The approach of Christmas week, was to bring the great event of Elizabeth's year—namely, a visit from her eldest brother and his wife, who were to return with Margaret and spend a few days at Winston. Elizabeth evidently looked up very much to Mrs. Robert Watson, who, she assured Emma, had been educated in a very superior way—a London boarding-school—her father had been very wealthy, and her mother most genteel; she had, too, an uncle, who was a knight, in London, and quite a distinguished person there—so that altogether, Jane was an honor to the family, whilst her talents and taste alone were sufficient to procure distinction in the first circles.

Emma was uncertain, but most anxious to like her sister-in-law; she felt half amused and half doubtful, whilst Elizabeth enumerated all the advantages of Robert's grand marriage. However, she exerted herself with the greatest good-will, to assist in the numerous preparations necessary on such an occasion. Nothing was too good for Jane—though Emma could hardly help wondering to see that the drawing-room was to be used—the furniture and mirror uncovered—the best china produced, and all the plate had out to grace their visitors. For a brother and sister, she fancied this would have been unnecessary; and she wished, with a sigh, that there had been more consistency between their every-day life, and the appearance they were now expected to make.

Elizabeth was one of the worst housekeepers possible; with a little more system and management, her father's income might have produced a respectable appearance at all times; but as there was not the smallest attention given by Mr. Watson to his household affairs, beyond paying the bills, and finding fault with the dinners, everything was in confusion from one week to another. Elizabeth had much of the easy, good-natured indolence of her father, but was spurred up by necessity to unwilling exertions; and ill seconded by her untidy maid servants, who knew she was too good-natured to scold; she was always excessively put out of her way by preparations for company. Her total want of arrangement, and the facility with which she was diverted from one object to another, made her twice as long as necessary in every occupation. Thus, for instance, it was in vain that she had promised Emma to return to the china closet, and tell her which articles would be wanted from thence; for happening to see Jenny awkwardly attempting to clean some plate, she stayed so long to show her how to do it, that Emma, in despair of her return, was induced to seek her, and with difficulty persuaded her to resume her occupation up stairs.

Such was her ordinary mode of proceeding. In spite, however, of these delays, and the loss of time incurred, the preparations were at length complete; and Elizabeth having surveyed the dinner-table with much satisfaction, and wished, with a sigh, that they could keep a foot boy, returned to the drawing-room to wait the arrival of her visitors.

The happy moment shortly arrived, and with much noise and bustle Mr. and Mrs. Robert Watson, Margaret, and all their luggage were safely lodged in the family residence. Emma looked with much anxiety at both her unknown sisters, but at Mrs. Watson first, of course; indeed, few could have helped that, from the prominence which she assumed. She was a tall, showy-looking woman, with a high nose, a high colour, and very high feathers in her bonnet. She seemed much inclined to talk, and received Emma very cordially. Margaret was excessively affectionate in her manners, clung round her, called her "her dear new sister," her "darling Emma," pushed back the curls from her cheeks to kiss her, and spoke in the fondest, most caressing tone.

"Well you see, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Robert, "I have brought Margaret back; but she is a naughty girl, and I am much displeased with her, for I want to take her home again to Croydon on Saturday, and she says she will not go."

This was said as Mrs. Robert was stroking down her long fur tippet, and spreading out her hands at the fire, and concluded with a playful tap on Margaret's cheek.

"Ah, dear Jane," said Margaret, "you know how I like being with you, but indeed I cannot tear myself from sweet Emma immediately."

"Saturday!" cried Elizabeth; "you surely do not think of leaving us on Saturday! That will be only three days—only half a visit; you promised us a week."

"Did I?—no, sure I could not have done so: you know I cannot be so long from my little girl, and she would break her heart without me."

"I wish you could have brought her," said Elizabeth.

"Quite impossible, my dear child, for I never like to take her out without her own maid, and I know you could not give her a room to herself as she has been used to. I am excessively particular about her," she continued, turning to Emma, "too particular, perhaps, but it was the way we were brought up—so you must not blame me."

"Of course not," replied Emma; "for doing what you think right, who could?"

"I am sure," continued this anxious mother, in a tone of great complacency, "I don't know how the poor little darling will get on without me; she almost cried her eyes out when she found she was not coming in the chaise, and I was obliged to pretend I was only going to church, and should be home again very soon."

"Oh, sweet little darling!" cried Margaret; "I do so dote on that child—little angel!"

Just at this moment, the brother entered the room.

"I say, Jane," cried he, "that confounded band-box of yours is squeezed as flat as a pancake, and your new trunk is too wide to go up these wretched narrow stairs; so what you are to do I am sure I don't know—dress in the hall, I suppose."

"My band-box squeezed!" cried the lady, in dismay. "I have no doubt my caps are all ruined absolutely: what shall I do!—how could it happen to my band-box!"

"Do anything but bother me about it, that's all. Ah, Emma," holding out his hand to his sister, "how do you do. It's a good while since we met, isn't it? I suppose, Elizabeth, I may go up at once and see my father before dinner?"

Elizabeth assented, and the whole party seemed about to separate.

"I suppose, Elizabeth," said Margaret, in a tone whose sharpness jarred on Emma's ear and contrasted with the softness of her voice to herself, "there's no letter for me from Kew, is there? But I dare say if there were, you would not think of giving it to me for an hour."

Elizabeth assured her there was none, and then quitted the room, to accompany her sister-in-law, and assist her toilette.

"Well, Emma," said Margaret, resuming her fondling tone, "how do you like Winston? I am sure, but for one thing, I should never wish to see it again," looking down, and trying to blush as she spoke; "one attraction it has: have you seen any of the neighbours?—did you not go to the ball?—do tell me all about it!"

"I think we must go and dress for dinner, Margaret," said Emma.

"Well, you can tell me then, for I suppose," added she, in an injured tone, "you and I are to have one room—Elizabeth always takes care of herself, and will be sure to put you upon me."

"No," said Emma, "Elizabeth has agreed that I should share her room."

"Oh," said Margaret—then paused a moment—"well, I was in hopes we should have slept together—I am sure I shall love you so much, Emma."

"I am sure it will give me great pleasure if you do," replied her sister; "but Margaret, if I cannot be of use to you, I must go and get ready for dinner myself;" and she hastily escaped to her own room.

When Emma descended again, she found her brother alone in the drawing-room, leaning over the fire-place, looking at a number of the "Gentleman's Magazine," which, however, he tossed on the table when Emma approached.

"Well, Emma," said he, lifting his coat-tails, and turning his back to the fire, "so your aunt has thrown you off, and herself away, has she? A pretty mess she has made of it with her marriage. Upon my word, women are entirely unfit to be trusted with money in any shape, and there ought to be a law against old fools of widows marrying again. How our uncle could be such a confounded ass as to leave everything in her power, I cannot conceive! Any one could have foreseen what has happened. I hope the young husband will plague her heart out—no doubt he will lead her a wretched life—she deserves it. But I think the old gentleman might have given you something—a thousand pounds or so would have done very well for you, and the rest would have been most particularly acceptable to me just now. There was an investment offered itself, a month or two ago, in which I could have, beyond a doubt, doubled five thousand pounds in a very short time, and it was particularly cutting to be obliged to let it pass me, because that old man had behaved so shabbily. Upon my life, it makes me quite angry when I think of it—and just to throw you back upon my father's hands, without a sixpence—a burden—a useless burden upon the family—what could he be thinking of!"

Emma was too much overcome by the many bitter feelings this speech raised, to be able to reply; and her brother, seeing her tears, said:

"Well, I did not mean to make you cry, Emma; there's no good in that—though I do not wonder that you should be mortified and disappointed too. Girls are nothing without money—no one can manage them but you shall come and try your luck at Croydon. Perhaps, with your face, and the idea that you have still expectations, you might get off our hands altogether. There was a young man at Croydon who was very near taking Margaret. I really believe, would have had her, if she had only a couple of thousand pounds, but you can but do your best, so there, don't cry."

Before Emma had time to do more than wipe her eyes, her sister-in-law entered the room very smart, and in high spirits, to find herself more handsomely dressed than either of the Miss Watsons. She was much discomposed, however, to find that her husband had not changed his coat, or dressed his hair.

"My dear Mr. Watson," cried she, "how comes this about? Don't you mean to make yourself tidy before dinner?"

"Do let me alone, Jane," said he, impatiently shaking off her hand; "I trust I am tidy enough for my wife and sisters."

"Oh! but do come up, for my sake, and put just a sprinkle of powder on your hair? I will do it in a moment for you. You really look quite undressed; upon my word, I am ashamed of you. Your coat all dirty, and quite unfit to be seen—do come."

"Do go! For goodness sake, do let me alone," said he, shrugging his shoulders. "You women, who think of nothing but bedizening yourselves out, fancy we have nothing else to do either. You are fine enough for us both, so pray let me alone."

Mrs. Watson covered her mortification by an affected laugh, and retreating to the sofa, cried out:

"Emma, do come, and let me have a little conversation with you, there's a good girl."

Emma coloured, but obeyed the summons; and her sister, after surveying her dress with satisfaction, seemed, for a moment, to hesitate how to begin.

"You do not dress your hair, Emma, quite en rÈgle—you understand French, I suppose, now look at mine—your curls are too long—really, it's a pity, for you have pretty hair—a nice color—very much the same as mine. How odd," laughing, "that you should be so dark—like me—all your sisters quite fair—you should not put your tucker so high—mine is quite the ton—you see how the lace is arranged—how do you like Winston? I suppose you have not much company? I dare say, it is dull; you shall come to Croydon, as Margaret will not go back, and I will shew you a little of the world. Have you been used to much company?"

"Not much," replied Emma.

"Well, then, Croydon will be a pleasant change. I wonder at that, however, I thought your uncle was a man of wealth. My father saw so much society; and, at my uncle's, Sir Thomas, I am sure I have met the best company in London."

"Indeed," said Emma, not very well knowing what else to say.

"In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though my friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London; now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little, they did very well for her. I seldom wear them a second time. You will come to Croydon—will you not?"

"Thank you, not this winter; you are very kind in asking me; but I have been so short a time at home."

"Oh! but you must: I assure you, you will have much the best chance in the winter, there are so many more young men in the country then. But, perhaps, you have left your heart in Shropshire. Have you any little charming love story to confide to me. Ah! you may trust me—I assure you I am very discreet—I never betrayed Margaret the least in the world."

Emma again declined the proposed visit to Croydon. Her sister-in-law looked much surprised, and not quite pleased.

"Well I should have thought our house might have some attractions for a young lady of your age; however, of course you know best, I hope you will find something more pleasing here."

Emma was spared the trouble of replying by the entrance of Margaret and Elizabeth, who were immediately engrossed by attentions to Mrs. Robert, which soothed her into complacency again. Dinner speedily followed; the early hour was a subject of comment on the part of the visitors.

"Dear me, I wonder when I dined at three o'clock before—really a little change is quite amusing, I am so glad you did not think it necessary to alter your hour for me."

"I certainly would have fixed on any hour agreeable to you, Jane," replied Miss Watson good humouredly, "but my father has so long been used to this time, that it would be very unpleasant to him to alter it. But I dare say it seems very gothic to you."

"Oh, pray do not think any apology necessary, my dear child; you know what an accommodating creature I am. There is nothing I hate half so much as having a fuss made about me. Now really in some places where I go, they will make me of so much importance, treat me so much as a visitor—in short, I may say, look up so much to me, that upon my word it is quite overpowering."

"I know you are very good-natured, to put up with our deficiencies as you do, Jane," replied Elizabeth simply and sincerely, "and no doubt they must strike you forcibly. I wish we could treat you better, but I hope you can make a good meal even at three o'clock; you see your dinner, all except a roast turkey which is coming presently."

"A roast turkey, Elizabeth!" said her sister-in-law, "after all this profusion which I see around me. Upon my word, I am ashamed of giving so much trouble; positively ashamed: such a dinner, and all for me. Really I must forbid the roast turkey—I insist on that not being brought. I cannot hear that you should be so put out of your way."

"But, my dear Jane," observed Elizabeth, "since the turkey is roasted, it may as well come in here, as remain in the kitchen. Besides, I am in hopes my father may be tempted to take some, as it is a favorite dish of his—so the roast turkey we must have."

"Well, as you please," said the other lady, "only I hope you will not expect me to take any of it; I must protest against partaking any of it at all."

"Do as you please, Jane," said her husband, interposing, "but because you reject the turkey, I see no reason why I should be deprived of it, so I must beg Elizabeth not to mind your nonsense."

The party, after leaving the dining-room, were sitting amicably in the best parlour, Robert Watson apparently asleep in an easy-chair, and his lady holding forth to her sisters-in-law about her parties, her acquaintance, and her manner of living at Croydon, when the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel under the window, followed by the house-bell, drew their attention and aroused their curiosity; who could it be? perhaps Penelope, returned suddenly from Chichester—it was just like her to come without giving notice; perhaps Sam, but he was so unlikely to come at all—nobody could decide—but the opening door seconding Jenny's voice, revealed the mystery, and shewed Tom Musgrove!

Mr. Musgrove's share of the surprise was great—quite as great as what he intended to occasion—when instead of being shewn into the little dingy sitting-room as usual, and finding the two Miss Watsons sitting, as he expected, by the melancholy light of a pair of sixes—he was ushered into the best drawing-room, graced by the uncovered chandelier and best sofa; and encountered in a blaze of wax candles, which almost dazzled him, a group of ladies dressed for company. He really hardly knew where he was, and glanced round with excessive astonishment.

"Really, Miss Watson," cried he, whilst shaking hands with her, "I must apologise for this intrusion; I did not know you had company."

"You are exceedingly welcome," replied Elizabeth, with much more good-nature than Emma approved. "It is my brother and sister: they only arrived to-day."

"Yes," said Robert, who, on surveying Tom's appearance, so elegant and finished as it appeared to him, in point of dress, felt much mortification on remembering his own unpowdered hair, and morning coat; "yes, we have not been long in the house—not long enough, you see, to change our travelling costume: but just in time to sit down to dinner."

Emma's cheeks glowed in spite of her wishes, at this speech, and she stole a glance at the wife to see how she bore it. That lady's eyes seemed merely to speak an internal triumph as she looked at her husband, as if she meant, at the first convenient opportunity, to enforce the propriety of Robert's taking her advice in future.

"Never apologise for your dress, my good sir," cried Tom, shaking hands with him; "at least, not to me, for I shall consider it a reflection on my own vile dishabille. But the fact is, I was passing this way, being on my return from Osborne Castle, where I have been spending a few days, and I could not go so near, without just stopping to enquire how Mr. Watson goes on."

Margaret, who ever since his entrance, had been trying to attract his attention, could now be repulsed no longer. She would speak, and be spoken to; and the tone and manner in which she addressed Mr. Musgrove, together with the pains she took to secure his having a chair next her when they all sat down, showed Emma that she was by no means reduced to despair about his supposed attachment.

"It is long since we have met," said she, in a soft, whispering voice, looking up in his face with what was intended for an endearing smile.

"A week or two," said he, carelessly.

"Fie, naughty man—it is a month—a whole month—you ought not to be a worse reckoner of time than myself—it was very kind of you to come and welcome me home."

"Don't thank me for that: I did not know you were here, I assure you; I knew you were not at the ball; but I thought it was a sore throat, or something of that sort kept you away: have you really been gone a month!—I could have sworn I saw you a week ago. Your sister has come, I suppose, since you left?"

"Emma! oh yes, charming Emma—imagine my feelings at meeting her—I was so anxious, but so fearful—timid as I am, you can fancy how afraid I should feel at meeting a new sister. Can you not understand the feeling?"

"Not the least in the world," cried Tom aloud; "I cannot fancy any one afraid of meeting Miss Emma Watson."

"Is she not lovely—I think her quite beautiful—but, perhaps, you do not admire dark complexions—tell me, which do you like best—brunette or blonde."

Tom hesitated. Margaret herself was fair, which would alone have been a sufficient reason for his asserting a preference for an olive skin—but then Miss Carr was fair likewise—and he was a great admirer of Miss Carr's. He, therefore, replied evasively—

"Your sister's is, no doubt, a very lovely complexion—I like dark beauties excessively—but now and then one sees a blonde, whose tint is relieved from the insipidity which usually attends it—Miss Carr, for instance—did you ever see Fanny Carr?"

"No," said Margaret, almost pouting.

"She has the loveliest skin I ever saw—and a very nice little thing is Fanny Carr, independent of her complexion—a very nice, lively, bewitching little fairy, with those she likes—though, to be sure, she can be disagreeable enough, I am told—but, Miss Watson," continued he, jumping up to put an end to Margaret's whispers, "do let me help you at the tea-table—why will you not make me of use—pray don't scruple to call on me—I love to be of use to the fair."

"I know no way in which you can possibly assist me," replied Elizabeth, "until the tea is ready to be handed round—unless you will talk to and amuse my sister, Mrs. Robert, whilst I am obliged to sit here."

This was a task which exactly suited Tom, as to a married woman, he might be as gallant as he chose with perfect safety, and he devoted himself with great zeal to this object. Nothing could prevail upon him to take tea yet—as he had not dined, and he could not drink tea first.

"I dare say you dined three hours ago," said he, "but I, you know, keep bachelor's hours, and at Osborne Castle we never sat down to dinner until six or seven o'clock."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Robert, "but you must not suppose that I am used to such early hours; at Croydon, I dare say it is nearer five than four when we dine."

"That would be too early for me," cried he, with a smile of superiority, "I would as soon it were three as five—seven, or indeed eight, suits me better; and I must get home to dinner to-night."

It was evident that the fact of his not having dined, gave him a happy consciousness of vast mental superiority over his companions. But Emma found herself sadly deceived in the hopes which she had ventured fondly to cherish, that the dinner awaiting him would hasten his departure. On the contrary, when the tea-things were removed, and the card-table produced, a very slight hint from Mrs. Watson was quite sufficient to draw from him a speech, which beginning with a statement of the necessity of quitting them, ended, of course, with an assertion of the impossibility of tearing himself away: and he was then quite ready to join their party; keeping his dinner still in waiting, as a subject to be reverted to whenever other topics failed him.

"Well, ladies," cried he, "what are we to play—what's your favorite game, Mrs. Watson."

"Oh, we play nothing but Vingt'un at Croydon," said she, "all the best circles play Vingt'un—it is decidedly the most genteel."

"Vingt'un—hum—very well—let it be vingt'un then," said Tom; "it's a long time since I played it; Lady Osborne likes loo best—indeed, I believe amongst people of at certain rank, loo is all the rage—but, however, since you are bent on—commerce, was that what you said, Mrs. Watson?"

"Oh, dear no," cried she, colouring, and overawed by the superiority of his tone, "I merely mentioned vingt'un, but I quite agree with you, it is rather a stupid game, and I am quite tired of it. Suppose we try loo to-night?" And she privately resolved to store up in her memory the important fact, that Lady Osborne preferred loo to vingt'un, and on her return to Croydon, astonish her former acquaintance with her intimate knowledge of her ladyship's taste and habits.

"As I happen to prefer loo to vingt'un," said Robert Watson, ashamed of being supposed to following any one's fashions, yet, from habitual servility to the great, afraid of asserting a difference of opinion; "I see no harm in playing it, otherwise, had I liked any other game better, I should certainly have seen Lady Osborne at Jericho before I would have allowed her to interfere."

An idea crossed Emma's mind, that in all probability nothing could be farther from Lady Osborne's wishes or notions, than influencing their choice of a game; and that if their debate could possibly be revealed to her, she would, perhaps, consider it impertinent in them, to make her diversions a pattern for theirs. Loo, however, they were fated to play; and Emma, who hated cards, thought with regret of the quiet evenings she had formerly enjoyed so much, when chatting over her needle-work with Elizabeth, or reading at intervals to her father some favourite author.

Their party did not break up until supper-time, of which, of course, Tom Musgrove was pressed to stay and partake. But he, who was determined to call his next meal a dinner, felt himself forced to refuse, although, in truth, he would much rather have accepted the offer, could his vanity have allowed him to follow his inclination.

Mrs. Watson whispered to her sister, to ask him to join them at dinner the next day, which Elizabeth acceded to with great cordiality. They were to have a few friends to dinner, and if he could condescend to eat at five o'clock, perhaps he might find it in other respects agreeable, and they would be happy to see him. He hesitated and demurred, not from any doubt as to his final determination, but because he meant to give his acceptance a greater grace.

"As I am well aware of Mr. Musgrove's habits of intimacy with my sister," said Mrs. Watson, simpering; "I shall conclude, if he refuses now, it is poor unfortunate me, whom he despises and avoids."

"My dear Mrs. Watson," cried he, "you prevent my saying another word; everything must give way before such an accusation. Even if Lord Osborne himself sends for me—which is not unlikely—I shall refuse to attend on him for your sake. Only do not expect me, Miss Watson, to make any figure at your hospitable board. I shall be happy to look on, as a spectator, but eating indeed must be quite out of the question."

"Very well; you shall do as you please, remember five o'clock."

"What a very delightful young man," cried Mrs. Watson, as soon as he left the room. "Upon my word, I do not know when I have met one more perfectly well bred and gentleman-like. I look upon myself to be a pretty good judge—having had much opportunity of judging—more than most young women, both at my dear father's, and my uncle Sir Thomas's; and, really, in my poor taste, he is quite the thing. Such charming vivacity, and yet, such attention when one speaks—and he really seems to understand and appreciate one's feelings and sentiments so thoroughly—and such a graceful bow; I assure you I am quite delighted."

Elizabeth cast a triumphant look at Emma, as much as to say:

"Now, what do you say?" but Emma's judgment was not to be lightly shaken. Margaret looked down amiably modest and tried to blush, whilst she whispered:

"I am so glad you liked him. I knew you would! Was it not attentive to call to-day!" from which Emma inferred, that she took the compliment of his call entirely to herself.