CHAPTER XVII
The weather next morning was all that could be desired. More snow had fallen during the night, and there was a cutting wind. All seemed to point to the lovers being thrown together and the obvious happy results.
Now is the time when it should be discovered that Mr Howard owns a maniac wife; that Emma was betrothed in her cradle to a distant cousin, or that either, or both, had taken vows of celibacy. I have, however, at this point nothing more sensational to record than a slight misunderstanding which, though it caused Mr Howard much uneasiness, only deepened his regard for Emma, and as she was completely unconscious of it, made upon her no impression whatever.
About noon a note was brought from Miss Osborne, reminding Emma of a wish expressed the night before of seeing the picture-gallery, and offering to show her round it, if Mr Howard would escort her to the Castle.
They were soon on their way. The air was exhilarating and the ground so slippery as to make it as necessary as it was agreeable for Mr Howard to offer his arm, and for Emma to accept it. The prospects were fine, and they did not hurry their walk, but enjoyed it to the utmost, even turning aside from the direct ascent to gain a wider outlook. They reached the Castle at last, having taken only half an hour over a walk which could easily have been accomplished in ten minutes. To Emma, it had not been tedious, and to Mr Howard, it had been at least thirty periods of varying emotions.
Miss Osborne greeted them with good-humour and civility, warmly pressing Emma’s hand, and enquired with surprise how it happened that they had not met Lord Osborne. Mr Howard replied that he had taken Miss Watson aside from the direct path to show her a particular view of the Castle. The matter was dismissed from the minds of every one, until such time as Lord Osborne might reappear, hot and disappointed, to hear the same tale, and think it very odd. Miss Osborne led the way to the gallery. Old castles do contain good pictures as well as bad, and here were a number that repaid attention. Miss Osborne stifled a yawn, failed to stifle a second, drifted to the window, recollected an important duty, and left them with apologies and recommendations.
The pictures did occupy them for a time. Mr Howard knew something about them, and Emma was appreciative, but they, too, found themselves at a window, and to be seated side by side in the cushioned alcove seemed the most natural thing in the world. Some very happy minutes passed, ended on this occasion not by the intrusion of Tom Musgrave in person, but by the introduction of his name.
“I believe that you are acquainted with Mr Tom Musgrave?” remarked Mr Howard.
“Yes.”
“He is not a person usually spoken of so concisely. If I put the question to five out of six of my acquaintance, they would exclaim with rapture--‘He is charming! perfect! a pattern for all gentlemen!’”
“I understand that he is a great favourite,” observed Emma.
“I have been used to consider him so perfect an example in everything relative to fashion,” said Mr Howard gravely, “that when I wish to be particularly charming, I feel I should endeavour to copy him in the tying of my cravat.”
“I am not sure that I should think anyone improved by copying Mr Tom Musgrave, but I have, I fear, a wicked prejudice against anyone who is considered universally agreeable.”
“That is most discouraging. If to be universally agreeable is to be hated by you, I shall leave off attempting to be pleasant. What proportion of enemies will permit of some acquaintances and a few friends?”
“This requires some data for my calculations,” she replied. “You must tell me to begin with, how many you have been in the habit of flattering daily.”
“I have not thought that I exceeded the bounds of practical civility.”
“I cannot believe you. But if you will not own to flattery, with how many do you consider yourself a particular favourite?”
“You must not call on me to be so very exact. I hear what the ladies say to me, but very little of what they say about me.”
“You evade my question, Mr Howard.”
“Seriously, Miss Watson, why do you feel so particular an enmity towards the general favourites of your sex?”
“Seriously, then, because I mistrust them.”
“You believe they sacrifice truth to popularity. Is that not a severe reflection on the taste of women?” he asked.
“I did not mean it as such.”
“Without exception, my acquaintances profess to hate flattery,” he went on.
“And I confess to going a step farther. I dislike the flatterer,” she replied.
“And by what scale do you measure to form a correct decision? Is your knowledge of your own merit so accurate that you can instantly separate truth from flattery, and apportion the credit or censure to the gentleman? Perhaps, though, one doubtful word is enough to condemn the whole!”
“I think, Mr Howard, I decide on the value of compliments more from the character of the giver than from my own. If a man or woman dares to speak a disagreeable truth, I cannot suspect them of an agreeable falsehood. Or, if they are as ready to praise the absent as to compliment those present, then I listen with pleasure.”
“This would indeed be a check on conversation; not to praise those addressed and not to abuse those out of hearing,” he exclaimed.
“You will not be serious. You speak of conversation, but you mean gossip and slander.”
“True! Call it by its proper name of slander. When we speak of it as scandal no one of us thinks it much amiss.”
“Most detestable of all,” said Emma, with sudden vehemence born of a painful recollection, “is flattery from mercenary motives. To see a man, a young man, courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her money. Hateful!”
Mr Howard looked at his companion with surprise. She certainly felt acutely what she had said. As he was perfectly ignorant of the circumstances of her aunt’s marriage, an idea took possession of his mind that she alluded to himself and Lady Osborne. Though he knew himself innocent of what might deserve such condemnation, and had suffered as much from anxiety as from annoyance on the occasion of the dinner at the Castle, he could think of nothing that might be said, but stood up, hot and angry.
Emma rose too, and with an agitation which somewhat cooled his own, added: “I am ashamed, Mr Howard, of having spoken too bitterly. Pray forget what I said if possible. At least do not decide that I am an ill-natured person because I spoke so hastily.”
An awkward pause ensued, which Emma ended by saying:
“It is almost dusk. Should we not be returning?”
“You are right,” he said. “You will have other opportunities of viewing the gallery.”
At that moment the door opened and Lord Osborne appeared. After paying his compliments, he observed:
“You must have a precious strong taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to remain in the gallery when it is too dark to see.”
“We have stayed longer than we intended, my lord,” said Emma.
“It is a mighty fine thing to have such a lot of 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, and a Dutch painting of some dead game, which is so like, you would really think them all alive. Did you not notice it? Howard there knows all about them. He has the names, dates and all on the end of his tongue. Don’t you find it a deuced bore to listen to it?”
“I think I am glad of the information.”
“Well, I should be glad, too, of a piece of information. How the----I mean how 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, upon my honour, I _was_ surprised when I got there to hear you were gone, stolen away in fact. ‘Halloa, how can that be?’ said I, ‘I did not meet them.’ ‘Did you not?’ cried Mrs Blake. ‘Well, deuce take it, that is extraordinary.’”
“Did she say so indeed?”
“I don’t mean she used those words, though she thought them, I know, by her look. Now I want your opinion on my dead-game picture.”
“I fear that it is too dark, my lord, and we must not keep Mrs Blake’s dinner waiting, for though I am not at all afraid of her swearing at us, I do not wish to annoy her.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs Blake is mistress, I know. The parson here, like myself, is under petticoat government. Nothing like a mother or a 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 cannot 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.”
“Ah, now, that must be the husband’s fault. ‘Keep a strict hand on them,’ that’s my maxim.”
“I should recommend you to keep it a secret if you wish to find a wife. No woman will marry you if she knows your opinion.”
“Seriously now! 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; and now, indeed, we must say good-bye to Miss Osborne.”
Miss Osborne was not to be found and, to Emma’s annoyance, Lord Osborne accompanied them home. He talked too much and Mr Howard too little. The way being down-hill, they reached the Parsonage gate in just five minutes. Here Lord Osborne turned back, as Emma had hoped. She had not, however, anticipated a complete silence between the gate and the house-door.
“Well, Emma,” said Elizabeth, when Emma came upstairs to prepare for dinner. “I should like to know what you have been doing all this time.”
“Looking at pictures, Elizabeth. You know what I went for.”
“I know what you went for, but not what you stayed for. Looking at pictures! And in the dark too.”
Emma laughed.
“Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?” she cried, as her sister placed a candle, so as to throw the light on her face.
“Who has been making love to you, the peer or the parson? And which do you prefer?”
“How can you ask?” returned Emma, blushing and laughing. “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 yourself?”
“Why, yes, I think I should. It would be something to be Lady Osborne. Mistress of all those rooms and servants and carriages and horses! I should enjoy it, but then I shall never have the offer.”
“Do not refuse it on my account,” said Emma.
“Very well, and when I am Lady Osborne,” returned her sister, “I shall be very kind to Mrs Howard. I will send and ask her to dine with me most Sundays, and some week-days too.”
“In the meantime,” remarked Emma, “there is a dinner downstairs to be eaten, and we are in danger of keeping Mrs Blake waiting.”
The evening was a disappointment to Emma. Mr Howard was so very quiet. She wondered if he might be tired, and speculated as to his health, then, with a warm blush, it occurred to her that he might be regretting the prospect of parting to-morrow.
“You are keeping too close to the fire,” said Elizabeth.
It was a relief when Mr Howard took up again the book he was reading aloud to them. The evening ended in the usual discussion of the morrow’s weather.