“It is very kind of Elinor, I am sure; and you have behaved most judiciously,” said Catherine, with a twinkle in her eye. “It is unnecessary to say to a person of your judgment that in the best regulated family—”
“Oh, you needn’t tell me,” said Emma, shaking her head. “Nobody can know better than I do. It is very awkward when you are the youngest, and when you are expected by everybody to take their part. Of course they have all been very kind to me. I live part of my time with one, and part with another, and that is why everyone thinks I should be on their side. But now I am very independent,” Emma said, “for Roland has taken me. I dare say he would tell you, Cousin Catherine, when he was here.”
“That must be a very pleasant arrangement,” said Catherine, with a smile. “I suppose when you were with Elinor you had a good deal to do.”
“I do Roland’s housekeeping now. I don’t wish to be idle,” said Emma. “But to be sure when there are children to be seen after you are never done, and especially boys. Elinor has five boys!—it is something dreadful! The stockings and the mending you can’t think! It is very nice being with Roland; he is most kind. He gives me a regular allowance for my clothes, which I never got before, and I am sure it is very good of him; but you can’t have everything, you know, and it is a little dull. He is out all day, and often in the evenings, for of course I shouldn’t wish him to give up his gentlemen-engagements for me. I don’t think people should ever do that sort of thing. Tom Pinch is all very well in Dickens, but it would be inconvenient in actual life; for suppose you married?—and of course that is what every girl expects to do.”
“To be sure,” said Catherine. “Is there anything of that sort in prospect, if I may be permitted to ask?”
“Of course, I am quite pleased that you should ask,” said Emma. “It would be such a comfort to have somebody like you to come and talk it over with, Cousin Catherine, if there was anything—for I should feel sure you could tell me about my trousseau and all that. But there is nothing, I am sorry to say. You see I have had so little chance. Elinor took me out sometimes, but not much, and she was far more disposed to amuse herself than to introduce me. I don’t think that is nice in a married sister, do you? and speaking of that, Cousin Catherine, I am sure you will be kind enough to help me here. Grandpapa will not take any trouble about it. I asked the gentleman whom we met coming out of here, Hester and I—Mr. Edward I think is his name.”
“What of Edward?” said Catherine quickly, with a touch of alarm.
“But nothing seems to have come of it,” said the persistent Emma. “He said he would try, and Hester made a sort of promise; but there has been one since and I have never been asked. It is your niece’s dance—Mrs. Merridew, I think, is her name. She gives one every week, and both for a little amusement, and that I mayn’t lose any chance that may be going, I should like very much to go. I don’t doubt that you could get me an invitation in a moment if you would just say you would like it.”
Catherine’s consternation was ludicrous to behold. She was herself so much amused by the situation that she laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. But this matter-of-fact young woman who sat by and gazed upon her with such a stolid incapacity to see the joke, was of the side of the house to which Catherine could pardon anything—the old captain’s grandchild, Roland’s sister. What would have been vulgar assurance in another, was amusing naivete in Emma. When she had got over her laugh she said, with amused remonstrance as if she had been speaking to a child—
“But you must know, Emma, that these family tiffs you are so well accustomed to, come in to prevent this too. Ellen would not care for my recommendation. She is a very self-willed little person, and indeed the chief rebel of the family.”
“That is all very well, Cousin Catherine,” said Emma with the downrightness of fact and certainty; “but you know you are the head of the family. You have got the money. If they were in trouble they would all have to come to you: and if you said ‘I wish this,’ of course nobody would venture to refuse you. The most stupid person must be sure of that.”
There was a commanding common sense in this view that silenced Catherine. She looked at the young philosopher almost with awe.
“Your arguments are unanswerable,” she said; “there is nothing to be said against such admirable logic.”
“Then you will ask for an invitation for me?” said Emma. “I am sure I am much obliged to you, Cousin Catherine. It is always best to come to the fountainhead. And it isn’t as if I were going to cause any expense or trouble, for I have my ball-dress all ready. I have wore it only once, and it is quite fresh. It is my second ball-dress; the first I wore about a dozen times. Elinor gave it me, which was very kind of her. It was only muslin, but really it was very nice, and got up quite respectably. But this one I bought myself out of the allowance Roland gives me. Don’t you think it is very thoughtful of him? for of course what a sister buys for you, however kind she is, is never just the same as what you would choose for yourself.”
“I suppose not—I never had any experience,” said Catherine, gravely. “I am
