"But then I can't," exclaimed Margaret, "and why am I to be left out? if Elizabeth goes, because she is eldest, I have the best right to go too, when Pen is away, for I am older than Emma, at all events."
"But as the visit was paid especially to Emma," rejoined Elizabeth, "it is quite impossible that she should give up to you. She must go."
"Oh, yes, every body must go but me, that is always the way, it's very hard."
"Would not the chaise hold three?" suggested Emma, anxious for a compromise, "Margaret is so slight, and I am not large, I am sure we could sit so."
"I dare say you could," replied her father, "but I can tell you, you would have to sit in the stable-yard if you did, for the old horse could not draw you, and should not make the attempt—no, no, if Margaret wants to go she may wait till next time—if you pay visits at all, you shall pay them properly."
The consequence of this decision on the part of their father, was such an increase of fretfulness in Margaret for the rest of the day, as to make Emma inclined to think the society of her new acquaintance would be dearly bought at such a penalty. Elizabeth bore it with the indifference produced by long habit.
"It is no use minding her," said she to Emma, as they were undressing, that night; "she is always the same; if you give up one thing, she will quarrel about another; you can do no good to her by sacrificing every thing to her wishes, and you had much better take your own way when you can, and mind her crossness as little as possible."
Emma sighed at this assertion, but she sighed in vain; Margaret's ill-humour was as apparent next morning, and rather increased as the hour of setting off drew near. It was some consolation to her, however, to discover that the day was exceedingly cold, with a heavy canopy of clouds over head, and occasionally, slight sprinklings of snow, which promised any thing but a pleasant drive to her sisters. Wrapping themselves up as well as they could, they set off; but the ominous appearance of the sky rather increased than diminished; and before they came in sight of Osborne Castle, for the parsonage was within the park, a very heavy fall of snow overtook them. As their humble vehicle slowly progressed along, Elizabeth was earnestly hoping that none of the Osborne family would see them; she had never before reflected much on the difference in their rank and circumstances; but now, whilst driving along the road where their coach and four had so often passed, she was mentally comparing her lot with Miss Osborne's, and it seemed almost presumption in her to come, as it were, in contact with such superior elegance and grandeur.
Emma's sensations were different; she felt that their equipage was suitable to their station, and need therefore cost her no blushes, as it gave her no concern. The wish to find the inhabitants of the parsonage at home, was uppermost in her thoughts—and the hope that they should ultimately return, without being buried in the snow, her principal object of anxiety.
In the former of these she was perfectly gratified; the neat and pretty looking maid, who opened the door, announcing that both the master and mistress were within. Emma was struck with the air of comfort and tidiness in all she saw, possibly because it contrasted strongly with her father's house. It was owing to Mr. Watson's frequent illness perhaps, but at home she had observed so many things which appeared to require a master's eye. The gate swinging on one hinge, the trees straggling over the paths, the wall round the stable-yard broken down, and a hundred other examples of neglect and disorder had met her eyes at home. How different it all was at Mr. Howard's! Even with the disadvantage of winter, and the consequent dreariness of aspect which a lawn and shrubbery at such a season must present—the neatness of the place conveyed an idea of comfort and taste.