. Go! Take a holiday, you deserve one. Pass a pleasant hour with Miss Edwards, and say everything that is proper from me to her and her parents. Do not scold her if she truly prefers Lord Osborne to Sam; between ourselves I thought Mary Edwards a dull girl and I suspect, as regards intellect, that she and Lord Osborne are more of a match than she would be with our dear clever brother.’
‘Oh, Emma!’ expostulated her sister, half sighing, half laughing, as she seated herself in the ancient pony-chair and picked up the reins, ‘you have such a clear-headed way of putting things.’
‘Do not forget the gum tragacanth!’ Emma called after her, as she set out down the lane.
***
Across the lane from the parsonage at Stanton was a tolerably large duck-pond set about with willows and alder-bushes. Elizabeth maintained a flock of ducks on this pond, and it was her agreeable custom, as the afternoon closed in, to regale these birds with a basket of crusts and potato-peelings from the kitchen.
Emma, having first ascertained that her father had fallen into a gentle doze, as was his habit, these days, more and more often, strolled across to the pond with the basket of scraps and watched in amused pleasure as the ducks, recognizing the basket if not the b
enefactor, came coursing over the water like so many brown-and-white arrow-heads, quacking and gobbling as they came, leaving a trail of intersecting ripples across the surface of the pond behind them. She flung them their food in handfuls; then, as the evening was a mild one, more like spring than winter, she sat on a bench at the top of the bank to enjoy the spectacle of their feast, as well as the sunset, which, that day, was a particularly fine one, overspreading half the sky with pure golden light.
But soon, eclipsing Emma’s peaceful mood as swiftly as a thunderstorm, came the thought of her aunt Maria, forlorn and wretched among uncaring strangers in a comfortless place – that kind companion, infallible source of solace and sympathy, who had taken the part of her lost mother and grown, by stages, to be mentor, confidante, social example, and friendly comrade. It had been Aunt Maria, for instance, who condoled with Emma over the sudden defection of Mr Windrush. This young man, having commenced what appeared to be a sincere and serious courtship, had completely changed his manner after the announcement of Mrs Turner’s approaching nuptials to Captain O’Brien, had vanished clean away and never called again at the little house in the Foregate.
‘My love,’ cried Mrs Turner, ‘if his object had been only the fortune he hoped would pass from me to you, he is not worth a moment’s heartache, and you must endeavour to forget him as quickly as you possibly can. Indeed, my dearest Emma, I am very sorry that your prospects may seem in some eyes to be diminished by my marriage to Captain O’Brien, but I hope still to be able to leave you a competence, in the course of time. And I know – for there is such confidence between us – that you will understand the necessity for a husband’s interests to come first.’
‘Of course, my dearest aunt! I never for one moment imagined that it would be otherwise!’ Emma had assured Mrs Turner, and with complete sincerity. Her nature was calm and prudent, and after her uncle’s death she had looked ahead with practical realism, and felt it highly probable that her aunt, still handsome, lively, fond of society, kind-hearted, and, above all, possessed of a more than passable fortune, would be provided with plenty of opportunities to remarry. And so, indeed, it had proved.
‘If only she had not chosen Captain O’Brien!’
Although smiling, agreeable, and filled with Irish charm, the captain had entirely failed to beguile the observant, unimpress-ible niece of the lady he was pursuing so whole-heartedly. And, for his part, Captain O’Brien soon developed quite a strong antipathy to Emma Watson, and made it plain from the start that her presence would not be acceptable to him in his married menage. Aunt Maria was grieved at this, but compliant. ‘My dear, we must learn to submit to the wishes of our husbands and masters. I always did so with your dear uncle, and in consequence was granted twenty-two years of perfect married happiness and security. And I sincerely hope it may some day be the same for you, my dearest Emma.’
And for you also, my dearest aunt, Emma had thought; but her doubts, her apprehensions had, nevertheless, been deep, and now, it seemed, well founded. Too late, she berated herself bitterly for not having made more effort to hint or suggest a warning; to urge delay, at least, until Captain O’Brien’s nature had more fully revealed itself. Yet, how could I, indeed? she thought. It was not my part to do so. Young, subordinate, lacking in worldly experience, and having been the recipient of so many benefits and favours, I was in no position to urge greater caution; it would have seemed officious, intrusive, impertinent. And highly self-interested, also.
None of which reasoning helped to allay the misery that Emma now felt at her complete inability to be of any assistance. Or even to send off a letter of loving solicitude to her aunt.
Even Elizabeth, sympathetic and dismayed as she had been, could not enter fully into her sister’s deep distress; Elizabeth had not lived with Aunt Maria for fourteen years, had not been her daily associate, participated in all her activities, shared her sincere mourning at the death of Mr Turner.
Oh, Emma thought, if only there were somebody to whom I could turn for advice! Even Sam – honest, sweet-tempered fellow as he is – would probably be of the opinion that Aunt Maria has made her bed and must lie on it, that she has only herself to thank—
***
Mr Howard, riding up the lane on his grey cob, had his first view of Emma in profile, as she sat in seeming idleness on the bench near the water, with her hands clasped in her lap, the empty basket at her feet.
Only when he came closer did he observe the tears coursing continuously down her cheeks. She did not observe him at all, had not heard his approach, for the clamour of the ducks, fighting over crusts, had drowned the thud of his horse’s hoofs on the grassy track.
He hesitated, hardly knowing whether to intrude on her trouble, or to leave her undisturbed. But the evening, now that the sun had set, was growing chilly . . .
His problem was solved by the grey horse, which snorted at the squabbling brood. Emma turned and for the first time became aware of the visitor.
‘Oh – Mr Howard – I never heard you – you must forgive me . . .’
She gave him a small half-smile, making no attempt to conceal the tears which glazed her cheeks. She looked, Howard thought, like the mask of Tragedy, with wet cheeks, parted lips, and eyes that looked past him into some far-off unhappy distance.
Deeply disturbed, he left his horse and came to her side.
‘Miss Emma! Is it – can it be – your father? May I help – do anything?’
She shook her head and, pulling out a handkerchief, unaffectedly wiped her cheeks.
‘Thank you – no – no. My father is no worse, thank heaven. He is asleep.’
‘Then what—? I do not wish to intrude, if it is a private matter – but to find you in such distress . . .’
‘Oh – thank you. You are very kind.’
There were long pauses between her words, as she struggled to achieve command of her voice. But on the next sentence it quivered and broke again. ‘It is my unfortunate aunt – Aunt Maria – I have had such a wretched, wretched letter from her.’
Here Emma gave way altogether and for a few minutes covered her face with her hands, crying uncontrollably. ‘My poor aunt—’ she gasped again. ‘It is the feeling – the knowledge – that there is nothing – nothing – I can do for her – not even knowing where she is – and I dare not inform my father – he would be so horrified – so utterly cast down . . .’
‘Dear Miss Emma, let me lead you into the house. A glass of wine—? Perhaps your sister—’
‘No – no – Elizabeth is gone into town. And I am better here, in the fresh air.’
‘But it grows cold.’
‘I shall be quite well in a moment. I am – I am very much obliged to you for your sympathy, sir.’ And she added, in a forlorn attempt to restore matters to a normal basis: ‘Will you not walk into the house yourself, and see my father? You are too old a friend to need announcing . . .’
‘In a moment,’ he said. ‘Indeed it was Mr Watson I came to see. Purvis and I have been putting our heads together – as a matter of fact I expect Purvis here presently. But, Miss Emma, I cannot leave you by yourself in such trouble. It is my duty as a clergyman – and, of course, my sincere wish – to help you. Advise you. Can you not tell me what troubles you so? What has happened to your aunt?’
And he sat down beside her on the bench.
Emma frowned, shifting away from him slightly.
Her first feeling, at the sound of his voice, had been simple relief and joy. Here was, of all others, the person she would have chosen to confide in. But as a friend, not as a priest. And, as a friend, it seemed, he was debarred from approaching her. Lady Osborne’s proprietorial jealousy would soon poison any such relationship. Friendship was not offered. ‘It is my duty to help you,’ he had said.
I don’t want your duty, Emma thought. Your duty is no use to me.
She could not deny, however, that his
mere presence beside her on the bench was some comfort, some distraction.
And presently, telling herself that it would be foolish to refuse help and counsel when it was offered, she took out Mrs O’Brien’s letter and showed it to Mr Howard.
He read it slowly, in silence, compressing his lips. Then he handed it back to her.
‘My poor child,’ he said. ‘I do feel for you most sincerely. The fact that your aunt has only herself to blame for her predicament can be no alleviation to your distress about her. But it must be borne in mind. Also, ladies often take these matters too seriously. She may exaggerate. Let us hope that matters are not as bad as she describes.’
Why should we hope so? thought Emma. I see no justification for such an optimistic outlook.
She said coldly, ‘My aunt is not given to exaggeration. Over and over again, I have known her to make light of difficulties and remain cheerful through troubles.’
‘Well! Well! Such new relationships often settle down very happily after a period. The pair have not, after all, been married very long. Adjustments may need to be made. And doubtless will be made.’
On whose side? thought Emma. I know more about married relationships than you do, my good sir. I have lived with a married pair for fourteen years. You have not.
‘I never liked that man!’ she burst out. ‘I always thought him insincere – distrusted his grand tales of high living in Ireland. If only I could have found some means to undeceive my aunt – caution her – prevent her taking such a step—’
He was shocked. ‘My dear Miss Emma! It was by no means your place to do such a thing. A young person! And your aunt’s protegee. Putting yourself forward – no, no. That would have been most improper.’
‘But if only I could have persuaded some older person to give her a word of warning . . .’
Somebody such as yourself, she was on the point of saying, but then doubted if he would have accepted the commission. His next words seemed to prove this.
