Whilst Lord Osborne was thus hopefully planning, and Mr. Howard despondingly meditating, a very different termination to Emma's visit was impending over her. She was roused from a late and heavy slumber, natural after the sleeplessness of the preceding night, by the receipt of a note from Winston, sent over by a special messenger. Its contents were as follows:—

"Dear Emma,

"I am sadly grieved to have to tell you such bad news, but our father has been taken very ill, he had a seizure last night, up to which time he seemed quite well, and has not recovered his senses since: nor does the doctor lead us to hope that he will. I need not say come home, for I am sure that will be your first wish; I dare say they can send you, as our man is gone down to the village to fetch something for my father's use, and I cannot, therefore, send the pony-chaise.

"Yours, etc.,

"E. Watson."

Starting up in the greatest dismay, Emma instantly sent an imploring message to Miss Osborne to request an interview with her, and in the meantime hurried over her dressing and other necessary preparations with the greatest possible despatch. Miss Osborne did not make her wait long, showed the most friendly sympathy in her distress, instantly ordered a carriage to take her home, and insisted on her allowing her own maid to arrange Emma's things, whilst she attempted to take some breakfast.

To satisfy her Emma made an effort to eat, but could scarcely swallow a cup of coffee; and as the coachman did not keep her long waiting, in less than an hour from her receiving Elizabeth's note, she was on her way home. Wrapped up in fearful anticipations of what would meet her there, she had been almost unconscious of what was passing before her eyes; she had an impression that Miss Osborne had been very kind, that just at last her brother had been there also, that he had squeezed her hand at parting, with much warmth, and had said something which she did not understand about wishing to help her; she thought of it for a moment only, and then her mind again reverted to her father's situation, and her sister's distress.

The rapidity with which the journey was now performed, was a most important comfort, very different from the creeping jog-trot of their old horse, and she felt quite thankful that Elizabeth had spared her such torture as would have been caused by the delay their own chaise would have occasioned.

Before Elizabeth was expecting her she was at home, and the door proving to be open, and nobody at hand to receive her, she was obliged to have her few things set down in the passage by the footman, and then dismissed the carriage, before she was able to see any one who could acquaint her with her father's state.

Softly she looked into the parlour, the shutters were open, but the room otherwise bore no symptoms of having been disturbed since last night, the candles were still on the table, the supper tray unremoved, and the chairs all in disorder. She then proceeded up-stairs, and was just on the point of opening the bed-room door, when Elizabeth came out of it. One glance at her face told her that there was no better news in store for her.

Mr. Watson was fast sinking—he lay apparently in a deep slumber, and there seemed no probability of his ever recovering sufficiently to recognise those around him, or to speak again.

Elizabeth had been watching beside him, alternately, with Penelope through the night; the village apothecary had said there was now no more to do; all the remedies his skill could suggest had proved unavailing, and they must patiently wait the result.

Margaret had gone to bed in hysterics, and required Nanny to sit up with her, so that it was a great blessing Penelope had been at home, as she had a head and nerves which were always in good order, and knew as much of medical treatment as the doctor.

At this moment Penelope joined them; she left the patient unchanged; the apothecary and the maid were with him, and hearing Emma's voice, she had come out for a moment to meet her.

"A sad ending to our Osborne Castle festivities, Emma," said she, as she shook her hand; "who would have thought it, when we set out? Elizabeth, don't you think we ought to have better advice? I am certain that man there does not know in the least what he is about; there must be a better doctor at some of the towns round here—Bradford, or somewhere—could not we send for one?"

Elizabeth could not tell; they had never had occasion to send for a physician; and she did not know where one could be found. Emma enquired if notice of their father's danger had been despatched to their brothers; it appeared neither of them had thought of this; but it must be done immediately.

They were about twenty miles from Croydon; and by sending a letter by the mail-coach, which passed through Bradford, they knew Robert would hear the same evening, and might be at Winston easily within twenty-four hours. This much they settled on, and a note was written, and despatched by a trusty messenger, who was to catch the coach at the inn at Bradford, and then try and bring back a physician with him.

Mr. —— seemed much relieved when he learnt the project of calling in farther advice, and thus shifting the weight of responsibility from his own shoulders. He thought it probable that the patient might linger many hours, possibly two or three days; and with a promise to return in a few hours, he now took his leave for the present.

It is needless to attempt to describe all the feelings which oppressed the sisters as they sat watching the sick-bed—perhaps the death-bed of their only parent. Hours stole away, bringing no change, and no alleviation of their fears. Margaret did not join the watch; her sensibility, as she designated it, bringing on violent hysterics, which made attention and nursing necessary for her. Emma tried to soothe her, in vain; Penelope was sarcastic and bitter; Elizabeth declared she had no time to attend to her vagaries, and that she would be soon as well as any of them, if she was not meddled with.

About two o'clock they were roused by the sound of carriage wheels at the door, and Elizabeth stealing into the passage, where a window looked on the entrance, came back with the information that it was a post-chariot, from which a gentleman, dressed like a physician, had alighted, and that there was somebody else in the carriage, but she could not tell who it was.

In another moment, a card was handed into the room, with the name of Dr. Denham on it, a name which they knew belonged to a celebrated physician, residing at many miles distance. Much surprised, the girls hesitated a moment as to the meaning of this, but, of course, decided that the two eldest should descend to the parlour to receive him and his explanation immediately.

After a consultation of about ten minutes, Emma hearing their voices and steps on the stairs, quitted the room of the invalid that she might not be in the way, and when they were safely shut in there, she ran down stairs to refresh herself by a moment's breathing the fresh air.

Great was her surprise on reaching the entrance passage, to see Lord Osborne standing there, and evidently looking about for somebody. Her light footstep instantly caught his ear, and he turned to meet her with eagerness.

"Ha! Miss Watson," cried he, "I hoped to see you here; how's your father, hey—not very bad. I hope."

"Indeed he is," replied Emma, with tears in her eyes.

"Indeed, I am sorry—upon my honour—I'm grieved to hear that," looking quite compassionately at her. "Poor old gentleman—what a pity—I dare say he is a monstrous good fellow—but don't fret—I shall be quite unhappy if I think you are fretting."

Emma scarcely attended to what he was saying.

"How came you here, Lord Osborne?" exclaimed she. "Had you anything to do with Dr. Denham?"

"I'll tell you how it was," replied he, taking hold of her hand, and drawing her towards the parlour door, "only don't stand here in the cold, that's so uncomfortable. There now, sit down there, and let me sit down beside you—and I'll tell you. We know Dr. Denham very well, he's a great friend of my sister's, and she's a great favorite of his—so when she heard your father was ill, she wrote him a note, and sent me with it, to ask him as a great favour to visit Mr. Watson, for her sake—you know—and I fetched him in the carriage, so it's only the drive, and he's to take no fee, you see—he just comes from friendship to Rosa, that's all."

"I am sure we are exceedingly obliged to you all," said Emma, colouring from a variety of feelings; "it was very kind of Miss Osborne to think of it, and of you to take so much trouble."

"Do you know it gave me a great deal of pleasure—a very great deal; I don't know when ever I was happier than just while I was thinking of obliging you—I did not mind the trouble in the least."

His eyes were fixed on Emma with a far more eloquent expression than was at all usual with them, and he really seemed to think as he spoke, and to feel particularly happy.

To what extremes of eloquence his new-found felicity might have led him there is now no means of knowing; he was interrupted before he had committed himself by any very pointed declaration, by the sound of the physician's return, which startled Emma into a sudden recollection that to be found by him, sitting tÊte-À-tÊte and side by side on the sofa with the young nobleman, might perhaps not unreasonably surprise him. She therefore told him she should be wanted in the sick room, and quietly withdrew; when he, his pleasant reveries broken off thus suddenly, felt himself unequal to meeting any one else with composure, and likewise quitted the room for a seat in the carriage.

As Emma resumed her seat at her father's bedside, she could not for a moment banish the idea which had suddenly entered her mind, that perhaps after all Mr. Howard's jealousy was not ill-founded, and that Lord Osborne did entertain a more than ordinary partiality towards herself. The notion was accompanied with no feeling of self-exaltation; she was positively ashamed that it had intruded itself at such a time, and she felt that had even the moment been more appropriate, the supposition would have given her no pleasure at all. She did not want him to like her for his own sake, and she was annoyed by it for the sake of Mr. Howard's attachment.

But this was not the time when such reflections could or ought to be indulged; it was her business to think of her father, not of herself, and she roused herself to shake them off. As soon as Dr. Denham had taken his leave, her sisters returned to the sick room to tell her what he had said. He had given them no encouragement; had said there was nothing further to be done, that it was true that while there was breath there was hope, but that Mr. Watson's advanced age and broken health made a recovery most unlikely, and even a temporary return of his intellects extremely improbable.

The next morning brought no alteration in the situation of the patient, but it brought Robert Watson to the house. He came, cool and self-possessed as ever, taken up entirely with facts, not feelings, and looking decidedly as if his mind at least never quitted his office, but was still engrossed with the business there transacting. "Deeds not words," was his motto, but the deeds he delighted in would have been uninteresting to nine-tenths of the world, and seemed rather intended to mystify than benefit mankind.

Emma felt she could not love Robert; she shrank from him, and it needed all her self-command and strong sense of propriety to avoid showing how repulsive she found him. The excessive egotism of his conversation and habits seemed to yield to nothing; no feeling, no softness was evinced by his conduct. There was scarcely an emotion betrayed on seeing his father, and what little was discernible whilst in his sick room, had all vanished before he reached the parlour door.

"Well, I must say this is a most unfortunate thing," said he sitting down in his father's vacant chair and stretching out his feet to the fender; "a most unfortunate thing for me indeed: one might have calculated my father would have lived ten years more—he's not such an old man—ten years at least I had reckoned on, and you see how I am taken in. Heaven knows what is to become of you girls—there will not be more than a thousand pounds to divide between you: and it's so unlucky to happen just now, for of course you must come home to Croydon."

"That would be very unlucky indeed, at any time," cried Penelope; "but I hope not quite inevitable. I shall not live at Croydon, I promise you."

"So much the better, if you have any other plan; three on one's hands are quite enough. There must have been some great mismanagement, or some of you would certainly have married;" and Robert Watson, in a fit of vexation at his sisters' celibacy, stirred the fire into a vehement blaze.

"Well to relieve your mind," replied Pen in a sarcastic tone, "in return for the extraordinary fraternal solicitude you evince, I will inform you I am engaged to be married, and expect to be a wife in about a month."

"Are you indeed, my dear sister I congratulate you. What settlements are you to have? If the papers pass through our office I promise you I will pay every attention to see it advantageously arranged for you."

"Your liberality, my dear Robert, is most exemplary, and far beyond what I had ventured to expect of you. But I shall not encroach so far, I assure you. The marriage settlements are preparing at Chichester, and I do not anticipate that it will be even necessary for me to have recourse to the hospitality of yourself and your amiable lady."

She spoke with a strong and bitter emphasis, which Robert could not possibly misunderstand, but which he prudently resolved not to notice.

"It is a very delicate matter to talk of," whispered Margaret, who had now made her appearance, "one from which a young woman of sensibility naturally shrinks; but I will so far overcome my blushing bashfulness, as to inform you, Robert, that I too am engaged to be married, and that, therefore, delighted as I should be to reside with my dear Jane, I still hope before long to be able to receive her in my own house, and, as Mrs. Tom Musgrove, to return the kindness showed to Margaret Watson."

"What!" said Robert, staring at her with undisguised amazement, "are you mad, Margaret."

"Indeed, I hope not," replied she, simpering; "I am engaged to my dear Tom Musgrove, that's all I mean; and no doubt we shall be married in time."

Her brother still looked doubtfully at her, but after a moment's consideration, replied—

"Well, Margaret, if that's the case, you deserve more credit than I had ever thought possible, for I would not have given much for your chance with Tom—but, since you say he is engaged to you, I am heartily glad to hear it. Have you any witnesses? or was the contract in writing?"

"No, it was in the conservatory at Osborne Castle, and as to witnesses, oh, dear Robert, you don't suppose ladies and gentlemen chose to have such tender scenes pass before witnesses," cried Margaret, trying to look very young and sentimental.

"I am sure it would be a deuced deal better if they did," said he, sharply; "there would be much less trouble to their friends; and they would stand a much fairer chance of having the contract fulfilled. However, since it is so, I hope he'll keep his word, for the sake of yourself and your friends. As times go, it's not a bad match."

"A bad match—I should think not," cried Margaret, disdainfully tossing her head. "I only wish all my sisters may make half as good a one, that's all. Tom Musgrove is a man every woman may well envy me."

"I doubt if his income was ever a clear thousand a year, Margaret," replied Robert, as if that were the point on which, in his mind, the advisability of the match entirely rested. "But if he's not in debt, he may do very well. I wish Elizabeth and Emma had equal good luck, to prevent their becoming a burden on their friends."

A burden on their friends! how those words rang in Emma's ears, and grated on all the feelings of her affectionate heart. Was it possible that her brother could not only think of them in this light, but could calmly express the feeling; that he should not only be void of affection, but that even the wish to seem hospitable, kind, or generous should be wanting. What would be a home in his house—what comforts—what peace could it promise, where such an expression was to meet them ere they crossed his threshold.

Before the colour which these feelings called up had died away from her cheeks, Robert continued—

"Jane is of opinion that there must have been great want of tact and management on your part, Emma, during your visits to the Howards and the Castle, or you might certainly have turned them to better account."

"I am sorry Jane sees anything to blame in my conduct," replied Emma, meekly; "but I do not know what she expected of me."

"I told her she was far too sanguine," continued Robert; "but she would have it, that, with proper attention, you might have succeeded in securing the young lord. You must have been thrown in his way a good deal; and, certainly, for an unprovided girl like you, it becomes an important duty to omit no opportunity of advancing your own interests, and those of your family, by securing a good establishment when in your power."

Emma was silent; her prevailing feeling being too lively a sense of indignation to make it safe for her to speak.

"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.

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.