The journey to Croydon was safely performed and as expeditiously as could be expected by three young ladies and a quantity of luggage travelling through cross roads with post-horses. Margaret was quite at home in the streets of Croydon and its neighbourhood, and pointed out to whom the various houses belonged with a feeling of exultation, as if knowing the names of the owners when her sisters did not were the next thing to possessing them herself. The bright green door, with its brass-handled bell, was easily recognised by the large plate bearing the owner's name which adorned it.

The door was opened by a footman who informed them that master was at the office, missus was out in the town, but they could step into the drawing-room whilst they waited for her return. With evident nonchalance, and something like insolence, he assisted the post-boy to unload the carriage, and summoning the house-maid, enquired if she knew what was to be done with all them things. The waiting-woman decided that nothing could be ventured on till the missus came home; she had changed her mind so often about the rooms, that it was quite uncertain what would be settled on at last; and if she should happen to alter her arrangements whilst she was out, it was evident they would have had all their trouble for nothing. The three girls were therefore sentenced to sit in the parlour during the interval, which Emma could not help feeling might have been more profitably employed in unpacking and arranging their property.

There was little to amuse them during their temporary confinement. A copy of "The Lady's Magazine," containing the recent Parisian fashions, was instantly seized on by Margaret; a cookery-book and a child's doll were lying beside it, and a cat and a kitten were reposing on the hearth rug, which, judging from its texture and the ugliness of its pattern, was probably the work of some domestic needle. Some uncommonly rare paintings hung against the walls—rare from the total want of taste harmony and merit which they displayed. Beside them were two most striking portraits which were considerately labelled as intending to represent the master and mistress of the house, thereby preventing such mistakes as to identity as might have occurred. The carpet was faded, the chairs and couch covered with slippery black horse-hair, bumping up into hard offensive things called cushions; the table was covered with green-baize much stained with wine, and the easy chair by the fire showed the exact spot where the owner was accustomed to repose his powdered and pomatumed head.

Presently the door opened and the little girl appeared. Margaret instantly rushed up to embrace her, but the child, who seemed peculiarly self-possessed for her age, repulsed her.

"I did not come here to see you, aunt Margaret," said she. "Which is Emma?"

"I am," said Emma advancing, and pleased to be called for.

Her niece considered her attentively with an air of surprise, then said, "But you are quite tidy and clean—not ragged and dirty!"

"No my dear," replied Emma smiling at her puzzled look; "why did you expect to see me otherwise?"

"Because the people my nurse tells me are beggars in the street go without shoes, and wear old clothes."

Emma coloured slightly and made no reply, but Margaret, pressing forwards, again asked what that had to do with aunt Emma.

"Papa and mama said she was a beggar, and I thought she would look like them—but she is nice and looks good, and I will not mind you teaching me at all: will you make me pretty frocks?—mama said you should."

"I shall be very glad, love," replied Emma, "to do anything I can for you and your mama too; will you sit on my knee and tell me what I shall make your frocks of?"

Whilst Emma was making friends with her little niece, Mrs. Robert Watson herself arrived. She received her sisters-in-law with more cordiality than Emma expected from the epithet applied to herself, which the child had just betrayed. In fact she was rather pleased than otherwise at this accession to her family; she felt that she had secured a careful assistant to the cook in Elizabeth, who was well versed in the mysteries of pastry and custards, cakes, jellies, and raised pies; and in Emma she hoped to find a competent nursery-governess who would relieve her of all cares as to the child, and supply, unsalaried, the place of the nurse-maid, to whom, under this impression, she had already given warning.

After chatting some time with them, she rang for the house-maid to show them to their rooms, and the child declared she would accompany them as aunt Emma's room was close to the nursery. And so Emma found it was, for she was shown into a small closet containing a bed with room to walk round it, an old chest of drawers and a high stool. This was her apartment. There was no chimney, and the window looked out upon a small space of flat leads, surmounted by high, black, tiled roofs. It had commenced raining since they entered the house, and the gurgle of the water in the gutter, and drip from the window on the leads had a peculiarly monotonous sound. Emma looked at the forlorn and cheerless closet, and felt she was a beggar indeed. She hoped, however, that when her boxes and books were brought up she should be able to make it a little more comfortable; at least she had it to herself, and should be able to pass her time there in peace.

Her niece dragged her off to see the nurseries—the two rooms devoted to her occupied the rest of that floor, they were spacious and in every respect comfortable, except that they were littered with playthings which their owner apparently had not learnt to value.

As it drew near to the dinner-hour Emma ventured down stairs, and found her brother and his wife in the parlour. Robert received her in his usual manner: in another moment her two sisters entered, and they sat round the fire whilst waiting for dinner.

"I hope you like your rooms, girls," said Mrs. Watson; "I thought it would not matter putting Elizabeth and you together, Margaret, because I know it's only for a time. I have heard—a little bird whispered to me a certain story which you need not blush about—of a certain young man—I know who—and I am sure I congratulate you: when did you hear from him last, my dear?"

"Oh, my dear Jane I have not heard from him at all. Ever since the evening when he proposed he has disappeared from the country, and I cannot find out where he is gone, nor induce him to make any answer to my repeated letters."

"Indeed! that's very odd—do you think he means to break his engagement?"

"I cannot tell what he means, for my own part; I think some one has been slandering me to him, telling him things to my disadvantage, or perhaps intercepting one of my letters. Oh, I have thought of a thousand reasons for his silence, without charging him with infidelity, and I console myself with the hope that when the romantic interruption to our correspondence is removed, and the mystery which now envelops the affair is cleared away, that I shall find he has been suffering as much from the misunderstanding as myself."

"I am sure I hope you may—but are you certain there is no mistake on your part?" said her sister-in-law; "are you sure that he really proposed to you?"

"I am as positive of the fact," said Margaret, "as I ever was of anything in my life."

"Well that is a good deal," observed Robert, "for you can be pretty positive when you please. But I only wish, if it's true, you had had some witnesses—then I could have helped you."

"Would you have called him out?" enquired his wife in a tone of indifference which quite startled Emma.

"No, I should have called him in," said Robert laughing, "if the fellow refused to marry her, I would have had him up for a breach of promise, without ceremony."

"And what should I get for that?" said Margaret eagerly.

"You might perhaps have got a couple of thousands—I think I would lay the damages at three."

"Only three, Robert! I am sure that is not enough for deceiving me, robbing me of my best affections, betraying my trust—oh, three thousand pounds would be no compensation for such conduct, no adequate compensation. I am sure my heart is worth more than that."

"I dare say you think so, Margaret," replied Robert coolly; "but you might not persuade a jury to think it likewise; there would be the difficulty."

"But would you really go to law about it?" enquired Emma. "Only think how it would make you talked about."

"Well, so much the better," replied Margaret sharply; "why should I mind that? I am not afraid of being spoken of."

"It would be much better to make him pay damages than compel him to marry you," observed Elizabeth. "I always wonder women venture to do that—I should be afraid he would beat me afterwards."

"Two or three thousand pounds would secure you a respectable husband, Margaret," continued Robert. "My friend, George Millar, would perhaps take you then."

"I think I would rather marry Tom Musgrove than anybody," replied Margaret. "George Millar is only a brewer, after all, and Tom is a gentleman and has nothing to do."

"But Millar has a capital business, I can tell you," cried Mrs. Watson; "I should not mind my own sister marrying him. Why I know he used to allow his late wife more than a hundred a month to keep the table and find herself in gowns—a very pretty allowance—and very pretty gowns she used to wear."

"Aye, George Millar could count thousands for Musgrove's hundreds," said Robert, "and a capital fellow he is. I only wish you might have such luck as to marry him, either of you girls."

The conversation was interrupted by the dinner, which was a welcome sight to the hungry travellers, who had tasted nothing since their early breakfast at Winston. Their brother looked at the table with evident pride.

"Well, Elizabeth, I promised you rather a better dinner than you gave me at Winston," observed he. He had the habit of reverting to past grievances.

"You have kept your word too," replied she good-humouredly.

"Oh, my dear creature," cried Jane, "Robert told me of the shocking dinner he had—poor fellow, you certainly always managed very badly about such things; perhaps it might do you no harm if I gave you some lessons; I have rather a genius for housekeeping—at least so my friends tell me—my uncle Sir Thomas used to like me to order his dinner."

"My dear Jane, I am afraid your instructions would be quite wasted on me, unless you would give me your income to supply my wishes—when any one allows me a hundred a month for the table expenses, I will give capital dinners," said Elizabeth.

"You are not thinking of what you are doing, Jane," said her husband reproachfully, "you know I cannot eat the wing of a fowl unless it is torn properly—Emma, I'll trouble you to cut some bacon—good heavens, I cannot eat it so thick as that-you are not helping a Winston plough boy remember!"

Emma endeavoured to comply but she grew nervous, and her brother was angry, and sent for the dish that he might help himself. Emma coloured and apologised.

"You should try to oblige, Emma," said Jane coolly, "a little pains bestowed on such things, is quite as useful and essential to good breeding as painting or books. Careless ways of carving are very detrimental to the comfort of a family, and though it may seem of no importance to you, it makes all the difference to a delicate palate—one used to the niceties of life—a gentleman in fact."

Emma felt, though she did not say, that there was no delicacy of feeling, whatever there might be of palate, in her sister-in-law—but she wisely held her tongue on the subject.

After dinner the little girl made her appearance, and immediately required of her mother a share in the walnuts on the table.

"My precious one, you must have them peeled for you."

"Yes, mama, peel them."

"No, my darling, they stain my fingers—ask your aunt Emma, I dare say she will do it."

The child crept to Emma, "Good-natured aunt, peel me some walnuts."

Emma readily agreed to do so, wishing, so far as lay in her power, to shew that she really was anxious to oblige. The little girl seated herself on her knee, and endeavoured at first to assist in the operation, but soon relinquished the attempt, and contented herself with slyly dropping the walnut shells down Emma's neck, and slipping them under her gown, a playful trick which amused her mother excessively when she discovered it, and gave Emma the trouble of going to her room to undress, before she could free herself from the disagreeable sensations they occasioned.

The conversation before dinner still dwelt heavy in her mind; she felt persuaded that the time would come, when she and Miss Osborne too must step forward to prove the truth of her sister's words, and she shuddered at the idea. She felt that she must make some apology, or at least some announcement of her intentions to Miss Osborne, before she could venture to risk such very unpleasant consequences to them both: and she determined to write to her, and tell her the circumstances as they occurred, and ask her to support and substantiate her word when it came to be questioned.

Her head was too weary and dizzy to undertake anything of the kind that night, but she resolved not to defer it very long for Margaret's sake.

A day or two passed on, and Emma began to wonder when she should find time for writing the projected letter. Her sister-in-law kept her so fully employed, that a spare quarter of an hour was not to be had; her talents with needle and scissors had attracted Jane's observation when at Winston, and now they were put into constant requisition in mending the child's wardrobe, or improving the mother's. Her niece's lessons were likewise turned over to her, for she was to learn her alphabet, her parents expecting her to be a little prodigy, and Emma must spare no pains to produce the desired result. Take this as a specimen of their usual routine.

"I wish, Elizabeth, now you seem to be at leisure," said Jane entering the parlour, "you would just go and teach my cook to make those custard puddings, and if you would put her in the way of making almond cakes, such as you had at your father's, I should thank you. We have some friends coming to tea, and I should like them to taste those."

Elizabeth, who was just taking up her needle to mend a garment of her own, very good-temperedly put it away, and repaired to the kitchen to superintend her sister's confectionary affairs.

"Now, Emma," cried Jane, turning to her, "I'll call Janetta, and you shall give her a lesson, I should like her to know the 'Busy Bee' to say to the visitors to-night."

"That little darling," exclaimed Margaret, as her sister brought in the child, "has quite her mother's talents—my sweet pet," stroking down her hair as she spoke, "my little beauty will grow up a clever, good woman like mama some day, will you not, dearest."

"Like me, dearest Margaret? do not wish her such an evil, a poor weak creature like me—the child of impulse, the slave of excitement. May she be better and happier than her poor mother!"

Emma commenced the painful task of cramming infant brains with what they could not comprehend, for exhibition to people who did want to hear it. Jane shewed Margaret a piece of work she wanted done, and then threw herself into a lounging chair.

"Who do you expect here this evening, Jane?" enquired Margaret, "I did not know you meant to have company."

"It's a country client of my husband's who is coming to dine," replied Mrs. Watson, "and I asked one or two friends to meet him; one cannot very well help that, or else I don't know that just now, considering how lately your old father died, that I should have had any company—but Mr. Terry is a man of much influence!"

All Emma's sensitive feelings recoiled at this indifferent reference to their recent loss; that he was Robert's father likewise, did not seem to occur to his wife, who had never looked on him with either affection or respect. Meantime the little Janetta—for such was her niece's name, made but small progress towards acquiring the much desired learning; and presently, her mother, turning sharply round, cried out:—

"I am sure, Emma, you are taking no pains about that child—for she is so quick in general, at learning any thing; I must say, considering the circumstances, and the liberality with which your brother has received you, it is not asking such a very wonderful favor, requesting you to attend a little to his child."

"I am sure, I am very happy to do so," replied Emma, meekly; "but your little girl does not seem disposed to attend to me."

"That must be the fault of your manner of instructing then; you do not adopt an interesting way; but I have observed, constantly, where most gratitude is due, least is paid; Janetta, darling, does not your aunt teach you nicely?"

"I want to look at aunt Emma's watch," replied the child, "I hear it ticking in her pocket, and she says I must not see it till I have done!"

"How came you by a watch, Emma?" enquired Mrs. Watson, in a tone which seemed to imply a suspicion of its being honestly acquired. "Let me see it!"

"It was a gift from my uncle," replied poor Emma, producing it rather unwillingly.

It was a very handsome one, and had her name engraved inside the lid.

"I want a watch very much—mine is not to my taste," observed Mrs. Watson, greedily eyeing her sister-in-law's property. "You would not like to exchange, would you, Emma?"

"Certainly not," replied she hastily; "it was a keepsake from him, and I would not willingly part with it for any thing."

"Don't you think you had better take Janetta to the nursery?" said Mrs. Watson, "I am sure she would learn a great deal better there than here, where we are talking. There, darling, go with Emma like a pet."

Emma saw that her sister-in-law wanted to get rid of her, but she really thought the quiet of the nursery would be preferable to the drawing-room worries, and she gladly withdrew.

"I don't quite understand that sister of yours, Margaret," said Jane, as soon as they were left together; "I think she seems very proud and unpleasant—a good deal of conceit and pertness, mingled in her manner."

"Exactly so, dear Jane, with your usual candour and penetration, you have precisely described her character."

"Yes," said Mrs. Watson, with an air of great satisfaction, "I hope I can see through people a little. If there is one quality I pride myself on, it is my penetration. I am blessed, I acknowledge, with a singular facility for discerning characters, and what I think I must say. I speak my feelings almost unconsciously!"

"You are a wonderfully clever creature, Jane; I am sure I never knew any one to be compared to you; but, as to Emma, I think it's her intimacy with the Osbornes that has set her up so abominably; really, since she has been there so much, there is no speaking to her sometimes."

"That is often the case where young girls are much noticed by those above them in rank, Margaret; I wonder what they saw in her to like so much—even if they thought her pretty—which I do not—I don't see why they should notice her for that—do you think Lord Osborne liked her?"

"I really don't know—he used to look at her—and he danced with her—and called on her—I sometimes thought he did care for her."

"I wish I could devise any means of bringing them together; if I were quite sure on that point, it would make a great difference; but I don't suppose anything will come of it now. There's the postman's knock—just step out in the passage and bring in the letters here; I know Mr. Watson is out, so I can get a peep at his dispatches now."

Margaret did as she was desired and returned presently with a handful of letters. Mrs. Watson took them on her lap and examined the post-mark and address of each. Several were, from their size and appearance, letters of business—she put them aside—over one she paused:

"Here's one in a lady's hand," said she, "and to my husband! London, I wonder who that's from? I never saw the seal before or the hand writing—there's some mystery there. I wonder whether it's from some mistress or improper person? I dare say it is—men are always deceiving one!"

"Oh, Jane!" cried Margaret, "that's impossible! You, of all people, cannot fear a rival. Robert could not serve you so!"

"Oh! the best of women, my dear, fare no better than the worst, with some men; the best of men are worth very little; and, as to Mr. Watson, he's no better than his neighbours. I can tell you I would not trust him without watching—and I'll see him open and read that letter, or my name is not Jane Watson; but let's see—" turning again to her letters; "what else have we here? One for me—one for Elizabeth—who's that from? look Margaret!"

Margaret readily obeyed, and kneeling down besides her sister's chair, looked at the letter in question.

"I think," said she, "it's from the upholsterer who purchased some of our old furniture, that's H on the seal, and his name was Hill."

"Very likely, but look, Margaret, here's one for Emma—a lady's hand too—the London post-mark, and a coronet on the seal—good gracious, that must be from Miss Osborne, or perhaps from her brother—I wonder if one could see anything inside. You see Lord Osborne has franked it, and it's in an envelope, how tiresome: if it had only been folded like another letter we could have read some of it."

"So we might, I dare say Emma will never tell us a word, she's so close, she never chats comfortably with one about anything; I am sure to this day I know nothing at all about what she thinks of Lord Osborne, or any of his family—it's so provoking and disagreeable."

"So it is, I hate such nasty close dispositions; I, who am all openness and frankness, cannot comprehend anything secret and underhand: well, we cannot help it, and I suppose we shall not know what it is about. Take those letters to the office, Margaret, and tell the clerk they were brought into the drawing-room by mistake."

Whilst Margaret fulfilled this commission, and stopped to flirt with the young clerk who received them, an old acquaintance of hers, Mrs. Watson, having first carefully laid aside the suspected epistle to her husband, proceeded up-stairs with Emma's letter, and after turning it over in every direction, and even holding it up to the light at the stair-case window, but without benefit, she suddenly entered the nursery. There she found Janetta had dropped asleep on a bed, and Emma taking advantage of the leisure thus afforded, was preparing to write a letter.

"Janetta asleep, oh!" said the anxious mother, "well then you will have time, Emma, to do a little job for me, I want some alterations in the trimmings of my bombazine gown, and I wish you would do it for me before evening."

"I shall be happy," replied Emma, "to do anything in my power to oblige you, if you will only explain it to me."

"Very well, come with me, and I will shew you what I want; oh, by the bye, here's a letter for you, I think it must be from Miss Osborne from the seal—does she write to you often?"

"No," replied Emma, surprised at hearing this, and holding out her hand for the letter which Mrs. Watson still detained to examine, "I never heard from her before since she left the country!"

"Indeed, what do you suppose she writes about—by the way, I suppose you are not accustomed to receive letters and give no account of them, are you?"

"Indeed I am," replied Emma, quite ashamed at the idea of supervision in such a particular, "I have never been controlled in either receiving or writing a letter."

"I consider that an exceedingly improper liberty for a young girl," observed Mrs. Watson drily, "at your time of life, under age, I should hold your guardian as very culpable if he took no account of your letters, and I am much mistaken if your brother does not expect, as a matter of course, to overlook all the correspondence you chose to carry on."

"Surely he cannot consider it necessary," remonstrated Emma seriously, "at my age—it is not as if I were a baby quite, but I am almost twenty."

"Possibly so, but whilst you are under age you are his ward, and must have to submit to any restrictions he lays on you with a good grace. It's no use colouring and pouting, there's nothing like bearing things with a good temper, and not giving yourself airs and graces about it. There's your letter!"

Emma took the letter, and observed, as she put it in her pocket:

"If you will show me what you want done, I shall be happy to oblige you."

"Read your letter first, Emma, it may be a matter of business, and you should never delay business—your brother always says, 'do what is to be done directly, and do it yourself.'"

Emma silently drew forth the letter, and breaking the seal read the following words:

"My dear Miss Watson,

"I am sorry to trouble you with any unpleasant subjects, but I cannot forbear mentioning a circumstance which nearly concerns your family; and when you know the particulars, you can judge for yourself. Mr. Tom Musgrove, whom I had, as you know, reason to suppose engaged to one of your sisters, is now in town, and has not only been for some time past paying great attention to a young lady of fortune, a friend of my own, but, as I understand, has denied all engagement to Miss Watson, spoken very disparagingly of her, and even shewn letters written by her under the impression that such an engagement existed. Not knowing precisely how affairs stood between your sister and Mr. M., I dare not interfere, lest by revealing what she may perhaps wish concealed, I should injure her, and mortify you. I shall not, however, feel justified in preserving silence much longer, unless I am positively assured that all engagement is at an end between them. If she has released him from the promise to which we both are witnesses, it may be important to preserve silence on its previous existence, but if, as I cannot help suspecting, he has only released himself, has deceived or deserted her, I cannot allow my friend to be misled by him, and must insist on having his conduct cleared up and set in a proper light. I am sorry to be obliged to trouble you, as I feel convinced that whether secretly deceiving, openly deserting your sister, he is certainly using her extremely ill: you know I never had a good opinion of his character. I am over-whelmed with gaiety, and look back with a feeling of regret to the tranquil hours at Osborne Castle.

"Anxiously expecting your answer,

"I remain, dear Miss Watson,

"Your sincere friend,

"Rosa Osborne."

"P.S. Mr. Musgrove's address is, 75, Bond-street.—My brother and Sir William desire all sorts of proper messages to you; have you seen the Howards lately?"

Whilst Emma was reading these words, Jane was standing near her, playing with the sheet of paper in which it had been enveloped, and anxiously watching Emma's countenance to see the effect produced by the communication. She saw enough to discover that the emotion occasioned by the contents was not of a pleasurable nature. It was something which required deliberation and consideration. Mrs. Watson grew impatient.

"Well, what is it?" cried she. "You sit there pondering and pondering as if it were a dispatch from the king himself; tell me what your difficulty is, and I will help you!"

"I think," said Emma, hesitating and embarrassed, "I think I must speak to my brother about this, and, perhaps, I had better—I mean, he would like me to consult him first, before speaking even to you!"

"Tell me what it is," said Mrs. Watson, burning with curiosity, "let me know all about it, and I can tell you if it is necessary to consult him first!"

"But if I tell you now, I cannot apply first to him," remonstrated Emma, "and so that will not do."

"Oh, but you need not tell him that you told me," said Jane; "and as I am his wife, I should be sure to know it eventually."

"Can I not go to him at once?" said Emma, rising; "it would be much better, and as it must be done, the sooner I get over it the better."

"Is it anything you are afraid of telling him then?" enquired Mrs. Watson, still more eagerly, as she followed Emma from the room. "Is it about yourself? or Miss Osborne? oh, I know—it is for Mr. Watson to draw the marriage settlements—they say she is going to be married to Sir William Gordon, is that true? or is it an offer from Lord Osborne, I wonder? how obstinate the child is; and how fast she runs, I must make haste, or I shall lose some of it."