CHAPTER I.

The afternoon passed away, and Margaret, who had been incessantly walking from one window to another, to watch for her lover's curricle, now began to create a new sensation for herself, by a conviction which suddenly seized on her, that some dreadful accident had happened to him. It was towards the end of March, and the lengthened days allowed them plenty of time to dine by daylight, and enjoy a long twilight afterwards; as the evening began to close in, her alarm and tribulation increased; when, at length, her fears were dissipated by seeing the curricle drive up to the door with a most important bustle, followed by a loud and prolonged knock, which instantly brought twenty heads to the neighbouring windows.

Margaret sank on a sofa, and exclaimed in feeble tones,

"He is there—my heart tells me he is there—support me, my dear sisters—support me in this trying hour."

Before any one had time to answer her, his step was heard on the stairs, and recovering as rapidly as she had appeared to lose her strength, she flew to the door and was ready to have thrown herself into his arms on the smallest encouragement. He did not, however, seem to desire her embraces, but coolly held out his hand, and enquired how she was—then, without waiting for an answer, turned and paid a similar compliment to the other ladies. She looked a little disappointed at the want of tenderness her lover displayed, but consoled herself by smoothing down the nap of his hat, which she took from his hand, and stretching out the fingers of his driving gloves—of which she also assumed the care.

At this moment, Robert Watson and Mr. Morgan, who had been sitting over their wine in the dining-parlour, appeared up-stairs, and Robert immediately suggested to Mr. Musgrove that he must want some dinner, to which the latter readily acceded.

Jane and Margaret who appeared to be almost equally interested in the new-comer, both left the room to see after the necessary preparations, and whilst they were gone George Millar came in and persuaded Elizabeth to go home with him, to take tea with his sister and mother-in-law. Robert and his new guest adjourned to the dining-room where the two ladies joined them, and Emma was left to a tête-à-tête with Mr. Morgan.

He had seated himself in a corner, and was looking over the newspaper during all the bustle attending the arrival of Tom Musgrove, and the successive entrances and exits of the several members of the party. But when they were all gone, and Emma was quietly sitting down to work, he threw away the paper and walking across the room drew a chair close to hers and seemed inclined to enter into conversation.

"How happy your sister must be," was his first speech, whilst he fixed his uncommonly penetrating eyes on her face.

"Which sister?" replied Emma, without looking up from her embroidery.

"Both must be happy," replied he; "but at this moment I imagine your sister Margaret's feelings must be the most agreeable; meeting after a prolonged absence must be so delightful. Don't you envy her?"

"I hope not," said Emma, for she was not quite satisfied with his tone and manner; there was something of sarcasm in it which she did not like.

"I did not mean envy in the bad sense," he remarked, as if comprehending her thoughts from her tone; "of that I know you to be incapable; but can you not fancy how pleasant her emotions must be when again enjoying the society of an attached and faithful lover like the gentleman in question?"

"Perhaps I can—but I must be in her situation thoroughly to enter into her feelings," said Emma rather wishing to drop the subject.

"And hitherto you have not been placed in this interesting situation?"

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Morgan made this comment, with his eyes fixed on her countenance, that gave it rather the character of a question than a reply. She felt offended at his manner and tone, and proudly raised her head with a look which seemed to ask what right he had to enquire on that subject. He understood her meaning, but did not seem inclined to take any notice of it, proceeding in the same way to observe,

"They whose hearts are untouched cannot of course understand all the pleasing emotions which the sight of a beloved object raises after a prolonged absence—nor indeed does it require a prolonged absence to give occasion to the emotions I speak of. A month, a fortnight, even a week passed without the intercourse which becomes dear and therefore necessary, is sufficient to raise a variety of pleasing but most overpowering feelings in an affectionate heart."

"Very likely," replied Emma coolly, and then she added immediately an enquiry as to whether he thought the next change of the moon would bring them more settled weather.

He answered that he could not tell, and then added,

"Do you not think your future brother, Mr. Musgrove, is a very charming young man?"

"I have often heard him called so," said Emma; "but you know it is not my business to be charmed with him," smiling a little as she spoke.

"You are most discreet," said he, delighted that she appeared inclined to relax a little from her former gravity; "but to tell you the truth I should not have expected, from what I know, that you would be charmed with him."

"From what you know of him or of me?" inquired Emma.

"Of you both, but especially of you: it is not for nothing that I have been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would attract you, Miss Emma, must possess more good qualities than Mr. Musgrove can boast of."

"Perhaps I might be a little difficult to please," replied Emma; "but do you think there is any harm in that?"

"Harm, no!" replied he with enthusiasm; "minds of a common order cannot discriminate between what is good or evil in its tendency; they see only what is evil to their own capacities, and are entirely unaware of the vast difference between the intellects of one man and another. Whilst those who by their own intellectual powers are raised above the common level, take in, at one keen and rapid view, the different mental altitudes of their companions, and appreciating alone the grand and elevated turn from more ordinary minds with indifference, contempt or disgust."

"I hope," said Emma rather doubtingly, "that your description is not intended to apply to me: that is, if I understand you rightly. I should be very sorry to think I am guilty of setting up my understanding as a measure for that of others, or of despising any of my companions as thinking them less clever than myself."

"Indeed I did not mean to accuse you of voluntarily giving way to such feelings—the sensation I meant to depict is as involuntary as your perception of light or colour. A person endowed with a superior understanding could no more help deciding on the different mental capacities of her companions than she could on the beauty or fitness of the patterns of their gowns."

"But the superiority of mental capacities, or our own estimation of them ought not to be the standard by which we should judge of the merits of our fellow-creatures, Mr. Morgan. Surely their moral superiority is a far more important point, and it would be much better to live with a good but ignorant man, than with a wicked one however clever and well-informed."

Mr. Morgan rather curled his lip.

"I doubt whether you will find your maxim work well in every day life, however well it may sound in theory. The practice of mankind is against it universally, and where that is the case it is because the sense of the world leads them to the conclusion which you reject. Look around, and see who has most success in life, the clever, unscrupulous, and if you will the unprincipled man, or the sober, plodding, moral one, without wit or wisdom to prevent his sinking lower than the condition in which he was born."

Emma had not the vanity to suppose that she could be a match for Mr. Morgan in dispute, she was, therefore, contented to let the subject drop. Finding she did not reply, he moved his chair a little closer than before, and said, in a tone of the softest sympathy,

"Are you quite well this evening? dusk as it is, I am struck with your looks, and was so at dinner."

She thanked him, and replied she was pretty well. He did not seem satisfied.

"Are you sure you have no head-ache? there is a languor in your movements, and a heaviness about your eyes, which plainly shows that all is not quite right with you. Confess the truth—does not your head ache?"

She owned it did a little.

"I thought I knew your countenance too well to be misled," said he, complacently—then taking her hand, without the smallest ceremony, in both of his, he felt her pulse, and told her she was nervous and feverish. She smiled, and said she was only a little tired, and that he must not persuade her she was ill; she had not time for that.

"I am certain," replied he, still detaining her hand, which she had made a slight attempt to withdraw, "I am certain, from the tremulous motion of your little fairy-like fingers that you are suffering from over-excitement of mind. You have so much to worry and distress you, so many small privations and never ceasing annoyances, that your nervous temperament is wrought up to too high a pitch. This little hand is looking too white and delicate for health. You must indeed, for your own sake, and for the sake of those that love you, take care of yourself, and do not tax your constitution too far."

"I do not mind what you say, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, playfully, again attempting to withdraw her hand from a clasp which she felt rather too tender for a doctor. "I know you only speak professionally, and it is your business to persuade those who listen to you that they are ill, that you may have the satisfaction of making them believe you cure them afterwards."

"Fie, fie," replied he, tapping her on the arm, "I did not expect such malice from you, fair Emma!"

She decidedly drew her hand from his, and moved her chair away towards the window, saying, as she did so, in a graver tone,

"Remember I have not placed myself under your power, Mr. Morgan, and you have no business to attempt to mislead me."

The rapidly decreasing light prevented his reading the expression of her countenance; but he felt from her tone and action that she would not endure the small personal liberties in which some of his patients permitted him.

There was a pause, which she broke, by saying,

"My sisters are a long time away, I must go to see for them."

"No, pray stay another moment," cried he, rising too, as she rose. "Allow me one moment more, one other word."

She stopped; and he was silent for a minute, till she said,

"Well, Mr. Morgan, what am I to stop for?"

"Tell me," said he, "why you freeze me with that look and manner—did I offend you with my remarks? is my friendship—the warm interest I feel for you—is it unpleasant—or in what way have I sinned to deserve this sudden check."

She was excessively embarrassed, and mentally determined not to remain in the dusk tête-à-tête with a man again, at least, not with Mr. Morgan: but this resolution, however good for the future, did not help her at the present moment; when she was thus standing before him, and under the unpleasant necessity of either admitting that she was capricious, or allowing that she attached more importance than, perhaps, it deserved to a trifling action on his part. Seeing that she hesitated, he continued—

"I will not press for an answer if it vexes you; and you must own mentally, if not openly, that you judged me harshly. I forgive you, convinced when you know me better, you will not do so again."

He took her hand again, and was just in the act of putting his lips to it, when the door opened suddenly, and several young ladies—whom in the dusk she could hardly distinguish—burst into the room.

"Is that you Margaret?" said one advancing, "that we have caught making love in the dark—no, upon my honour it's Emma Watson and my brother! ha, ha; so you are found out, James?"

"Oh, it's not the first time that Miss Emma Watson has indulged your brother in a tête-à-tête" cried a voice, which Emma recognised as belonging to Miss Jenkins, a particular friend of Margaret's, towards whom she felt a strong repugnance. "They have been found out before now—they are very fond of taking long walks together, aren't you, Mr. Morgan—and carrying Janetta, too."

It was too dark for the expression of any one's countenance to be seen, so that the angry look with which Mr. Morgan received this attack, and the confusion and distress which Emma betrayed, were alike invisible; but could he have annihilated the young ladies who thus intruded, including his sister, he would certainly have done it with pleasure. Any answer, on his part, was prevented by the entrance of the party from the dining-room with lights, when a general scene of confusion and chattering followed, which concluded by a general invitation to the young visitors to stay for tea, and have a little fun, to which they readily assented.

Tom Musgrove having eaten and drank soon made himself very agreeable to the whole party, and after the tea and bread and butter were removed, he proposed a game at blind man's buff, or hunt the slipper, to finish the evening. The former was adopted, and a very noisy party it proved. Tom, of course, was the first to be blinded, and, unless he contrived to see out from under the handkerchief, the dexterity with which he avoided catching Margaret, though she perpetually threw herself in his way, was quite wonderful. His first victim was the younger Miss Morgan, a pretty, giggling girl, who laughed so excessively, and twisted about so much, that he had great difficulty in holding her at all, and it was only by clasping his arm very tightly round her waist, that he succeeded in keeping her prisoner. However, he named her rightly, and the handkerchief was secured on her; her brother was the next—apparently he threw himself in her way, whether because he disliked her going through the process of catching and naming Mr. Musgrove was not quite certain. Perhaps he wished himself to succeed

her; he certainly was very successful in catching prisoners, but made extraordinary blunders in recognising them; never once hitting on the proper name, and, consequently, having no right to make over the bandage to another. At length, after several attempts, he succeeded in catching Emma herself. She had not been able to avoid joining in the game, though it was not much to her taste; but she took great pains to move about as quietly and keep as much out of the way as possible. His ear, however, was quick at detecting her light footstep, and, unknown to her, he had traced her into a corner, where she was quietly resting, when he succeeded in laying hold of her. As she neither struggled nor laughed, he knew instantly who it was, and whilst he held her hand in his, and made believe, as usual, to feel her features, and ascertain her identity, he whispered, under cover of the noise which some of the other girls were making,

"Do you wish to be blinded, Emma Watson?"

"Certainly not," replied she in the same tone, and he immediately guessed her to be some one else, and with a gentle pressure of her hand he let her go.

Emma was very well pleased to escape, but she felt a half scruple at the manner in which it was done, from the sort of private understanding which Mr. Morgan assumed to exist between them. On turning away too, she caught the malevolent eyes of Miss Jenkins fixed on her, and she could not encounter their look without a feeling of embarrassment. Mr. Morgan soon afterwards caught and rightly named Mrs. Watson herself, who in her turn chased with great vigour but little success her different visitors. The whole affair ended in a complete romp—the table was upset, chairs thrown over, and Emma's gown narrowly escaped from a lighted candle, which the dexterity of Mr. Morgan alone succeeded in averting. It was now judged that they had enjoyed fun enough for one evening, and Emma, wondering much at the taste which could select such an amusement, retired to recover from the fatigue it occasioned. She had never seen anything of the kind before, for the associates of her uncle and aunt were very quiet people, and she had

been quite ignorant of the extent to which liveliness might be carried when unchecked by the restraints of good breeding.

It was a very unexpected pleasure to her, to receive the next morning a letter from Miss Osborne, containing an announcement that the day for her wedding was fixed and that it was to be celebrated in about three weeks. She hoped Emma would be able to keep her promise and spend some time with them whilst at Osborne Castle, but she did not assign any particular time as the date of their visit.

Margaret likewise had her share of excitement and pleasure. It appeared that Tom Musgrove had come down with serious intentions of persuading her to marry on the same day as Sir William Gordon and Miss Osborne had fixed on. To be distinguished, and to appear connected with the great, was so completely the object of his life, that he did not like even to fix a day for his own wedding entirely with regard to his own convenience, and now he was determined to make it as important as the reflected grandeur of Miss Osborne and her noble family could do.

The credit of this idea, however, was not entirely due to him; it was suggested originally by Sir William himself. Miss Osborne, who could not feel quite happy or at her ease with regard to his steadiness of purpose, until the ceremony had actually passed, which would make it certain that her testimony would never be required, induced Sir William Gordon to question him as to when he intended to marry, and though he found Tom's ideas rather vague and unsettled on the subject, he had not much difficulty in persuading him of the advantage of fixing on the same day as their own. The notion delighted Mr. Musgrove, and he immediately determined to run down to Croydon and make the proposal at once.

"Well, Margaret," said he, the morning after his arrival, "since it seems we must be married sooner or later, do you see any good in delay?"

Margaret simpered and blushed, and did not know very well which way to look or what to say.

"I say," continued he, "there is no use in wasting time, when the thing must be done—unless, indeed, you have changed your mind."

"Oh dear no, Tom," cried Margaret, "mine is a mind not lightly to be changed—you know that much, I am sure, of me."

"Miss Osborne is to married this day three weeks," observed Tom, "to my friend Sir William Gordon, and he was proposing to me that we should celebrate ours on the same day. I should rather like it, I own, as they are such particular friends of mine, and we are going to the same county. They come down to Osborne Castle for their honey-moon, and we might; indeed of course we should be asked up there on our wedding."

"Oh delightful, Tom," cried Margaret, perfectly enchanted at the prospect, and in the rapture of the view, quite overlooking the coolness of her lover's manner, and the total absence of even any pretence of affection. "I should like that of all things, only perhaps I might have some difficulty in getting my wedding things ready in time; to be sure, as I must wear mourning I should not want much just at first, but a gown and hat—what should my gown be, dear Tom?"

"Hang your gown! what do I know about your gown? or what has that got to do with it; but women always make such a confounded fuss about their gowns and their petticoats. I say, will you marry me this day three weeks?—because, if you will not, you may just let it alone, for any thing I care."

"You are always so funny, Tom," said Margaret trying to laugh; "I never know what you will say next. But you do hurry and flurry one so, asking in that sort of off-hand way—upon my word I do not know what to answer—what can I say to him, Jane—is he not odd?"