“The cake, mother. Is it good?”
“Good? You just smell to it. A pound of everything, and as rich as rich. And look at the Lisbon biscuits. You could all but blow them away. And I made a few ham sandwiches in case his Lordship was hungry after the ride out. Look, Emma, as pink as a dog’s tongue, and never a better ham was cut. I think it’s as well to have the orange cordial I made the winter before. Put it in a corner handy with the glasses. And now run up and dress yourself real pretty.”
She did her utmost before the looking-glass bunched with muslin and pink ribbons, and then went slowly down for her mother’s verdict.
“Will I do?”
“Do?” Mrs. Cadogan stood with arms akimbo on comfortable haunches and took a liberal survey. “Why, yes. Your hair’s beautiful. I don’t know as I ever saw you do it better. My, what a wheat stack of it you’ve got! I like that blue ribbon tied above your ear. ’Tis uncommon. White musling always suits you. Now turn about and I’ll pull out the bows of your sash. There, that’s it. Now you go in and sit down quiet, and be pretty-behaved to His Lordship, and may be he’ll leave Greville his fortune and then he’ll marry you and I’ll see you a lady yet.”
These were comfortable prophecies and always tilted Emma’s spirits, for she shared her mother’s easy-going optimism. But now she went slowly into the parlour, and stood on a chair to have a last look in the fine oval mirror Greville had set so tantalizingly high, then rearranged the tea-table and finally sat down by the window. Hope was not kind to her to-day. She was really dreadfully uneasy. Greville’s manner of late had much undermined her confidence, and supposing Sir William should share his disapproval—supposing Greville on the way out should “set him against” her—what was to become of her?
She could hear the rattle of wheels far down the road, and her heart beat violently. She started to the window. No, only old Dr. Whyte of the Manor returning from the Bank. Lord, what a fright for nothing! Wheels again, a fresh alarm, and Emma behind the curtain, fixed, scarcely breathing. Yes, yes, at last. The coach came on, bearing her fate unseen within it, and pulled up with a flourish at the door. One second she watched to see Greville leap out, followed by a tall man of slight, extremely elegant figure, and then, with a rush she was back in her chair again with the book on her lap. No—no, that was too studied, that would never do. They must know she had heard them coming. She rose, considered, shook out her skirts, and advanced with sedate sweetness to the little hall and as Greville opened the door she stood there modestly and gravely composed to welcome them. Instinct had served her rightly. It was perfection’s self.
Sir William followed and through the open door the daylight came with him and the summer scents of the garden. He saw before him a quiet girl in white and blue ribbons with a pink rose stuck in the fichu that crossed her bosom. Extremely young, fair and fresh as a posy of primroses she seemed in the half light of the hall. That was the first impression—innocence, youthful grace, a shy gentleness which could be easily daunted and needed encouragement. She advanced with veiled eyes, and Greville took her hand and led her up to him.
“Emma,” he said, smiling, and put the hand in Sir William’s.
Still she did not raise the eyes, the colour rose slightly to her cheek from the quickly beating heart, and the more so when Sir William stooped and kindly kissed the velvet flush. He retained her hand and she led him into the parlour, and to the chair she had so softly cushioned in expectation of an aged and honoured guest, for, do what Greville would he could not persuade her otherwise than that his “dear Hamilton” being over fifty must hover on senility. “Poor old gentleman!” she had said with hearty sympathy. “We’ll make him comfortable, so we will! Does he like a footstool, Greville?” And even Greville had seen the humour of the situation and had left the reality to take care of itself.