The dinner was more than plain—unfortunately, it was almost entirely cold; but, in the hurry occasioned by the illness of Mr. Watson, the rest of his family might reasonably expect to be less comfortably accommodated than usual. Elizabeth had hardly given the subject a thought; and not at all indeed, until it was too late for amendment, beyond a steak hurriedly cooked for Robert's sake. But this was tough—tough as the table, so Robert said, and he had a particular dislike to cold mutton. His plate was pushed away with an air of uncontrollable disgust—and he sat eyeing the table with gloomy looks, whilst his sister good-humouredly apologised for the hardness of the fare.
"Shall I have the satisfaction of helping you to a little of this cow?" enquired he, balancing his knife and fork in his hand, and pointing with them to the condemned steak. "I recommend you to try it, Elizabeth, and then you may, perhaps, remember another time, and make better provision for such unfortunate individuals as are compelled, through circumstances to become your guests—you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Elizabeth-"
"Upon my word, Robert, I could not help it; I will try and give you a better dinner to-morrow; but it's not my fault entirely, that the steak is tough. I thought, perhaps, it would be; but it was the only thing we could dress—and I thought you would like that better than nothing."
"I cannot comprehend such bad management—why is not your cook to dress a dinner for me?—what else had she to do of more importance?—she cannot be wanted by my father! For me—you will look very blank, I expect, when you come to live with me, if I set you down to such fare as this!"
Elizabeth had the sense and the forbearance to remain perfectly silent; and Robert, finding that all his indignation could not overcome impossibilities, or cook him a dinner where the materials were actually wanting, thought it best to make some attempts at eating; and proceeded, with an air of injured dignity, to devour the unfortunate subject of his wrath.
"I think, Jane would be rather astonished if she knew what sort of dinner I have been compelled to make," was his observation when he laid down his knife and fork. "She would hardly expect to find me dining so contentedly off a tough old steak—ill-cooked, and no sauce. I always have observed in most houses, here especially, none are so badly provided for as the eldest sons. I suppose any thing is good enough for them—it does not signify what I eat at all—I am only your brother—only the head of the house—only the man on whom you will be dependent when—but no matter, I hope you will fare better in my house, that's all!"
"I am very sorry," repeated Elizabeth, "I know it's very disagreeable to have a bad dinner, but I hope it will not happen again, and I'll try and get you something you will like for supper; a broiled fowl and an omelette—could you fancy that, Robert?"
Robert assented; but his wrath was evidently mollified at the promise, and no more was said about the unfortunate dinner at that time.
Another day put a period to their suspense, and confirmed their worst anticipation. Mr. Watson was no more; and his four daughters were left to all the evils which Robert had so providentially pointed out to them. Their feelings and their manner of expressing them, were as different as their characters, and their ways of thinking. Emma, who knew the least of him, certainly experienced the greatest grief—Elizabeth mourned too—but there were so many things for her to think of—much to plan and arrange—so much of economy to be mingled with a wish of doing every thing as handsomely as possible, that she had no time to cultivate sorrow as a duty, or indulge in its appearance as a recreation. Emma was active and useful likewise—but she busied herself in spite of her grief—Miss Watson grieved only in the intervals of her business.