Mrs. Robert Watson having announced her emancipation from the trammels of woe, invitations poured in, fast and thick, in all of which Emma was specially included.
It was fine, bright weather, with the pleasantest frost; and Emma was able to take out Augusta nearly every morning for a walk. To her dismay, however, she found herself frequently joined by Lord Osborne, who had taken rooms in a neighbouring inn; and she appealed in vain to her sister to accompany them, or to take charge of the child herself.
Matters were brought to a head by Jane, who deliberately informed Lord Osborne one morning when he called, of the direction in which Emma had gone. She herself had sent her some little distance beyond the town, in order to enquire for an old servant who was ill. The result was,that as Emma was turning but the first corner on her return home, she came face to face with Lord Osborne.
She replied to his greeting as coldly as might be; and was endeavouring to proceed on her way, when she was brought to a standstill by his informing her that Mrs. Watson had been so good as to indicate to him where he might find her. "She was particularly kind," he said. "I am very much obliged to her—the more so that I have been missing you for so many mornings."
Emma's eyes had been fixed on the ground, but she now suddenly raised them. His face was slightly flushed, and his whole manner betrayed confidence.
Pale with anger, and holding Augusta's hand tightly, she confronted him.
"Lord Osborne, I am alone and unprotected," she said. "You must surely see that your attentions only cause me distress. Be good enough to let me proceed on my way, without accompanying me."
"Mrs. Watson has given me her permission to escort you home."
"My sister-in-law has no conception of her duty to me."
"Believe me, Miss Watson, my intentions are entirely honourable. You have no reason to treat me with such coldness. My whole desire is to make you my wife—if you will honour me by accepting me."
Emma curtsied.
"I cannot possibly accept you, my lord—I beseech you to accept this answer as final—I can never be your wife!—but, believe me, I am deeply sensible to the honour you have done me."
"What reason can you have for refusing me? Do not be so hasty! You do not perhaps know me well enough. I will wait—I will be patient—if you will only give me one word of hope!"
"My lord, I cannot!"
"You cannot?—why cannot you?"
Emma remained silent, but she was walking onward, the while he kept at her side.
"Miss Emma! why do not you speak?"
She could find no reply.
"I know I am a dull fellow—but I loveyou so much! There is not anything I would not do for you! Could not you care for me a little?"
"No, my lord."
"If you were only married to me, you would care for me!—you could not but care for me if we were married—I would love you so much!"
Emma wept.
"Why do you make my aunt cry? Why do not you go away?" asked little Augusta, looking over at him reproachfully.
"It needs a child to point out my obvious duty," he said bitterly; and, turning back, he strode away.
Augusta remained silent for several minutes, and then said—
"Is not a lord nicer than a gentleman?"
Emma was obliged to smile.
"Shall not you marry him after a while?" she continued.
"Wouldyoulike to marry him, Augusta?"
"No," replied the child, after a little hesitation; "it always seems a long time when he is there."
On their return home, Jane herself opened the door and, fixing her eyes on Emma, said—
"Has Lord Osborne asked you?"
Emma admitted it.
"Well, you have accepted him?"
"No."
"You havenotaccepted him! Good heavens! Emma!—do you tell me you haverefusedhim?—refusedLord Osborne!"
"Yes."
"Wicked, ungrateful girl! How have you the face to stand there and tell me such a thing? Are you mad, Emma? What bewitched you to refuse him?"
Emma remained silent.
"Speak, wretched girl! How dared you to refuse him?"
Emma looked at her haughtily.
"I shall speak to my brother," she replied coldly.
"It is your brother who will speak toyou—Minx! Do not look at me like that! You are insufferable with your airs—andyoujust nothing! Owing every stick on your back to your brother and to me!"
Jane had completely lost all self-control; and little Augusta, terrified, clung to Emma, crying bitterly.
At this moment, Robert came into the hall.
"Here is Emma gone and refused Lord Osborne!" cried his wife.
"Do you consider the servants to be stone deaf!" he demanded angrily. "Come with me into my study, Emma. Go with your mother, Augusta."
Crossing the hall, he opened the door of his room for Emma to enter, and, following her in, closed and locked it.
"What is the meaning of all this?"
Emma was too agitated to reply.
"Is it true that you have refused Lord Osborne?"
"Yes, Robert."
"And why have you refused him?" Emma strove to answer, but no words came.
"I insist on your answering me. Whyhave you refused him?—you must have some reason."
"I do not love him."
"As far as I am aware, it is not the custom for a nice girl to love a man before he asks her. It will come in time. Listen to me, Emma. I was anything but pleased when Lord Osborne followed you here, but he has shown that his intentions are wholly honourable. Shortly after our party he called on me to obtain my permission to offer himself to you, as soon as he deemed that he might do so with reasonable hope of success. This morning he acquainted your sister with his design in following you. You have nothing to complain of with regard to his conduct; he is a handsome man; and his position is far above that you have any right to expect."
Emma remained silent, with her eyes on the ground and her cheeks burning.
"I stand to you in the light of a father," continued Robert; "I have a right to your obedience; and if you have any natural feelings you will be glad to make me some return for all I have done for you—and Iam ready to do much more—by showing some willingness to comply with what I judge to be best for you. I am not saying that I might not have preferred that you had married a man in a simpler rank; but as you are so difficult to suit, I could not run the risk of dismissing him. Our aunt was no friend to you, breeding you up in a different way to us all, making you discontented; and you should be grateful to Lord Osborne for overlooking so much and being willing to marry you. Promise me, Emma, that there will be no more nonsense, if he should be so good as to forgive you for the insult you have done him, and should come forward again."
"I cannot promise. I can never marry him."
"Youcan, andwillmarry him! Obstinate girl! What are you aiming at? Would you prefer to attract the attentions of a royal prince?"
Robert had no sooner uttered these words than he would gladly have recalled them—shrinking from the flash of his sister's eyes. The next moment she hadswept past him, unlocked the door, and was gone.
Half-an-hour later she had left the house, and was on her way to Sam at Guildford.
Early in January Mr. Howard returned from Spain. Had he been able to follow his own inclinations, he would have gone straight to Cumberland in order to look after his property, and confer with his agent on some matters of importance; but he received such an urgent summons from Lady Osborne that he did not like to disregard it, and went down into Surrey.
As he entered the beautiful drawing-room of the Castle, where everything was so familiar to him, and Lady Osborne, so entirely in keeping with her surroundings, came forward to greet him, with a slight flush upon her face, he could not but feel how good it was to be once more at home.
They sat together by the wide hearth, and it seemed to him that in the soft light of the candles she might well pass for ten years less than her age, but as a matter of fact a stranger might well have taken her for but little older than himself; in herbeauty there was something so soft and fair.
They had been chatting of one thing and another—principally of Lady Edward Sothern, and the wedding—when suddenly it occurred to him that he had not enquired for Lord Osborne, and, to his amazement, learned that he was in Paris.
"Upon my word I do not understand him," he said, rising to his feet, and leaning against the mantelpiece. "When we were in Italy he was for ever playing therôleof lonely exile, and pining for his native land!"
He looked down at Lady Osborne, and she coloured.
"I was particularly anxious to speak to you about him," she replied. "It is on account of his disappointment with Miss Watson. She has definitely refused him."
"But what could have induced him to ask her when she is the betrothed of another?"
"It was all a mistake—Mr. Musgrave confesses to having been misinformed.She continues to live with her brother and sister at Croydon—vulgar impossible people!—though Osborne insists that they have a child who is a perfect little lady!—I cannot understand these Watsons!"
On the plea of his disordered dress, Mr. Howard soon after retired, but, as he crossed the room it was as though something of its beauty had faded. It no longer held the same spell for him. Something of disquiet had wakened in him. An instinct, not unakin to a sense of shrinking, had possessed him—almost as though there were a pitfall at his feet.
As he entered his old apartment, he was again conscious of uneasiness. It had been freshly decorated, and re-furnished, and there was an air of luxury which somehow repelled him, giving him a feeling of oppression. He went over to the casement, and throwing it wide open, regardless of frost and snow, looked out into the quiet night, with its myriad of stars.
On the following day he set out to call on some old parishioners, and had not gonevery far on his way when he encountered Tom Musgrave riding along.
"If ever I met such a fellow as you are, Howard! We all thought you'd been eaten by cannibals!"
"Sorry to disappoint you!—but there are no cannibals in Spain!"
"Well, crocodiles!—it's all one!—and here's Osborne gone off to Paris, clean out of his wits over Miss Watson!"
"How came you to make such a mistake with regard to Miss Watson?"
"Faith! I don't know that there was any mistake! Her people are wild with her for not having Osborne—but there seems to be some other fellow in the background—someone she had met at her aunt's—and she seems fully determined to have her own way. She has, absolutely, left them at Croydon, and gone to stay with her younger brother, where there will be nobody to look after her from morning to night!"
This story unfortunately received confirmation during the morning; and on the following day, when he rode over to theRectory to see Purvis, it received a still more disquieting aspect. Emma had been seen in the company of a Captain Conway at A——, a man who was said to be highly connected, though of this there was no certain proof—but who, on the other hand, was well known to be a profligate. Heavy at heart he returned to the Castle.
As he sat with Lady Osborne over the fire that night, she told him more of her history than ever he had previously known.
He had always deplored the inferiority of her son and daughter to their mother, but hitherto it had never occurred to him that she had been conscious of it herself.
"I have known but little happiness in my life," she said. "My father, Lord Foulke, was a gambler; and, in view of the increasing difficulty of living, my mother believed it to be her duty to marry off all her daughters as soon as they came out. I was the third of five girls, and married when scarcely sixteen—no more than a child. I could not endure Lord Osborne—my every instinct revolted against him—but though I implored myfather and mother, with tears, to spare me, they would not listen to me. No one may know the misery of my married life. When I was about twenty-three, however, my husband died, leaving me with two young children—the boy so backward that I believed him for a time to be deficient; but as I spared no effort to develop him he gradually improved. Not long afterwards my father died from an accident. The shock brought a stroke on my mother, depriving her of the power of speech, which she never afterwards recovered, though she lingered on for several years. My brother, despite the remonstrances of the doctor, insisted on her removal to the Dower House, and short as was the drive, she never recovered from it; so that I dared not attempt to bring her here. As it was seldom possible to leave her, I could see but little of my children, for as the Dower House was small, and indifferently built, she could not endure their noise. But never had I loved her so well. Qualities, that I had never before discerned in her, now showed themselves, and we weredrawn together as we never had been before. At her death I returned home, to find my daughter almost a stranger to me. Julia was now fourteen, and her pretty manners, which I had believed to be the expression of her affection for me, had merely served as a mask to her serious defects of character. Perhaps unjustly, I dismissed her governess, believing her to be blamed, and endeavoured myself to correct them, but I had come too late, and it only served to estrange her the further. Osborne, on the other hand, has always held for me the simple affection of his childhood, and his faults are rather of a negative than of a positive character, but he cares for little beyond hunting and fishing—we have almost nothing in common. Until you came, Arthur, I had scarcely known what it was to have a companion."
There was a slight falter in her voice as she uttered the last words, and she looked at her visitor wistfully.
His eyes, half veiled by their lashes, were fixed on the glowing embers, and he remained silent. Once again Emma'ssoft hand trembled in his own, and he was conscious of the beating of her heart. Why had he not taken her into his arms, then and there, to shelter in his breast for ever?
"Arthur, you are not listening to me!"
There was a note of reproach in the gentle voice at his side.
"I assure you, Lady Osborne, that I am deeply concerned and distressed to hear of all that you have suffered. Perhaps in view of my office it is scarcely orthodox for me to say how very unfair it has all seemed—but from the point of view of a simple human being, it is impossible to think otherwise."
Nothing could have been kinder than the tone in which he pronounced these words; but that she had expected something altogether different was quite evident by the expression of disappointment which overspread her countenance, as she shrank into the shadow.
After a moment's silence he continued:
"The want of sympathy between parents and children is only too common, butthere must have been a total absence of all natural feeling on the part of your brother, with regard to Lady Foulke, when he could act in such a manner towards her. The counterpart of it, however, I witnessed at the bedside of my cousin. His son, as you know, broke his neck in the hunting field, as his father lay dying. I was deputed to tell him, and did so in fear and trembling as to the possible effect it might have on him, but he just looked round at me and said: 'And a good thing, too!' Although I had been aware that the relations between them were very unfortunate, I had not believed it possible that there could be such an estrangement between father and son."
After a pause Mr. Howard then announced that he had written to his agent to expect him on the following Saturday.
"Oh, surely not!" exclaimed his hostess, leaning forward in expostulation. "Cumberland will be quite intolerable in this weather—I have heard that the cold there is beyond everything!"
"I have yet to learn that I am in agalloping consumption. I assure you there is no country more delightful and wonderful than Cumberland in the grasp of winter!"
"I am well aware a Northman will swearanythingwith respect to his country!"
"Madam! I protest!"
"Oh, protest away! you are all of you alike! I had hoped that you might have been prevailed upon to remain with us until Easter—in which case Osborne would have come back at once."
"Do not you think he had much better remain where he is? In the gay world of Paris he will have everything to distract him, and may possibly find someone to replace Miss Watson?"
"I do not think so."
"Surely you do not believe that Osborne will remain inconsolable for ever?"
There was a gleam of humour in his dark eyes as he turned them towards her. In all his intimate knowledge of his former pupil, it had certainly never occurred to him that he possessed a heart of untold depths!
"No. What I believe is, that he will revert to his former indifference towards women, and never marry at all."
"That would be very much to be deplored."
"I am not so sure of that. He is scarcely fitted to attract a superior mind, and you could not expect me to welcome an inferior one, or to view, without pain, an unwilling bride forced into his arms."
A day or two later Lady Osborne stood beneath the portico, to wish her guest "God-speed."
"Remember I shall be counting on you for an invitation!" she said, smiling.
He bowed low.
"I shall have to secure a fair chatelaine, madam, in order to receive you worthily!"
How little did he realize that his idle words were as a naked sword in her breast.
Sam was walking along the High Street of Guildford just as the coach drove up to the stage; and, for the moment, thinking less of anything in the world than of Emma, when, to his amazement, she suddenly appeared on the platform. Hastening forward, he lifted her down; but seeing she could scarcely maintain her composure, forbore to question her, and, drawing her hand within his arm, he led her home.
He now lived entirely with Mr. Curtis at his residence, in a quiet suburban road, not far off: a large, red-brick house, standing in its own grounds, and furnished with all the comfort and suitability of wealth and refinement. As soon as they were seated by a comfortable fire in the library, Emma, in a few words, informed her brother of all that had happened. He was much moved by the recital, but deeplygratified that she had come to him at once—indeed his satisfaction at having her would have been without bounds, had it not been for his indignation at the conduct of Robert and Jane, and the shock he had sustained at finding Emma travelling by herself.
Presently Mr. Curtis, who had been out, returned to the house, and entered the room. Sam at once introduced his sister, and while sparing her feelings as much as possible, made him acquainted with a sufficient account of what had occurred, to let him see that it was impossible for Emma to return to Croydon. He then announced his intention of at once seeking for suitable lodgings for his sister and himself, but Mr. Curtis steadily refused to countenance such an arrangement, insisting that as he already regarded Sam as a son, he had some justification in venturing to hope that Miss Emma might come to look on him as her father, and in the meantime his house was as truly at her service. Emma thanked him charmingly, but begged for permission to look for asituation, as governess, or companion. On perceiving, however, the mortification she was occasioning, both to Sam and Mr. Curtis, she was soon obliged to give way.
Before very long her box was forwarded from Croydon, and both Robert and Jane wrote more suitably than might have been expected, expressing considerable regret that she had left them.
Emma was now more at ease than she had been since her quiet time with Elizabeth, although she daily missed little Augusta; but her health had been injured by all she had gone through. Her cheek, once rounded with perfect health, was now thin and worn, and to Sam's dismay she did not appear to be regaining her vitality as the weeks went by. In view of her half-confession to him, he feared she was suffering from a secret sorrow, and he and Mr. Curtis spared no effort to restore her.
Towards the end of February Elizabeth's marriage was arranged, and Mrs. John Purvis, with whom she had been residing, and from whose house the wedding was to take place, kindly invited the wholefamily, including Augusta. Emma's embarrassment at meeting Robert and Jane was considerably lessened by this arrangement, and she and the child were inseparable during the few days they spent together. Penelope and Margaret had obtained leave to be present, and both appeared improved by having been provided with occupation, other than hunting for husbands. Mary Edwards had also been invited, and Emma was now able to satisfy herself that she was not wholly indifferent to Sam.
Elizabeth looked very sweet and handsome in her white bonnet and shawl, and the bridegroom distinguished himself not a little by forgetting neither cheque nor ring.
The sisters had been truly happy to have met together again, and their parting was much less sorrowful than before, both bride and bridegroom insisting that Emma should come to them in April to make her home with them.
Poor Sam protested with no little warmth against this arrangement, butElizabeth was not his elder sister for nothing.
"Cannot you have some sense, Sam!" she said. "Emma is quite too pretty, and has already been too much talked about, to be left alone with a pair of old bachelors!—the two of you out the half of the time! Oh! I know she can take care of herself better than could have been thought possible—she has told me all about Captain Conway—but she should not be left in such a position—her home is with her sister!"
Unfortunately, Emma contracted a chill during the long drive back from the wedding, and in spite of, or perhaps, rather as a result of the various remedies with which she was treated, she was still very far from strong when Sam took her over to Wickstead, and left her in the care of Elizabeth.
With what mingled feelings did not Emma view once more the scene where she had spent one of the happiest evenings of her life. Once again, in fancy, she was received by Mr. Howard with all that particularity which had assured her that the entertainment had been arranged with a sole view to enjoying her society. Once again as she entered the dining-parlour, she saw herself at his side, and heard the raillery of his voice as he combated her cherished opinions—from no personal conviction as she had been well aware, butin order to draw her into friendly combat. In the evening afterwards, perhaps she alone had been conscious of his vexation at Miss Osborne's intrusion; and she had also divined his intention of retaining her as his neighbour at cards. The moment of parting was also present with her.
But more to her than all these memories was that of the fateful moment at the ball, when he had begged her to return him the rose he had given to her. Even now it so moved her that she endeavoured to refrain from dwelling on it. Yet how had she been so vain, so foolish, as to have mistaken an ordinary flirtation of a man of the world, for an emotion of a deeper character? For there could no longer be any doubt in her mind with respect to him. He had simply been amusing himself, he had had no intentions with regard to her. Nor had he in any way stepped beyond the limits of convention—blame rested solely with herself. Her former experience of life, slight as it had been, should have taught her that all men of breeding and fashion are more or less adepts at flirting—unless indeed they are scarcely to be tolerated.
Sweet and unselfish as was Emma's nature, the perfect happiness of Elizabeth and Henry Purvis, in a setting so pregnant of another—where every article of furniture seemed to speak of that other—could not but make her sensible of a feeling of bereavement; nor could she withhold her wayward fancy from depicting herself, and that other, as playing the part of her sister and brother-in-law, in their daily life.
Lord Osborne had rejoined his regiment, but Lady Osborne, to the surprise of all, continued to remain on at the Castle, instead of going up to the family town house. Tom Musgrave was as much to the fore as ever, and as busily occupied in impressing his own importance wherever he went, and Mary Edwards drove over at once to welcome Emma. Happening by accident to mention Sam, she gave Emma the opportunity of telling her that Mr. Curtis had formally declared him hisheir, for which she was rewarded by a quick blush.
A ball was to take place shortly at the Assembly Rooms, and the Edwards were anxious that Emma should come to them for it, but as can readily be supposed it was almost the last entertainment she would have cared to attend. Elizabeth, however, relieved her from all embarrassment by saying that she did not desire her to go out at night till she was recovered from a cough which had troubled her for some time.
It was not till the end of the month that she took her to a party, given by Mrs. Stephenson, of Ashley Park. Emma had no sooner entered the drawing-room, and before ever her eyes had rested on his tall figure, than she was aware of the presence of Mr. Howard.
Following Elizabeth, she was slightly screened by her, and although they passed within no great distance of him, as he appeared to be looking the other way, she was able to persuade herself, for a short time, that he had not observed her. Butit was impossible she should long continue in this belief. The moments were as hours to her, when, presently, as he was conducting a lady into the room beyond, he was obliged to come quite close to her, and recognition was inevitable. He merely bowed and passed on.
Emma had never sought to disguise her feelings from herself, but how deeply her heart was engaged she had not realised until that moment, when she felt that it must break.
A minute or two later Mr. Howard grew aware of a sudden commotion, and then heard it said that a lady had fainted.
Instinctively he knew that it was Emma—and almost immediately, he knew not how, had reached her side. Motioning everyone away, he raised her in his arms, and carried her out to the hall, where there was a couch, but just before he laid her down she opened her eyes, and there was no mistaking the look of deep joy which flashed into them, as she saw him bending over her.
"Emma—my dearest Emma!"
He could say no more, as they were instantly joined by Mrs. Stephenson and Elizabeth; other guests—some impelled by solicitude, and some by curiosity—quickly following.
These, however, were quietly got rid of by their hostess, who at the same time directed the servants to bring restoratives, and soon Emma was able to sit up. She remained so pale and shaken, however, that Mrs. Stephenson begged her to remain all night; but this was steadily opposed by Elizabeth, who was anxious to bring her back with her, and as Emma herself joined in begging to return, the carriage was sent for.
At this moment Henry, who had just heard of Emma's indisposition, came hurrying up, and assisted in conveying her home.
On the following morning Mr. Howard rode over to Wickstead, and, meeting Emma in the shrubbery, declared his passion.
She could not speak, but she laid her trembling hands in his.
The engagement created not a little stir, and many and various were the comments.
Mr. Curtis composed a pretty speech, for the edification of his patients, to the effect that had he been some forty years younger, when he had had the honour of meeting with Miss Emma, his bachelorhood would have been seriously imperilled.
It is said that when this was reported to Mr. Howard, he vowed he would have imperilled it still further for him.
Mrs. Blake was rejoiced at the news, but it must be confessed that it would be scarcely prudent to record the observations of Charles, who thirsted for his uncle's blood for fully three days after.
Jane still protested that Emma was a fool to have refused a title.
Augusta enquired if she might not be married on the same day?
Lady Edward Sothern's comment was perhaps characteristic—
"There must be something singularly wanting in Arthur Howard to marry a woman of the lower orders."
In a remote room of the Castle Lady Osborne sat, with her head bowed on her hands. No one could have condemned her more severely than she condemned herself. Having missed all hope of romance in her youth, she had endeavoured to secure some measure of it when it was no longer reasonable to expect it; and now she felt that her punishment was almost greater than she well might bear—standing alone, as the slow years went by.
* * * * * *
Emma's wedding morning shone fair, and people flocked from far and near to see her married.
Lady Osborne lent her her own veil, placing it herself on her head.
Penelope and Margaret could not get leave so soon again, but the bride was attended by Charles and Augusta, carrying baskets of flowers; and it was easy todiscern that the former, with the charming fickleness of his sex, had wholly transferred his allegiance from the elder to the younger lady.
As Emma came down from the altar on her husband's arm, she looked all loveliness, but the eyes of different among the congregation strayed from her fresh young beauty to the face of Lady Osborne, and rested there. To the mind of more than one there was something, they knew not what, that seemed to elevate it beyond all they could have believed possible.
Sam and Mary Edwards, now happily betrothed (as Mr. and Mrs. Edwards were unable any longer to urge anything against the alliance) were amongst the company, and received the congratulations of all. It had been arranged that they were to live on with Mr. Curtis, as the old gentleman declared that he could not be deserted in his advancing years.
Shortly after Emma's marriage, Captain O'Brien died, and his widow, surviving him but a short time, Emma foundherself the recipient of a legacy of twelve thousand pounds. With her husband's cordial approval, she shared it equally with her sisters; and Penelope lost no time in investing hers in a husband.
But Margaret had suffered so deeply through Tom Musgrave, that in spite of anything Robert and Jane could urge, she insisted on keeping her situation. It was only on the death of the young girl, some years later, to whom she had been acting as companion, that she married a naval officer, whom she had frequently met at her house, and to whom she had become attached, finding with him a much greater measure of happiness than could ever have been her lot had she become the wife of one so worthless as Tom Musgrave.
This gentleman, not long after, fell a prey to a vixen, who lost but little time in reducing him, and on his endeavouring to console himself with strong waters, secured the keys of the cellar, and retained them with a firm hand.
As the Rector of the living, on Mr. Howard's property, shortly resigned it,on account of ill-health, he undertook it himself, appointing Henry Purvis his curate, at a much handsomer figure than he would have received as incumbent, and installing him in the rectory, with its excellent gardens and farm. Emma and Elizabeth's happiness was complete, now that they were settled so near to each other, and as the years went by, there were many merry games between the children of the Rectory and those of the Manor.
Lady Osborne was a frequent visitor at the Howards', some saying that she was fonder of their young people than of her own grandchildren, but this was scarcely the case, as the latter added, in no little degree, to the happiness of her life. Perhaps it might have been nearer the mark had they divined that in Emma she had found the companionship that she had always missed in her own daughter.
She also became very fond of Mrs. Blake, whom Lord Osborne, to the surprise of everyone, married a couple of years later.
If he did not entertain for her the same degree of love that Emma had awakened in him, he was very sincerely attached to her, making an excellent step-father to her children.
Charles entered the Royal Navy.
As he and Augusta spend the greater part of their holidays together at the Howards', and do not find matter for heated argument above seven times in the week, it is confidently believed by several that they will ultimately embark on the more serious argument of life, with all its possibilities for sweetness, or disaster.
FINIS