The Younger Sister: A Novel, Vol. III.

The afternoon passed away, and Margaret, who had been incessantly walking from one window to another, to watch for her lover's curricle, now began to create a new sensation for herself, by a conviction which suddenly seized on her, that some dreadful accident had happened to him. It was towards the end of March, and the lengthened days allowed them plenty of time to dine by daylight, and enjoy a long twilight afterwards; as the evening began to close in, her alarm and tribulation increased; when, at length, her fears were dissipated by seeing the curricle drive up to the door with a most important bustle, followed by a loud and prolonged knock, which instantly brought twenty heads to the neighbouring windows.

Margaret sank on a sofa, and exclaimed in feeble tones,

"He is there—my heart tells me he is there—support me, my dear sisters—support me in this trying hour."

Before any one had time to answer her, his step was heard on the stairs, and recovering as rapidly as she had appeared to lose her strength, she flew to the door and was ready to have thrown herself into his arms on the smallest encouragement. He did not, however, seem to desire her embraces, but coolly held out his hand, and enquired how she was—then, without waiting for an answer, turned and paid a similar compliment to the other ladies. She looked a little disappointed at the want of tenderness her lover displayed, but consoled herself by smoothing down the nap of his hat, which she took from his hand, and stretching out the fingers of his driving gloves—of which she also assumed the care.

At this moment, Robert Watson and Mr. Morgan, who had been sitting over their wine in the dining-parlour, appeared up-stairs, and Robert immediately suggested to Mr. Musgrove that he must want some dinner, to which the latter readily acceded.

Jane and Margaret who appeared to be almost equally interested in the new-comer, both left the room to see after the necessary preparations, and whilst they were gone George Millar came in and persuaded Elizabeth to go home with him, to take tea with his sister and mother-in-law. Robert and his new guest adjourned to the dining-room where the two ladies joined them, and Emma was left to a tête-à-tête with Mr. Morgan.

He had seated himself in a corner, and was looking over the newspaper during all the bustle attending the arrival of Tom Musgrove, and the successive entrances and exits of the several members of the party. But when they were all gone, and Emma was quietly sitting down to work, he threw away the paper and walking across the room drew a chair close to hers and seemed inclined to enter into conversation.

"How happy your sister must be," was his first speech, whilst he fixed his uncommonly penetrating eyes on her face.

"Which sister?" replied Emma, without looking up from her embroidery.

"Both must be happy," replied he; "but at this moment I imagine your sister Margaret's feelings must be the most agreeable; meeting after a prolonged absence must be so delightful. Don't you envy her?"

"I hope not," said Emma, for she was not quite satisfied with his tone and manner; there was something of sarcasm in it which she did not like.

"I did not mean envy in the bad sense," he remarked, as if comprehending her thoughts from her tone; "of that I know you to be incapable; but can you not fancy how pleasant her emotions must be when again enjoying the society of an attached and faithful lover like the gentleman in question?"

"Perhaps I can—but I must be in her situation thoroughly to enter into her feelings," said Emma rather wishing to drop the subject.

"And hitherto you have not been placed in this interesting situation?"

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Morgan made this comment, with his eyes fixed on her countenance, that gave it rather the character of a question than a reply. She felt offended at his manner and tone, and proudly raised her head with a look which seemed to ask what right he had to enquire on that subject. He understood her meaning, but did not seem inclined to take any notice of it, proceeding in the same way to observe,

"They whose hearts are untouched cannot of course understand all the pleasing emotions which the sight of a beloved object raises after a prolonged absence—nor indeed does it require a prolonged absence to give occasion to the emotions I speak of. A month, a fortnight, even a week passed without the intercourse which becomes dear and therefore necessary, is sufficient to raise a variety of pleasing but most overpowering feelings in an affectionate heart."

"Very likely," replied Emma coolly, and then she added immediately an enquiry as to whether he thought the next change of the moon would bring them more settled weather.

He answered that he could not tell, and then added,

"Do you not think your future brother, Mr. Musgrove, is a very charming young man?"

"I have often heard him called so," said Emma; "but you know it is not my business to be charmed with him," smiling a little as she spoke.

"You are most discreet," said he, delighted that she appeared inclined to relax a little from her former gravity; "but to tell you the truth I should not have expected, from what I know, that you would be charmed with him."

"From what you know of him or of me?" inquired Emma.

"Of you both, but especially of you: it is not for nothing that I have been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would attract you, Miss Emma, must possess more good qualities than Mr. Musgrove can boast of."

"Perhaps I might be a little difficult to please," replied Emma; "but do you think there is any harm in that?"

"Harm, no!" replied he with enthusiasm; "minds of a common order cannot discriminate between what is good or evil in its tendency; they see only what is evil to their own capacities, and are entirely unaware of the vast difference between the intellects of one man and another. Whilst those who by their own intellectual powers are raised above the common level, take in, at one keen and rapid view, the different mental altitudes of their companions, and appreciating alone the grand and elevated turn from more ordinary minds with indifference, contempt or disgust."

"I hope," said Emma rather doubtingly, "that your description is not intended to apply to me: that is, if I understand you rightly. I should be very sorry to think I am guilty of setting up my understanding as a measure for that of others, or of despising any of my companions as thinking them less clever than myself."

"Indeed I did not mean to accuse you of voluntarily giving way to such feelings—the sensation I meant to depict is as involuntary as your perception of light or colour. A person endowed with a superior understanding could no more help deciding on the different mental capacities of her companions than she could on the beauty or fitness of the patterns of their gowns."

"But the superiority of mental capacities, or our own estimation of them ought not to be the standard by which we should judge of the merits of our fellow-creatures, Mr. Morgan. Surely their moral superiority is a far more important point, and it would be much better to live with a good but ignorant man, than with a wicked one however clever and well-informed."

Mr. Morgan rather curled his lip.

"I doubt whether you will find your maxim work well in every day life, however well it may sound in theory. The practice of mankind is against it universally, and where that is the case it is because the sense of the world leads them to the conclusion which you reject. Look around, and see who has most success in life, the clever, unscrupulous, and if you will the unprincipled man, or the sober, plodding, moral one, without wit or wisdom to prevent his sinking lower than the condition in which he was born."

Emma had not the vanity to suppose that she could be a match for Mr. Morgan in dispute, she was, therefore, contented to let the subject drop. Finding she did not reply, he moved his chair a little closer than before, and said, in a tone of the softest sympathy,

"Are you quite well this evening? dusk as it is, I am struck with your looks, and was so at dinner."

She thanked him, and replied she was pretty well. He did not seem satisfied.

"Are you sure you have no head-ache? there is a languor in your movements, and a heaviness about your eyes, which plainly shows that all is not quite right with you. Confess the truth—does not your head ache?"

She owned it did a little.

"I thought I knew your countenance too well to be misled," said he, complacently—then taking her hand, without the smallest ceremony, in both of his, he felt her pulse, and told her she was nervous and feverish. She smiled, and said she was only a little tired, and that he must not persuade her she was ill; she had not time for that.

"I am certain," replied he, still detaining her hand, which she had made a slight attempt to withdraw, "I am certain, from the tremulous motion of your little fairy-like fingers that you are suffering from over-excitement of mind. You have so much to worry and distress you, so many small privations and never ceasing annoyances, that your nervous temperament is wrought up to too high a pitch. This little hand is looking too white and delicate for health. You must indeed, for your own sake, and for the sake of those that love you, take care of yourself, and do not tax your constitution too far."

"I do not mind what you say, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, playfully, again attempting to withdraw her hand from a clasp which she felt rather too tender for a doctor. "I know you only speak professionally, and it is your business to persuade those who listen to you that they are ill, that you may have the satisfaction of making them believe you cure them afterwards."

"Fie, fie," replied he, tapping her on the arm, "I did not expect such malice from you, fair Emma!"

She decidedly drew her hand from his, and moved her chair away towards the window, saying, as she did so, in a graver tone,