"I hope you are not to blame through any culpable negligence; the young lord is to be sure a great ass I believe; but the match would be a capital one for you—the making of your family. I should like of all things to be agent and manager of his property—remember that!"
"I am afraid," replied Emma, struggling to speak calmly, "that if your wish depends for fulfilment on my marrying Lord Osborne, there is but little chance of its being gratified."
"I am sorry to hear it," replied he, gravely; "but I know such desirable alliances are not to be compassed without a little trouble and exertion: and, perhaps, if you were to remain a little longer in the neighbourhood your chance would be better. I'll think about that."
Emma longed to tell him not to trouble himself, but she thought it most prudent to remain silent.
The next time she was alone with the eldest sister, Elizabeth confided to her the extreme satisfaction which the news of Penelope's engagement gave her. It seemed to be quite certain, from what she could learn, everything was preparing apace, an the marriage would have soon been performed if their father's illness had not interfered. As far as money went, it was decidedly a good match for Pen; and though Elizabeth herself, did not fancy an asthmatic, elderly widower, yet she could not expect every one to have her tastes, and if Penelope herself was satisfied, that was all that could be required.
Emma could not think and feel the same; she wished that her sister should have required more; that she should have been incapable of considering a sufficient jointure to be the principal aim and end of engaging in matrimony.
Something must be wanting—something either of delicacy or principle, which could lead her to such results; and she wondered Elizabeth did not feel this too. Miss Watson then proceeded to discuss Margaret's engagement, which she declared, seemed to her incredible; she told Emma that the night of the ball, whilst returning home, Margaret had, after a great deal of nonsense, announced her engagement with Tom, and declared that he was to come the next day and ask her father's consent. That she evidently expected him herself in the afternoon—having bestowed uncommon care on her toilette, and persuaded Elizabeth to add another dish to their dinner, in case he should remain the afternoon with them; but that the gentleman had never made his appearance; and in the evening, the seizure of their father had put it all out of her head. She doubted very much now, whether the whole was not a mistake—the illusion of Margaret's vanity, or the consequence of some extra flattery on Tom's part, arising from the excitement of champagne and flirtation. There were two whole days now passed, and he had not been near them—Margaret had written to him yesterday, but had received no answer; and if Elizabeth were in her place, she should certainly not feel satisfied with such conduct.
After a little internal hesitation, Emma told Elizabeth, that so far as the fact of Tom's having proposed and been accepted was concerned, she could herself answer for the truth of Margaret's statement. She related to her, under a promise of secrecy for the present, the circumstance of her own and Miss Osborne's being accidental listeners to the whole occurrence; this, of course, settled the point, but did not diminish the wonder of the girls, both that Mr. Musgrove should have proposed to Margaret, and that he should since, have taken no further steps in the business. They wondered in vain—and they had not much time to devote to wonder—their father's situation soon recalled their thoughts and demanded all their attention.
But still in the interval of repose, which this occupation necessarily allowed, Emma found her mind continually reverting to past scenes; to the hopes which had once been so pleasant and lively, and the disappointment which had succeeded them. She told herself she must not think of it; she determined that she would not—sometimes she almost persuaded herself that she did not; but she could not regulate her feelings as she wished; and many a time she was unconsciously dwelling on the past, whilst she fancied herself meditating on her present duty.
It was Penelope's turn to remain during dinner with her father, and Emma was once more in company with her repulsive brother. It was really with a sensible reluctance that she sat down to the same table with him—but she struggled against the feeling, aware that it ought to be overcome if there was to be any future peace or comfort for her.