The Younger Sister: A Novel, Vol. II.

The invitation to the important party was not for an early date; ten days must elapse before the arrival of the day expected to bring so much happiness with it. The comfort of the Watson family suffered alternations which could only be compared to the ebbing and flowing of the tide, but that their recurrence could not be calculated on with equal certainty. When the pleasure she was to enjoy occupied her mind, Margaret was comparatively happy; the arrangement of her dress, the minor difficulties about ornaments and shoes, were even then sufficient to destroy her equanimity, and detract from her peace of mind; but this was nothing to the state of acidity and fermentation which her temper presented, when the grand insult of not being Miss Osborne's friend, and not invited to stay at the Castle, recurred in vivid colors to her memory.

But three days before the important morning, a very unexpected event threw the whole family into a ferment. Just as the two elder sisters were setting off to the town, to see if their new bonnets were making the progress which was desirable, the sudden appearance of a post-chaise startled them. Emma, who was in her father's room as usual, heard the wheels on the gravel, and naturally supposing that it was the old pony-chaise leaving the door, was perfectly astonished the next minute by the startling uproar which resounded through the hall. Loud laughter, and a mingled clatter of tongues, which might almost be denominated screaming, convinced her that whatever was the origin, it was not of a tragic nature, but her awakened curiosity made her long to know the cause, through she feared to move, as her father had fallen into a gentle doze. A shriller exclamation than before suddenly roused him from his slumber, and starting up he exclaimed:

"What are those confounded women about? Emma, go and bid them all be quiet."

Emma escaped from the room to obey his behest, and on reaching the turn of the stairs paused a moment to see who was there; just then she caught her own name.

"Emma is at home," said Margaret, "and as I really want to go, I shall not mind you. Pen, you can go and sit with her."

"Very well, it's all the same to me," replied a stranger, who she inferred was her unknown sister, "I am sure I don't want to keep you at home." And as she spoke she turned again to the door, "I say driver, you just get that trunk lifted in, there's a good fellow, and see you don't turn it bottom upwards, my man, or I vow I won't give you a sixpence—do you hear?"

The driver grinned and proceeded to pull down the trunk, whilst Penelope Watson stood at his elbow, and flourished an umbrella in her hand, very much as if she meant to enforce her threats with blows.

When satisfied, however, with the care which he took of her property, she had paid and dismissed him, she turned to her sisters, exclaiming:

"There, now you may bundle off too, as fast as you please, my bonnet and gown and all are in that trunk, and you shall not see them till I put them on, lest you should try and copy them."

"How very ill-natured," cried Margaret.

"No, it isn't, what becomes me would never suit you, so I only prevent you making a fright of yourself. Where's Emma? I want to see her."

"Here I am," said she timidly advancing, for Penelope's loud voice quite overpowered her courage.

"Here I am," mimicked Penelope, advancing towards her, "and how does your little ladyship do, pray? Why are you so long coming to welcome your new sister? I am sure you ought to have learnt more affection from Margaret."

Emma did not know what to answer to this attack, but looked at Elizabeth rather distressed.

"Never mind, Penelope," replied Miss Watson to her look, "she always says what she pleases; well, Margaret is waiting in the chaise, so I must go; Emma, will you take Pen to my father?"

And Elizabeth hastened away as she spoke.

Penelope turned to her remaining sister, and surveyed her from head to foot—

"Well," said she, "I suppose I had better go and report myself first, and then I can settle about my things; upon my word, Emma, you are very pretty, I am so glad you have dark hair and eyes; Margaret makes me quite sick of fair skins, by her nonsense about her own. Here I am, sir," cried she, advancing into her father's room as she spoke, "come to waken you all up; I am sure the old house looks as if it had gone to sleep since I went away, and there is the same fly on the window, I protest, as when I was last in the room. How do you do, my dear sir?"

"None the better for all the confounded clatter you have been making in the hall, I can tell you; I thought you had brought home a dozen children at your heels, judging from the uproar you created. What mad freak has possessed you now, Penelope?"

"Oh! I came for two things—one was to go to the Osborne Castle ball—the other I'll tell you by-and-bye."

"You are always racing over the country, and bent on having your own way, I know."

"So is every one; but they don't all know how to get it, so well as I do; but I see I'm disturbing you, so I shall go and unpack my rattle-traps—Emma come with me."

Emma seemed to obey instinctively—but she felt no pleasure in accompanying her sister. Her voice, look and manner, were alike uninviting, and she felt inclined to shrink from her. Penelope went to the parlour, and stirring the fire, drew in a chair close to the chimney—placed her feet upon the fender, and then turning abruptly round to her sister, said—

"So it is all your doing, is it, our going to the castle balls; it is really something new—Margaret wrote me word you and Miss Osborne were bosom friends?"

Emma coloured, but did not know what to say in reply.

"How sheepish you look, Emma," cried her sister, "one would think you were ashamed of it all; I am sure I think it vastly clever of you to get up a friendship with Miss Osborne, or a flirtation with her brother. I've a great respect for girls who know how to push their way and make the most of circumstances. What sort of young fellow is Lord Osborne?,"

"Plain and quiet," replied Emma.

"As if I did not know that," cried Penelope, "why, I've seen him hundreds of time, child; almost before you were born. I mean is he pleasant?—can he talk nonsense?—does he know how to make himself agreeable?"

"That must depend upon taste," replied Emma, "he never was particularly pleasant to me; and, as to his talking, it's neither good sense, nor good nonsense."

"Do you know what good nonsense is, Emma?" cried Penelope, "Why, then, I dare say you may not be quite detestable."

"I should hope not," said Emma, trying to smile.

"I thought your uncle might, perhaps, have made a Methodist of you, and that would not have suited me. Those musty old doctors of divinity have, sometimes, queer notions."

"I must beg, Penelope, when you mention my late uncle, you will do so with respect," said Emma, with spirit.

Penelope looked surprised—and, for a moment, was silent; when next she spoke it was to question Emma minutely, as to the quality, price and texture of her dress, for the important day and night in prospect.

"I expect Margaret will be ready to expire with envy, when she sees the real Indian muslin that I mean to wear," pursued she, in a tone of great satisfaction; "I am not going to tell you how I came by it—for that's a great secret for some days to come. Is not Margaret horridly jealous?"

Emma looked shocked.

"Oh, I see!" laughed Penelope, "you are too good to abuse a sister—quite a Miss Charity or Miss Meek of a good little girl's prize book. But, if you like to sit like a goose weighing every word you are about to utter, I can tell you that does not suit me at all. I always say what comes into my head, without caring for anybody."

As Emma, however, did not follow the same method, she did not express how very unpleasant a course she considered it; and the sisters did not quarrel then.

"How has Margaret got on with Tom Musgrove?" continued Penelope, "by-the-bye, have you seen Tom Musgrove, yourself?"

"A little," said Emma.