When first Robert came to Winston, Elizabeth had consulted him on the subject of sending for Sam, but her brother opposed it. Emma had listened in silent anxiety to the debate, and in keen disappointment to its termination. From her sister's conversation, she had an ardent desire to meet her unknown brother; she expected to be able to like him—Elizabeth had, in speaking of him, told many little traits of character, which convinced her that he must possess a generous disposition and an affectionate heart; she longed to see him—to know him—to be loved by him.

But Robert had decided that though he was, of course, to be informed of his father's illness, there was no need to say any thing which should induce him to come himself—no doubt it would be excessively inconvenient to his master—a needless expense to himself—perfectly undesirable in every way, and quite unnecessary; for, of what use could Sam be when Robert himself was there. He was nobody—a younger son—the most unimportant being in the world. As to his wishing to see his father again, what did that signify? People could not always have what they wished for—young men in their apprenticeship must not look for holidays; he was sure he should never have thought of any thing of the sort whilst he was serving his articles; and now, how seldom did he ever take a holiday from the office? Let Sam look to him and his application to business, if he wanted an example of steadiness and good conduct.

But Emma's wish to see her brother was not fated to be entirely disappointed, for no sooner did he receive the news of his father's death, than he obtained leave of absence from his master without difficulty, and arrived unexpectedly at Winston. She was sitting alone in the darkened parlour, when an unknown step arrested her attention; it was not the slow, measured consequential tread of Robert; it was quicker, lighter, more like one which had sometimes made her heart beat before; at least so she fancied for a moment, perhaps only because she had just been thinking of him. The footstep passed the door, then paused, returned and entered slowly.

It was not more than the doubt of a moment, as to the identity of the intruder; there was so strange a family likeness on each side, a likeness of more than features, a likeness in mind and temper, a sympathy of feeling, that the hesitation of the brother and sister was brief indeed.

"My dear Emma, how I have longed to see you," cried he advancing, "I am your youngest brother, will you not welcome me?"

The cordial, fraternal embrace with which the words were accompanied, overcame her firmness, and she burst into tears in his arms. He was much affected likewise, but struggled for composure in order to soothe her, opened the window to give her air, brought her a glass of water from the side-board, and then sitting down with his arm round her waist, drew from her all the circumstances of his father's death, and learnt that it was Robert's doing that he had not been summoned sooner. That hour repaid Emma for much that she had suffered mentally in her father's house. She had found a friend in her brother. The dearest, the least selfish, the most equal bond which nature ties; children of the same parents, sharing the same fears, the same sorrows; from that moment was laid the foundation of an affection which added so greatly to her happiness; feelings till then sleeping unknown in her heart, were suddenly awakened; and affections which almost unconsciously had been craving for subsistence, having now found an aliment to nourish and satisfy them, grew rapidly into strength and beauty.

One hour's delightful intercourse was theirs, before they were interrupted by the rest of the family; but when her other sisters entered the room, Emma could not but wonder at the indifference with which he was received both by Pen and Margaret, and imputing to him the sensitive feelings of her own heart, felt doubly pained by each cold word or careless look bestowed on her new brother.

Robert's reception, however, was the worst of all.

"So you are come, are you—hum," that was his salutation.

"Yes," replied Sam quietly, "of course you were expecting me!"

"A most needless waste of time and money, I must say—a young fellow not out of his apprenticeship, has no right to be flying over the country in this way, without any suitable reason."

Sam controlled himself so far as not to answer.

"It's throwing away your master's time in a most unjustifiable way."

"Excuse me, Robert, Mr. Allen voluntarily gave me permission to come here, and most kindly made me master of my own time for a week."

"Quite unnecessary, whilst you are an apprentice."

"I believe he thought that even an apprentice might have feeling," replied Sam with emphasis.

"You might at least have asked my opinion, I think—as your elder brother you might have consulted me, before incurring so much expense."

"Robert, I am accountable to Mr. Allen alone for my time—as to my pecuniary affairs, I am not answerable to you; and as to coming to this house, Elizabeth, who is mistress here, has told me I am welcome, and I require no more from any one. My sense of duty led me here, but depend upon it, I will ask your leave, before I intrude on your house at Croydon."

Robert turned away, and had recourse to his usual expedient when vexed, namely, stirring the fire into a vehement blaze. It was in pursuance of a system of counter-irritation, by creating a greater degree of external warmth, no doubt he counteracted the internal heat from which he was suffering.

The whole of the week which Sam spent at home, was one of consolation and comfort to poor Emma; he listened to all she could tell him, made her describe her past life, talked of her uncle and aunt, questioned her as to the effects of her change, entered into her feelings, anticipated what they must have been, sympathised warmly in them all, and was in fact a true, warm-hearted brother to the forlorn girl. Together they talked of their father, praised his amiable disposition, sorrowed for his loss; then Sam told her his prospects and wishes, confided to her his attachment to Mary Edwards, and his wavering hopes of success; his plans for his future subsistence, and his anticipations of the brilliant success which was to await him in his profession.

Emma's future prospects likewise were canvassed. He could not bear the idea of her having to reside with Robert and his wife.

"You will tell me it's wrong, I dare say," said he, "but I detest Mrs. Robert, she is so self-sufficient, so cold-hearted, and so in-sincere—indeed I wish her no ill, Emma, I am not malicious; my detestation does not go so far as that, but I cannot wish her to have your society for a constancy—it would be thrown away on her, and she would torment you to death."

"Oh no, I hope not; I trust if my home must be there, that I shall have strength of mind and patience to bear with her. You must not weaken my mind by commiseration; you should rather teach me to look forward with hope, or at least resignation; do not pity me, that does me harm."

Sam protested that Emma was in every respect much too good for such a situation, and that the moment he had a house and an income, however small, she should share it with him. Her promise to do so was as cordially given as it was required, and her heart already felt lighter and happier from her acquaintance with her dear brother.

When their father's will came to be examined, it appeared that it was dated three years previously, and that of the sum of two thousand pounds, which Mr. Watson had to bequeath, neither Emma or Robert were to receive any share. The latter had already been put in possession of all that he could reasonably expect, his father having made considerable advances to establish him in business, and at the time when the will was made, every one supposed Emma would be provided for by her uncle, and though that expectation had been entirely frustrated, it seemed that Mr. Watson had never summoned sufficient energy to alter his will, and give her any share in the little he possessed.

It did not transpire whether Robert was much disappointed at finding he was to have no further benefit from being the eldest son; perhaps the idea that Emma, by becoming entirely dependent on him, would be liable to be subject to all his caprices, and might be made a complete slave of in his house, soothed away the bitterness of his mortification. He took leave of the family immediately, and returned to Croydon, having arranged, that when everything was settled at Winston, three of his sisters should follow him there; Penelope professing it to be her intention to return to Chichester as soon as she conveniently could. Sam's week was not yet expired, and he remained with his sisters. The morning after Robert's departure, as Emma and her brother were sitting together, Margaret joined them, and sitting down beside Sam, told him with a consequential air, that she wanted very much to consult him.

"Well, Margaret, what can I do for you?" enquired he kindly.

"I want your advice on an affair of great importance, Sam, and you must promise to give it to me."

"Readily, Margaret, that's a thing you know everybody likes to be asked for, so come, let's have the whole history—I will not even require you to follow my advice when I have given it: that would be too much altogether."

"Well, listen; I am engaged to be married—what do you think of that?"

"I will tell you when I know who it is."

"Oh, I assure you it is a very desirable match, a most excellent young man—so amiable, and fashionable, and clever, as you will at once allow when you hear it is—Mr. Tom Musgrove!"

"Tom Musgrove—indeed, I am surprised, Margaret—that he should marry, and marry you, would, I own, astonish me."

"But I tell you it is a fact, Sam, we are engaged beyond all doubt, and why you should be surprised at my being his choice, I cannot understand."

"I beg your pardon, Margaret, tell me what you want my advice about—not as to accepting him I presume?"

"No, indeed—but I am in an unfortunate situation; I am so miserable; ever since the happy night at Osborne Castle, when he plighted his troth to me, we have not met, and I have heard nothing of him."

"That is very extraordinary, Margaret—nothing at all—and can you not account for it."

"No, otherwise than I am sure he is ill—nothing else could be the reason of such unexampled silence. It was after supper when he made the offer, and I cannot help fearing that the champagne and the lobster salad may have been too much for his constitution."

"Did he take much champagne then?"

"Much—no, not much, that is, not enough to—to—just you know to raise his spirits a good deal; I did not count the glasses!"

"And it was then he proposed to you—are you sure he was sober at the time, Margaret?"

"What questions you ask, Sam—sober! you quite shock me—remember you are talking to a young lady."

"Well, I will not forget that, but really I don't see anything so bad in the question, and I know no more delicate way of putting it to suit you: are you sure he was not drunk at the time?—will that do?"

"Upon my word—worse and worse, as if I should talk to a man who was drunk, what do you take me for?"

"I am sorry to offend you, my dear sister, but I have known Tom Musgrove a long time, and some times seen him very drunk. Indeed, in my opinion, he is just the sort of man to make a fool of himself first, and then of any girl who would listen to him."

"How excessively unkind you are, Sam," pouted Margaret, apparently on the point of crying—"I am quite sure you are wrong. Tom never could or would make a fool of me. He is not the sort of man at all; but, as I have heard nothing of him since that evening, I wish you to go and call on him—tell him how much pleased you are to hear of the engagement, and beg him to come and see me—there is no occasion to shut him out of the house, though we do not admit other visitors."

"That's your plan, is it? But suppose he declines altogether—suppose he should say it was a dream on your part—a delusion—a mistake; suppose that is the reason of his silence, what am I to do then?"

"Oh! if he were to do that, you must challenge him! You could not do less for such an insult to your sister, you must send him a challenge, and I could bring an action against him for breach of promise!"

"Well, if you mean to do that, I think I had better let the challenge alone; because the one might interfere with the other; if I were to shoot him, you know your action could not be brought."

"Do you mean that you will not do as I ask you?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then I think you most unkind and ungenerous; I always understood it was a brother's duty to fight with every man who insulted his sister or broke an engagement to her."

"But, allowing us such high privileges, my dear Margaret, I think I am justified in requiring proof; first, that the engagement was made; secondly, that it has been broken. I am not clear yet on either of these points."

"I see what it is, you are determined not to help me; and I think it very ill-natured and cowardly of you to stand by and see your sister insulted and robbed of her best affections, and not interfere the least for her sake."

"Indeed, my dear Margaret, I cannot see that my interference has the least chance of doing any good; if Tom was serious and sober, he will need no intervention of mine to remind him of his promises; if he was drunk and did not know what he was saying, the less that is publicly known of such a transaction, the better in every respect for your dignity."

"I see you will not take my part—you are no use at all; I shall just take my own way, and see if I consult you in a hurry again."

Whilst the silence and indifference of Margaret's lover, gave her so much concern—the attention and assiduity of Emma's, occasioned almost as much excitement in the mind of the latter. Not a day had Passed without Lord Osborne either calling himself at the door, or sending a groom with a joint message of inquiry from his sister and himself; several kind little notes had been received from the young lady, expressing concern and sympathy, and it was quite evident that they did not wish to drop the acquaintance. Nothing had been seen of Mr. Howard; but a note from Mrs. Willis, assured Emma that they had heard every day through Lord Osborne or they would have sent more frequently to enquire for her welfare.

This was consolotary, as serving to convince her that she was not forgotten at the parsonage: but she could not help murmuring a little to herself, that Mr. Howard should have so entirely withdrawn from personal intercourse. Sam had received from her, a minute history of her acquaintances at the Castle and Parsonage; and when he subsequently became aware of the visits of Lord Osborne, he immediately formed the very natural conclusion that the young peer must be in love with his sister.

Emma appeared to him so pretty and so amiable, that her being loved was the most simple and probable event; and he only wished that Lord Osborne had been more worthy of her; but the peerage and fortune of the supposed lover, did not quite blind the brother's eyes to the fact, that their owner was not distinguished by any characteristic worthy of his high birth; and Sam could not wish his sister to sacrifice domestic happiness for the glitter of a coronet, or the harmony of a title. She must have a husband who united mental and moral qualifications to those of birth, wealth and station; and if he possessed the means of advancing Sam himself in his profession, it would be so much the better.

"Did you ever, in your life, see such a fool as Margaret makes of herself, Sam?" was Penelope's observation one day, when the whole family were sitting together. "She will persist in asserting that she is engaged to Tom Musgrove, though I have taken the trouble of ascertaining that he has left home, and the servants are not sure whether he is gone to London or Bath. I asked the baker's boy to enquire, in order to set her mind at ease. I must say, I think her story very incompatible with facts."

"I am sure I am necessarily obliged to you, Penelope, for your kind way of speaking to me; but I know very well what it is, you are all envious of my good luck, and that's the reason you will none of you believe me; but, some day, I shall pay you off, you will see."

"In the mean time, I will give you ample credit, Margaret, feeling confident you will never forget a debt of that kind; but, if you are Mrs. Tom Musgrove six months hence, I will admit that I know nothing of you—nothing of Tom—nothing of men in general, and that I am little better than an idiot."

"I do not see why you should doubt it at all," cried Elizabeth, interposing, "I am sure I believe it entirely, don't you Emma?"

"The gentleman is probably gone to London to give instructions for preparing the settlements," observed Sam, gravely, preventing, by his interposition, any necessity for Emma to answer her eldest sister's question.

Margaret assented to this proposition, and Penelope took no further trouble to vex her at that moment.

Meantime all the necessary arrangements for the girls quitting their old home were made, with all possible despatch. Margaret indeed took no interest in the proceedings, contenting herself with wandering about, and fretting for Mr. Musgrove; but the others were busy from the time Sam left them; and towards the end of a month, the time for removing to Croydon, began to be discussed. Pen still held to her resolution of not visiting her brother, she determined to return to her friend at Chichester, and marry from her house; and she announced that the marriage would take place within a few weeks of her quitting her home.

Emma was sorry at parting with her—she had got over the shock which her coarse manners had at first inflicted; and they had always agreed very well since the day at Osborne Castle. In fact, what Penelope had observed there of the kindness and attention which Emma received from that family had greatly raised her sister in importance in her mind; a girl so much noticed and liked by people who had never stooped to them before must be worth agreeing with; and as there was everything in Emma's own manners and temper to recommend her to the kindly disposed, Penelope had always avoided quarrelling with her, as she constantly did with her other sisters. Consequently, Emma could not help wishing it was Margaret who was going to Chichester, and Pen who was to share their home at Croydon.

Things, however, were really better arranged than she could have ordered them, for it would have been impossible for Penelope and Jane Watson to have continued in the same house, without the certain destruction of the peace of all around. There was no one in the neighbourhood to regret, excepting Mrs. Willis, for Emma would not allow even to herself that the separation from Mr. Howard gave her any concern; and it was a satisfaction to quit the vicinity of Osborne Castle, and the scenes where she had been so happy. The Osborne family were all gone to town without her having seen anything more of them; or the suit of the young nobleman having made any progress. She did not expect ever to see them again. Her own plan for the future was to try to procure a situation as teacher in a boarding school, or private governess; anything by which she could feel she was earning the food she eat, in preference to becoming as her brother expressed it, a burden on his family. She began now to comprehend more fully than she had done before, what an evil poverty might be, and felt a vivid sensation of regret that her uncle had left her so entirely dependent on others after giving her an education which quite unfitted her for filling the situation of humble companion to her sister-in-law.

She struggled to suppress the feeling that she had been unjustly and unkindly dealt with, but it would intrude, to her great discomfort.

But though there were few people to regret amongst her associates, there were sufficient discomforts and worries of other kinds attending their removal. The dismantling of their old home—the sale of the furniture—a portion of which was taken by the succeeding rector, the rest was to be disposed of by auction; the disputes about dilapidations; the finding situations for their servants; the vain attempts to procure a purchaser amongst their acquaintance for their old horse, even the parting with the house-dog and their two cows made Emma sorrowful. Added to all this was the incessant repining of Margaret, who was fretting herself almost into a decline, at the disappearance of Tom Musgrove, and the ill-natured letters of Robert Watson, who regularly quarrelled with everything Elizabeth did or did not do; who disputed all their proposals, and suggested nothing but impossibilities himself.

Emma could not make up her mind on another point, and this was an additional worry to her. She knew that Margaret's assertions were correct, that Tom Musgrove had really made the offer which no one else believed, and she doubted whether it was not her duty to support her sister's declarations by her testimony. But this threatened to involve so great an evil, that she shrank from it; it was evident that had Robert been aware she was a witness to the proceeding, he would immediately have taken advantage of the fact to compel Tom to fulfil his promise, or threaten him with an action, in case he refused. Margaret seemed likewise to be much inclined to this course, as the determined silence and prolonged absence of her lover naturally gave her doubts of his fidelity. The idea was horrible to Emma, and the possibility of her having to appear in a court of justice was most overpowering. Elizabeth, with whom she consulted on the subject, and who, from her partiality to Emma, was far more inclined to consider her feelings than those of Margaret, advised her, for the present, at least, to hold her tongue, and see how the affair would be settled without her intervention, and from not knowing what better to do, Emma finally decided to take her sister's advice.

At length, just before quitting Winston, she had a farewell visit from Mrs. Willis and her brother, whose plan for leaving home, she was already aware, had been renounced. The lady was the same as ever, friendly and warm in her manners; but Mr. Howard looked pale and ill, and was evidently out of spirits. The visit was short; and when they parted, Emma found the interview had only added an additional pang to all the sufferings she had previously endured.

And thus, for a second time, was Emma Watson driven out from the home where she had vainly hoped to find a continued shelter, and a second time compelled to look for protection from strange relatives. It was strange that though at this moment she really had more subjects of anxiety, more sources of depression and sorrow, she bore it so much better than the first. Then she had seemed overwhelmed—now strengthened by the blow. She was learning to see life, its duties, and its trials, in a new light; she discovered that suffering was not an accidental circumstance, like a transitory illness, to be cured and forgotten as soon as possible; it was the condition of life itself—peace was the exception—and she had enjoyed her share; henceforth, she must look forward to trial and endurance, she must struggle as millions had struggled before her, and learn to draw contentment not from circumstances but from temper of mind.

Conscious that whilst in her brother's house she should probably have much to bear, she sought for strength greater than her own to go through with it; and endeavoured by viewing her expected trials, as a system of mental discipline which would benefit her, if well supported, to bring her mind into a frame to endure them with patience.