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 "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.
 CHAPTER XI.

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.
THE YOUNGER SISTER, VOL II.
 CHAPTER I.

The invitation to the important party was not for an early date;
ten days must elapse before the arrival of the day expected to bring
so much happiness with it. The comfort of the Watson family
suffered alternations which could only be compared to the ebbing
and flowing of the tide, but that their recurrence could not be
calculated on with equal certainty. When the pleasure she was to
enjoy occupied her mind, Margaret was comparatively happy; the
arrangement of her dress, the minor difficulties about ornaments
and shoes, were even then sufficient to destroy her equanimity, and
detract from her peace of mind; but this was nothing to the state of
acidity and fermentation which her temper presented, when the
grand insult of not being Miss Osborne's friend, and not invited to
stay at the Castle, recurred in vivid colors to her memory.
But three days before the important morning, a very unexpected
event threw the whole family into a ferment. Just as the two elder
sisters were setting off to the town, to see if their new bonnets were
making the progress which was desirable, the sudden appearance of
a post-chaise startled them. Emma, who was in her father's room as
usual, heard the wheels on the gravel, and naturally supposing that
it was the old pony-chaise leaving the door, was perfectly astonished
the next minute by the startling uproar which resounded through the
hall. Loud laughter, and a mingled clatter of tongues, which might
almost be denominated screaming, convinced her that whatever was
the origin, it was not of a tragic nature, but her awakened curiosity
made her long to know the cause, through she feared to move, as
her father had fallen into a gentle doze. A shriller exclamation than
before suddenly roused him from his slumber, and starting up he
exclaimed:
"What are those confounded women about? Emma, go and bid
them all be quiet."
Emma escaped from the room to obey his behest, and on reaching
the turn of the stairs paused a moment to see who was there; just
then she caught her own name.
"Emma is at home," said Margaret, "and as I really want to go, I
shall not mind you. Pen, you can go and sit with her."
"Very well, it's all the same to me," replied a stranger, who she
inferred was her unknown sister, "I am sure I don't want to keep you
at home." And as she spoke she turned again to the door, "I say
driver, you just get that trunk lifted in, there's a good fellow, and see
you don't turn it bottom upwards, my man, or I vow I won't give you
a sixpence—do you hear?"
The driver grinned and proceeded to pull down the trunk, whilst
Penelope Watson stood at his elbow, and flourished an umbrella in
her hand, very much as if she meant to enforce her threats with
blows.
When satisfied, however, with the care which he took of her
property, she had paid and dismissed him, she turned to her sisters,
exclaiming:
"There, now you may bundle off too, as fast as you please, my
bonnet and gown and all are in that trunk, and you shall not see
them till I put them on, lest you should try and copy them."
"How very ill-natured," cried Margaret.
"No, it isn't, what becomes me would never suit you, so I only
prevent you making a fright of yourself. Where's Emma? I want to
see her."
"Here I am," said she timidly advancing, for Penelope's loud voice
quite overpowered her courage.
 "Here I am," mimicked Penelope, advancing towards her, "and
how does your little ladyship do, pray? Why are you so long coming
to welcome your new sister? I am sure you ought to have learnt
more affection from Margaret."
Emma did not know what to answer to this attack, but looked at
Elizabeth rather distressed.
"Never mind, Penelope," replied Miss Watson to her look, "she
always says what she pleases; well, Margaret is waiting in the
chaise, so I must go; Emma, will you take Pen to my father?"
And Elizabeth hastened away as she spoke.
Penelope turned to her remaining sister, and surveyed her from
head to foot—
"Well," said she, "I suppose I had better go and report myself
first, and then I can settle about my things; upon my word, Emma,
you are very pretty, I am so glad you have dark hair and eyes;
Margaret makes me quite sick of fair skins, by her nonsense about
her own. Here I am, sir," cried she, advancing into her father's room
as she spoke, "come to waken you all up; I am sure the old house
looks as if it had gone to sleep since I went away, and there is the
same fly on the window, I protest, as when I was last in the room.
How do you do, my dear sir?"
"None the better for all the confounded clatter you have been
making in the hall, I can tell you; I thought you had brought home a
dozen children at your heels, judging from the uproar you created.
What mad freak has possessed you now, Penelope?"
"Oh! I came for two things—one was to go to the Osborne Castle
ball—the other I'll tell you by-and-bye."
"You are always racing over the country, and bent on having your
own way, I know."
"So is every one; but they don't all know how to get it, so well as I
do; but I see I'm disturbing you, so I shall go and unpack my rattle-
traps—Emma come with me."
 Emma seemed to obey instinctively—but she felt no pleasure in
accompanying her sister. Her voice, look and manner, were alike
uninviting, and she felt inclined to shrink from her. Penelope went to
the parlour, and stirring the fire, drew in a chair close to the chimney
—placed her feet upon the fender, and then turning abruptly round
to her sister, said—
"So it is all your doing, is it, our going to the castle balls; it is
really something new—Margaret wrote me word you and Miss
Osborne were bosom friends?"
Emma coloured, but did not know what to say in reply.
"How sheepish you look, Emma," cried her sister, "one would think
you were ashamed of it all; I am sure I think it vastly clever of you
to get up a friendship with Miss Osborne, or a flirtation with her
brother. I've a great respect for girls who know how to push their
way and make the most of circumstances. What sort of young fellow
is Lord Osborne?,"
"Plain and quiet," replied Emma.
"As if I did not know that," cried Penelope, "why, I've seen him
hundreds of time, child; almost before you were born. I mean is he
pleasant?—can he talk nonsense?—does he know how to make
himself agreeable?"
"That must depend upon taste," replied Emma, "he never was
particularly pleasant to me; and, as to his talking, it's neither good
sense, nor good nonsense."
"Do you know what good nonsense is, Emma?" cried Penelope,
"Why, then, I dare say you may not be quite detestable."
"I should hope not," said Emma, trying to smile.
"I thought your uncle might, perhaps, have made a Methodist of
you, and that would not have suited me. Those musty old doctors of
divinity have, sometimes, queer notions."
 "I must beg, Penelope, when you mention my late uncle, you will
do so with respect," said Emma, with spirit.
Penelope looked surprised—and, for a moment, was silent; when
next she spoke it was to question Emma minutely, as to the quality,
price and texture of her dress, for the important day and night in
prospect.
"I expect Margaret will be ready to expire with envy, when she
sees the real Indian muslin that I mean to wear," pursued she, in a
tone of great satisfaction; "I am not going to tell you how I came by
it—for that's a great secret for some days to come. Is not Margaret
horridly jealous?"
Emma looked shocked.
"Oh, I see!" laughed Penelope, "you are too good to abuse a sister
—quite a Miss Charity or Miss Meek of a good little girl's prize book.
But, if you like to sit like a goose weighing every word you are about
to utter, I can tell you that does not suit me at all. I always say what
comes into my head, without caring for anybody."
As Emma, however, did not follow the same method, she did not
express how very unpleasant a course she considered it; and the
sisters did not quarrel then.
"How has Margaret got on with Tom Musgrove?" continued
Penelope, "by-the-bye, have you seen Tom Musgrove, yourself?"
"A little," said Emma.
"And how do you like him?—what do you think of him?—do you
think he is in love with Margaret?" pursued Penelope.
"No," replied Emma, answering only to the last question.
"Nor do I; I don't see that he is at all more in love with her, than
he has been with twenty other girls—myself included. But it's very
good fun talking to him when he is in spirits. Emma can you keep a
secret?"
 "Yes, I hope so, when necessary; but I would rather have none to
keep."
"How absurd—why, it's the best fun possible, to have a good
secret; I would tell you one, if you would promise not to betray it."
"I shall be very happy to hear anything you like to tell me, and, I
dare say you would not ask me to do anything wrong."
"Wrong! why, are you such a little Methodist, as to consider
whether every thing is wrong—it's my own affair, and how can there
be anything wrong in my telling you if I like? If one always stops to
meditate whether any one would think a thing wrong, one might
give over talking altogether."
Emma was silent from not very well knowing what to say in reply;
and, after a momentary pause, Penelope went on:
"Now, the only reason I want you not to tell is, because I wish to
surprise all the others by the news some day. You will promise not to
mention it!"
"You had much better not tell me at all, Penelope; because then,
your secret will certainly be safe," said Emma, good-humouredly; "if
you, who are interested in it, cannot resist telling it—how can you
expect me to be proof to such a temptation?"
"You are very much mistaken," said Penelope, angrily tossing her
head, "if you suppose I cannot resist telling any thing I wish to keep
secret; I assure you, I am quite as discreet, when occasion requires,
as your little ladyship can be, though I do not set up to be so
superior to all my family, and give myself airs of discretion and
superfine prudence."
Emma saw she had made her sister angry—though she did know
exactly how or why, and she attempted, but vainly, to apologise for
the involuntary offence. Penelope was not to be propitiated.
"I can tell you, Miss Emma, it's no use at all, your trying to be so
grand and indifferent; it was not a trifling mark of my regard, what I
was going to tell you, but, if you do not wish to hear it, you may let
it alone. I dare say, Margaret will shew more interest in my
concerns; I can tell her some day."
And with these words, Penelope rose and hastily quitted the room,
slamming the door after her with all her might.
During the three succeeding days there was every possible
opportunity taken by her to display to Emma the superior confidence
with which Margaret was treated. Slips of paper were continually
thrown across the table, containing mysterious words or
incomprehensible signs. There was whispering too in corners, and
talking with their fingers; hints were thrown out, which convulsed
Margaret with laughing, but in which the uninitiated could see no
joke; and every means taken to raise a curiosity which would have
flattered Pen's self-importance. Elizabeth and Emma bore this
infliction with remarkable heroism—having a strong internal
conviction that a secret which required so much exertion to give it
importance could not be much worth knowing, or that it would soon
certainly become public.
Affairs were in this state when the important day, which had
already excited such intense speculation or anticipation in the minds
of the four sisters. Emma's toilette was very satisfactory to herself in
its results, she hoped she should not be the plainest or worst
dressed person in the room, and she certainly took especial care to
arrange her hair in a way that she had reason to think Mr. Howard
admired.
Duly were they transported to the scene of such great
anticipations, and when they had sufficiently arranged their dresses
and shaken out the creases, after being so very much squeezed,
they were marshalled up the grand staircase into the state-
apartment.
It was worth while to watch Margaret's countenance, when, for
the first time, contemplating the rich furniture and evidences of
wealth which surrounded her. An overpowering sense of her own
insignificance, and a conviction, that amidst so much that was rich,
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