- by Jane Austen
- Contents
- VOLUME I
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- VOLUME II
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- VOLUME III
- CHAPTER I
- CHAPTER II
- CHAPTER III
- CHAPTER IV
- CHAPTER V
- CHAPTER VI
- CHAPTER VII
- CHAPTER VIII
- CHAPTER IX
- CHAPTER X
- CHAPTER XI
- CHAPTER XII
- CHAPTER XIII
- CHAPTER XIV
- CHAPTER XV
- CHAPTER XVI
- CHAPTER XVII
- CHAPTER XVIII
- CHAPTER XIX
www.gutenberg.org
# Emma
by Jane Austen
Contents
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CHAPTER I.
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CHAPTER II.
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CHAPTER III.
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CHAPTER IV.
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CHAPTER V.
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CHAPTER VI.
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CHAPTER VII.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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CHAPTER IX.
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CHAPTER X.
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CHAPTER XI.
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CHAPTER XII.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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CHAPTER XV.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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CHAPTER I.
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CHAPTER II.
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CHAPTER III.
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CHAPTER IV.
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CHAPTER V.
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CHAPTER VI.
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CHAPTER VII.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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CHAPTER IX.
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CHAPTER X.
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CHAPTER XI.
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CHAPTER XII.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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CHAPTER XV.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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CHAPTER I.
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CHAPTER II.
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CHAPTER III.
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CHAPTER IV.
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CHAPTER V.
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CHAPTER VI.
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CHAPTER VII.
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CHAPTER VIII.
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CHAPTER IX.
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CHAPTER X.
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CHAPTER XI.
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CHAPTER XII.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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CHAPTER XV.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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VOLUME I
CHAPTER I
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy
disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had
lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex
her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent
father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage, been mistress
of his house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her
to have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had
been supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short
of a mother in affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as a
governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss
Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mildness of her
temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of
authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as friend
and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked; highly
esteeming Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of
herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did
not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any
disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss
Taylor’s loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of
this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left
to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her
father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only
to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man
of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners;
and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous
friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black
morning’s work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour
of every day. She recalled her past kindness—the kindness, the affection
of sixteen years—how she had taught and how she had played with her from
five years old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her
in health—and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood.
A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven
years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed
Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer,
tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as few
possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of
the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in
herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers—one to whom she could
speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could
never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going
only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor
in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in
great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her
father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation,
rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not
married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having
been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a
much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the
friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have
recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled
in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a
long October and November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield,
before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her husband, and
their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which
Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really
belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there.
All looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father
was universally civil, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of
Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not
but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and
made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a
nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and
hating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin
of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to
his own daughter’s marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with
compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now
obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle
selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel
differently from himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had
done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal
happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and
chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when
tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at
dinner,
“Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is
that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”
“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a
good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good
wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and
bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?”
“A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her
own? This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours, my
dear.”
“How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see
us!—We shall be always meeting! must begin; we must go and pay
wedding visit very soon.”
“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could
not walk half so far.”
“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage, to
be sure.”
“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our
visit?”
“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we
have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last
night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to
Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only doubt
whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. You got
Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned
her—James is so obliged to you!”
“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not
have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she
will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a
great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I
do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I
observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it.
I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to
poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever
James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He
will be able to tell her how we all are.”
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by
the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be
attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a
visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not only a
very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it,
as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from
Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more
welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London.
He had returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and now
walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a
happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had
a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after
“poor Isabella” and her children were answered most satisfactorily.
When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind
of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am
afraid you must have had a shocking walk.”
“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I
must draw back from your great fire.”
“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch
cold.”
“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”
“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain
here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I
wanted them to put off the wedding.”
“By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of
what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my
congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all
behave? Who cried most?”
“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”
“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but
when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate,
it must be better to have only one to please than two.”
“Especially when of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome
creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your
head, I know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not
by.”
“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse,
with a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and
troublesome.”
“My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean , or suppose
Mr. Knightley to mean . What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only
myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in a
joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma
Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not
particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to
her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as
her not being thought perfect by every body.
“Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I
meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons
to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a
gainer.”
“Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—“you want to
hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a
tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going
to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.”
“Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But,
Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure
she miss her more than she thinks for.”
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. “It is
impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr.
Knightley. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s
time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to
be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to
feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have
her so happily married.”
“And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said Emma,
“and a very considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made
the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved
in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may
comfort me for any thing.”
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! my
dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you
say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.”
“I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such
success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry
again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed
so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his
business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went,
always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year
alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry
again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and
others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense
was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
“Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and
I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer
Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from
that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa,
you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.”
“I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’” said
Mr. Knightley. “Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly
and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to
bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind!
But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means
only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, ‘I think it
would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry
her,’ and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, why
do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You made a
lucky guess; and is all that can be said.”
“And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky
guess?—I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it
a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as
to my poor word ‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know
that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty
pictures; but I think there may be a third—a something between the
do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits
here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters,
it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield
enough to comprehend that.”
“A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,
unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own
concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them,
by interference.”
“Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,”
rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do
not make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s
family circle grievously.”
“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in
Highbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and has
fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single
any longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he
looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for
him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing
him a service.”
“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young
man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any
attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a
much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet
him.”
“With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr.
Knightley, laughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a
much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the
fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a
man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”
CHAPTER II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family, which
for the last two or three generations had been rising into gentility and
property. He had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to
a small independence, had become indisposed for any of the more homely pursuits
in which his brothers were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind
and social temper by entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his military
life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and
Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her brother
and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were full of pride and
importance, which the connexion would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the
family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took
place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her
off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much
happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband
whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in
return for the great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one
sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her
own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable
regrets at that brother’s unreasonable anger, nor from missing the
luxuries of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but still it was
nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but
she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of
Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as
making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain;
for when his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a
poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the
child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional
softening claim of a lingering illness of his mother’s, been the means of
a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of
their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to care for, offered
to take the whole charge of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some
scruples and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt;
but as they were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to
the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to
seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and engaged
in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in London, which
afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just
employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury, where most of his
leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of
society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away.
He had, by that time, realised an easy competence—enough to secure the
purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed
for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to
live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his schemes; but
as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his
determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale
of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on, with these
objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought
his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence,
with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He
had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that, even
in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a
well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the
pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen,
to excite gratitude than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own; for as to
Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it
had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on
coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should ever want his
father’s assistance. His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a
capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr.
Weston’s nature to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to
affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son
every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a
very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was
looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and
prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity
to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little returned that he had
never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often
talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a
dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs.
and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was the
time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope strengthened when
it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the occasion. For a
few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of the handsome
letter Mrs. Weston had received. “I suppose you have heard of the
handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it
was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his
life.”
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course, formed a
very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing attention was an
irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to
every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had
already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she had lived
long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only
regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had
never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain,
of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui,
from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been,
and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well
and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And then there was
such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so
convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s
disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no
hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Weston,
and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction—her more than
satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that
Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his being
still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her at
Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the
evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never
did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh, and saying,
“Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.”
There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of ceasing to
pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The
compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being
wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which had been a
great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich,
and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was
unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body; and he had, therefore,
earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when
that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He
had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject.
Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one
of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and upon being applied to, he
could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias of
inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—perhaps
with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion, in
confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the
newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his
benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with
a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse
would never believe it.
CHAPTER III
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have
his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long
residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and
his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great
measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that
circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for
any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for
him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the
parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not
unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of the chosen and
the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and,
unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an
evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr.
Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging
any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of
Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was
in no danger of being thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were Mrs.
and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of
an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so often,
that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either James or the horses. Had
it taken place only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady,
almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her single
daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the regard and
respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can
excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman
neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst
predicament in the world for having much of the public favour; and she had no
intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those who
might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or
cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life
was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small
income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom
no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will and
contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was
interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to every body’s
merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with
blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends,
and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her
nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body,
and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters,
which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless
gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an
establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined
nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new
principles and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous pay might
be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a real, honest,
old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments
were sold at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the
way, and scramble themselves into a little education, without any danger of
coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute—and
very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had
an ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them
run about a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains
with her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now
walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who had
worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to the occasional
holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s
kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung
round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by
his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to collect;
and happy was she, for her father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as
she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She
was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and very much pleased with
herself for contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three such
women made her feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long
evenings she had fearfully anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the present
day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful
terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for
Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very well by sight, and had
long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious invitation
was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the
mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her,
several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and somebody had lately
raised her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was
all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but
what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit
in the country to some young ladies who had been at school there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma
particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue
eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before
the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her manners as her
person, and quite determined to continue the acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s
conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,
shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for
being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of
every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must
have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the
inferior society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had
already formed were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted,
though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of
the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm
of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very creditably,
she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them—but they
must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who
wanted only a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect.
would notice her; she would improve her; she would detach her from
her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she would form her
opinions and her manners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind
undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and
powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and
forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a
very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and
for which she had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and
ready, and moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity
beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the
credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a
mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal,
and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an
urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil
scruples of their guests.
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare. He
loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his youth, but
his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see
any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors
to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he could, with
thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might constrain himself, while
the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg
boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg better
than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you
need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our small eggs
will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a bit of
tart—a little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be
afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs.
Goddard, what say you to a glass of wine? A
half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it could disagree with
you.”
Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a much more
satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular pleasure in
sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her
intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in Highbury, that the
prospect of the introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the
humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted
with the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening,
and actually shaken hands with her at last!
CHAPTER IV
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick and
decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling
her to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their
satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early
foreseen how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston’s
loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two
divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the
year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too
much confined. She had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not
pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time
to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every
respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her
kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by
any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and
her inclination for good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant
and clever, shewed that there was no want of taste, though strength of
understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of
Harriet Smith’s being exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly
the something which her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of
the question. Two such could never be granted. Two such she did not want. It
was quite a different sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs.
Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston
there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who were the
parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell every thing in her
power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy what
she liked—but she could never believe that in the same situation
should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration.
She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell
her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the school in
general, formed naturally a great part of the conversation—and but for
her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the
whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two
very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her
visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged
her talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and
enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of
Mrs. Martin’s having “ parlours, two very good parlours,
indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s drawing-room; and of
her having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of
their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a
very pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she
was so fond of it, it should be called cow; and of their having a
very handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were
all to drink tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a
dozen people.”
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but
as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had
taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and
son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr.
Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with
approbation for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single
man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect
danger to her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and
that, if she were not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself
forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning;
and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was
evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had
had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal
upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles
round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond
she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She
was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was
very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while
she was with them, he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the
country. She believed every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were
very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as
she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be a better son, and
therefore she was sure, whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not
that she him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
“Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what you
are about.”
“And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send Mrs.
Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen.
Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers, Miss
Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with her.”
“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of
his own business? He does not read?”
“Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has
read a good deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the
Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window
seats—but he reads all to himself. But sometimes of an
evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the
Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of
Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the
Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is
determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.”
The next question was—
“What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”
“Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at
first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a
time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he
is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you
very often.”
“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any
idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very
last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order
of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and
a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their
families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is,
therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below
it.”
“To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed him;
but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”
“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,
indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age
to be?”
“He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd
just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which is very odd.”
“Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is
perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are,
and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it.
Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same
rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”
“Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years
old!”
“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not
born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to
make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might
come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it
is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and
though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to
impossible that he should have realised any thing yet.”
“To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no
indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of
taking a boy another year.”
“I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does
marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his
sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected to, it
does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The
misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful as to your
associates. There can be no doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter,
and you must support your claim to that station by every thing within your own
power, or there will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrading
you.”
“Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,
and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any body can
do.”
“You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would
have you so firmly established in good society, as to be independent even of
Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connected, and
to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd acquaintance as may be;
and, therefore, I say that if you should still be in this country when Mr.
Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the
sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be some mere
farmer’s daughter, without education.”
“To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body
but what had had some education—and been very well brought up. However, I
do not mean to set up my opinion against yours—and I am sure I shall not
wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for
the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them
up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very
ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help
it.”
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming
symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted
there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on
Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell
road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with
most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such
an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked
together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert
Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man,
but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with
gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in
Harriet’s inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had
voluntarily noticed her father’s gentleness with admiration as well as
wonder. Mr. Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept
waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face, and in a
flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.
“Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It was
quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not
think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most
days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. He was so busy
the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again
to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he
like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you think him so very
plain?”
“He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but that is
nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect
much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very
clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or
two nearer gentility.”
“To be sure,” said Harriet, in a mortified voice, “he is not
so genteel as real gentlemen.”
“I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been
repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you must
yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have
had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be surprized
if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again without
perceiving him to be a very inferior creature—and rather wondering at
yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin
to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by
his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I
heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.”
“Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and
way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough. But Mr.
Knightley is so very fine a man!”
“Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to
compare Mr. Martin with . You might not see one in a hundred with
so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only
gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr.
Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of . Compare their manner of
carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the
difference.”
“Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an
old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.”
“Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person
grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not be bad;
the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness
becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is
now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr. Weston’s time of
life?”
“There is no saying, indeed,” replied Harriet rather solemnly.
“But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,
vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of nothing but
profit and loss.”
“Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.”
“How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the
circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended. He was
a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing else—which is
just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with books? And I
have no doubt that he thrive, and be a very rich man in
time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb
.”
“I wonder he did not remember the book”—was all
Harriet’s answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which
Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for
some time. Her next beginning was,
“In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior to Mr.
Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentleness. They might
be more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost
a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in , because there
is so much good-humour with it—but that would not do to be copied.
Neither would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding sort of
manner, though it suits very well; his figure, and look, and
situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to set about
copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man
might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr. Elton is
good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown
particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of
ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it
strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any
thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the
other day?”
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from Mr. Elton,
and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had
always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out
of Harriet’s head. She thought it would be an excellent match; and only
too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in
planning it. She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict.
It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date
of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of
Harriet’s coming to Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater
was her sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suitable,
quite the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not
of any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had
a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for
though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some
independent property; and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured,
well-meaning, respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful
understanding or knowledge of the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful girl,
which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was foundation
enough on his side; and on Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the
idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual weight and efficacy.
And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man whom any woman not
fastidious might like. He was reckoned very handsome; his person much admired
in general, though not by her, there being a want of elegance of feature which
she could not dispense with:—but the girl who could be gratified by a
Robert Martin’s riding about the country to get walnuts for her might
very well be conquered by Mr. Elton’s admiration.
CHAPTER V
“I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr.
Knightley, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I
think it a bad thing.”
“A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?—why so?”
“I think they will neither of them do the other any good.”
“You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a
new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing
their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we
feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be
the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley.”
“Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing
Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.”
“Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he thinks
exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only yesterday, and
agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in
Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow you to be
a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone, that you do not
know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the
comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to
it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the
superior young woman which Emma’s friend ought to be. But on the other
hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her
to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know.”
“Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years old.
I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books that
she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists they
were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up when
only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much credit,
that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good
list now. But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading from
Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring industry and patience, and a
subjection of the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to
stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.—You
never could persuade her to read half so much as you wished.—You know you
could not.”
“I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought
so ;—but since we have parted, I can never remember
Emma’s omitting to do any thing I wished.”
“There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as
,”—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or
two he had done. “But I,” he soon added, “who have had no
such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember. Emma is
spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the
misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at
seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And
ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all.
In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her
mother’s talents, and must have been under subjection to her.”
“I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on
recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s family and wanted another
situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body.
I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.”
“Yes,” said he, smiling. “You are better placed ;
very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing
yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might
not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise;
but you were receiving a very good education from , on the very
material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were
bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly
have named Miss Taylor.”
“Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such
a man as Mr. Weston.”
“Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that
with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not
despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his
son may plague him.”
“I hope not .—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do
not foretell vexation from that quarter.”
“Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to
Emma’s genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart,
the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.—But
Harriet Smith—I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the
very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing
herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all
her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly
flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while
Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will
venture to say that cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will
only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will
grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and
circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s
doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt
herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.—They only
give a little polish.”
“I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you do, or am
more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How
well she looked last night!”
“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very
well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s being pretty.”
“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect
beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”
“I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom
seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old
friend.”
“Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular
features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,
and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is
health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One
hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health;’ now, Emma
always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She
is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”
“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I
think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,
that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is,
she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs.
Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread
of its doing them both harm.”
“And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing
them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little faults, she is an excellent
creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer
friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any
one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she
is in the right a hundred times.”
“Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and I
will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and Isabella. John
loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella
always thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened enough about
the children. I am sure of having their opinions with me.”
“I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind; but
excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself, you know,
as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s mother might
have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can
arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a matter of much
discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience
may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma,
accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance,
should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It
has been so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot be
surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office.”
“Not at all,” cried he; “I am much obliged to you for it. It
is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often
found; for it shall be attended to.”
“Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about
her sister.”
“Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will
keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella
does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps
hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I
wonder what will become of her!”
“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”
“She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just
nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared
for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper
object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it
would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes
so seldom from home.”
“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution
at present,” said Mrs. Weston, “as can well be; and while she is so
happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would
be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse’s account. I do not
recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I
assure you.”
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr.
Weston’s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes at
Randalls respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have them
suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon afterwards made to
“What does Weston think of the weather; shall we have rain?”
convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about Hartfield.
CHAPTER VI
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy a proper
direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good purpose,
for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton’s
being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners; and as she had no
hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints,
she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on Harriet’s
side, as there could be any occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr.
Elton’s being in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love
already. She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and
praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a
little time would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of
Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the
least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.
“You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he;
“you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when
she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are
infinitely superior to what she received from nature.”
“I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the natural grace
of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very
little.”
“If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant Mr.
Elton—
“I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.”
“Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded
decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!”
“Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition
more truly amiable.”
“I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased another
day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have
Harriet’s picture.
“Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she:
“did you ever sit for your picture?”
Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say, with a
very interesting naïveté,
“Oh! dear, no, never.”
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
“What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would
give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself. You do not
know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for taking
likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and was thought to have a
tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or another, I gave it up in
disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It
would be such a delight to have her picture!”
“Let me entreat you,” cried Mr. Elton; “it would indeed be a
delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent
in favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose
me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers;
and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at
Randalls?”
Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do with taking
likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures
about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face. “Well, if you
give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can
do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a likeness
difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines
about the mouth which one ought to catch.”
“Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the
mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you
will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite
possession.”
“But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks so
little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of answering me? How
completely it meant, ‘why should my picture be drawn?’”
“Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still I
cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.”
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she
had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of
both the others. Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the
portfolio containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had
ever been finished, that they might decide together on the best size for
Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths,
whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn.
She had always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in
drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as she would
ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but
steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she approached the
degree of excellence which she would have been glad to command, and ought not
to have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either as an
artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to have others deceived, or
sorry to know her reputation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the most;
her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had there been ten
times more, the delight and admiration of her two companions would have been
the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases every body; and Miss
Woodhouse’s performances must be capital.
“No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only
my own family to study from. There is my father—another of my
father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that
I could only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs.
Weston again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my
kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is
my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!—and the face
not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat
longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that she
would not be quiet. Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four
children;—there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the
sheet to the other, and any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She
was so eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making
children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very
easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they
are coarser featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my
sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on the
sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would wish to see.
He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That’s very like. I am
rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here
is my last,”—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small
size, whole-length—“my last and my best—my brother, Mr. John
Knightley.—This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away
in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being
provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good
likeness of it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it
like)—only too handsome—too flattering—but that
was a fault on the right side”—after all this, came poor dear
Isabella’s cold approbation of—“Yes, it was a little
like—but to be sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of
trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and
altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to
have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor
in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any
body again. But for Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there
are no husbands and wives in the case , I will break my
resolution now.”
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and was
repeating, “No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you
observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,” with so interesting a
consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave
them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must
wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a
whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley’s, and was
destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over
the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping
her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful
expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing any thing,
with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him
credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without
offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place
himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
“If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness
indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the
irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.”
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She
must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would
certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest
intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be
charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his
admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could
not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with
the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of likeness,
she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little
improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more
elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing
at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both—a
standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the
friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr.
Elton’s very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
“By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party.”
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took
place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which
was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was in
continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
“Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,”—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least
suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—“The expression of the
eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is
the fault of her face that she has them not.”
“Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It
appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”
“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added,
“Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she
is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short
gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know.
Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”
“It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done!
Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so
well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to
be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and
it makes one think she must catch cold.”
“But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
Look at the tree.”
“But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”
“You, sir, may say any thing,” cried Mr. Elton, “but I must
confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out
of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other
situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of Miss
Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I
cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few
difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order
must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be
depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be
applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea
of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December. But no sooner was the
distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on
the alert. “Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite
pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time.
It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on
such an errand.”
“He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would
not give him such a troublesome office for the world,”—brought on
the desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few
minutes settled the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the
directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety
without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being
incommoded enough.
“What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he
received it.
“This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought Emma.
“I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different
ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
exactly; it will be an ‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he
does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second. But it is
his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”
CHAPTER VII
The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion for
Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield, as
usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to return again
to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with an
agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraordinary to have happened
which she was longing to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard,
as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there
an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had
left a little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on
opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs which she
had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was from him,
from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal of marriage. “Who could
have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a
proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. And he
wrote as if he really loved her very much—but she did not know—and
so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should
do.—” Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased
and so doubtful.
“Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined not
to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he
can.”
“Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do.
II’d rather you would.”
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The style of the
letter was much above her expectation. There were not merely no grammatical
errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the
language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it
conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed
good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.
She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion,
with a “Well, well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a
good letter? or is it too short?”
“Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather
slowly—“so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I
think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young
man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if
left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no,
certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No
doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent
for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand,
his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I
understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain
point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had
expected.”
“Well,” said the still waiting
Harriet;—“well—and—and what shall I do?”
“What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?”
“Yes.”
“But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and
speedily.”
“Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”
“Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will express
yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your not being
intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no
doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain
you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present themselves unbidden to
mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with the
appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.”
“You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.
“Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any
doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been
under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in
doubt as to the of your answer. I had imagined you were
consulting me only as to the wording of it.”
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:
“You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”
“No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would
you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to
do.”
“I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with
it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.”
“I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet,
contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence;
but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too
powerful, she thought it best to say,
“I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman
as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse
him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’ she ought to say
‘No’ directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with
doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and
older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to
influence you.”
“Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you
would just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean
that—As you say, one’s mind ought to be quite made up—One
should not be hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be
safer to say ‘No,’ perhaps.—Do you think I had better say
‘No?’”
“Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I
advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you
prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most agreeable
man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? You blush,
Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a
definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with
by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?”
The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away
confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was still
in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma waited
the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with some
hesitation, Harriet said—
“Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as well
as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really almost made up
my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”
“Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what
you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but
now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear
Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me to lose your
acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin.
While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it,
because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to
me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am
secure of you for ever.”
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
forcibly.
“You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast.
“No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That
would have been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse,
I would not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any
thing in the world.”
“Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must
have given you up.”
“Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
never to come to Hartfield any more!”
“Dear affectionate creature!— banished to Abbey-Mill
Farm!— confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all
your life! I wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He
must have a pretty good opinion of himself.”
“I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said Harriet,
her conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is very good natured,
and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard
for—but that is quite a different thing from—and you know, though
he may like me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must
confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes
to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,
is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very
amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being so much
attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as to leaving you,
it is what I would not do upon any consideration.”
“Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted.
A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is
attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.”
“Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.”
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a “very true;
and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish manner which might
be offending her every hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a
good letter.”
“Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how
shall I do? What shall I say?”
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and advised its
being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and
though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it was in
fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking over his letter
again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it was
particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she
was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so
much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious
that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man
had come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business was
finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma could
allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her
own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
“I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in rather
a sorrowful tone.
“Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You
are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill.”
“And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy but
at Hartfield.”
Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much
surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for
Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a
linen-draper.”
“One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher of
a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an opportunity as
this of being married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As
to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark. The
attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the tittle-tattle of
Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks
and manners have explained themselves.”
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people
should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but
still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr.
Martin.
“Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what
they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they
will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much.”
“Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully
employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is
shewing your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful
is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them
to hear your name, your own dear name.”
“My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”
“Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little
modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just
before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his
solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you
among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our
nature, eager curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how
suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!”
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
CHAPTER VIII
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been
spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a
bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect,
safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present.
She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs.
Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that she should return to
Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse
and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out,
was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the
entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave
Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony
about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to
the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.
“Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not
consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma’s advice and go
out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my
three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We
invalids think we are privileged people.”
“My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.”
“I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to
entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three
turns—my winter walk.”
“You cannot do better, sir.”
“I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a
very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have
another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think
the sooner go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the
garden door for you.”
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately
off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat. He began
speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma
had ever heard before.
“I cannot rate her beauty as you do,” said he; “but she is a
pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her
disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good hands
she will turn out a valuable woman.”
“I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be
wanting.”
“Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I will
tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her
school-girl’s giggle; she really does you credit.”
“Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been
of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may.
do not often overpower me with it.”
“You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?”
“Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she
intended.”
“Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.”
“Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!”
“Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.”
Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He
presently added, with a smile,
“I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I
have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to
her advantage.”
“Indeed! how so? of what sort?”
“A very serious sort, I assure you;” still smiling.
“Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with
her? Who makes you their confidant?”
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having dropt a hint. Mr.
Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton
looked up to him.
“I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith
will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable
quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer,
seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry
her.”
“He is very obliging,” said Emma; “but is he sure that
Harriet means to marry him?”
“Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to
the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I have
a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as
one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would be
imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her too young: in short,
whether I approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of
her being considered (especially since making so much of her) as in
a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I
never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to
the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every
thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in the
event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and brother. I
had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could
afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I
praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had
never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and,
I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever
had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he
would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does
not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at
Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without
thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.”
“Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who had been smiling to herself
through a great part of this speech, “how do you know that Mr. Martin did
not speak yesterday?”
“Certainly,” replied he, surprized, “I do not absolutely know
it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?”
“Come,” said she, “I will tell you something, in return for
what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was
refused.”
This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley
actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall
indignation, and said,
“Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the
foolish girl about?”
“Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehensible
to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always
imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.”
“Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning
of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope
you are mistaken.”
“I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.”
“You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your
doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”
“And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel
that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot
admit him to be Harriet’s equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he
should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had
some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over.”
“Not Harriet’s equal!” exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and
warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, “No,
he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in
situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet
Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connexion
higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom,
with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable
relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not
a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing
useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At
her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely
ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered,
and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as
being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to
fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational
companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so
to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to
her having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be
easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to
be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there
would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even
satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not
regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled
so well. I remember saying to myself, ‘Even Emma, with all her partiality
for Harriet, will think this a good match.’”
“I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say any
such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all his merit Mr.
Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her
leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an
acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should think it possible for me to have
such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think your
statement by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet’s claims. They
would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may
be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in
society.—The sphere in which she moves is much above his.—It would
be a degradation.”
“A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a
respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!”
“As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be
called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for the
offence of others, by being held below the level of those with whom she is
brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a
gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very
liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or
comfort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me;
that she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I apprehend, will
deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.”
“Whoever might be her parents,” said Mr. Knightley, “whoever
may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of
their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After
receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard’s
hands to shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard’s
line, to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought
this good enough for her; and it good enough. She desired nothing
better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no
distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as
possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then.
If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith,
Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt
persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much
real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as
to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had
encouragement.”
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion;
she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again.
“You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are
unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well are not so contemptible
as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than
you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so
slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you
describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree
she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in
general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by
ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much
more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed;
till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a
girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and
sought after, of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a
claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim,
comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a
very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be pleased with other
people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such
beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”
“Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost
enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as
you do.”
“To be sure!” cried she playfully. “I know is the
feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every
man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his
judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to marry,
she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just entering into
life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept
the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look about
her.”
“I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,” said Mr.
Knightley presently, “though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now
perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her
up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in
a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity
working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for
a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not
find offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men
of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family
would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such
obscurity—and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and
disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to
be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and
happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach
her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large
fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of
her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry
somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old
writing-master’s son.”
“We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there
can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more angry.
But as to my her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has
refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application.
She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to
the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a
little; but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do.
His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever
were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had
seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her
friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody
better (that must have been his great assistant) she might not, while she was
at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows
now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has
any chance with Harriet.”
“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” cried Mr.
Knightley.—“Robert Martin’s manners have sense, sincerity,
and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than
Harriet Smith could understand.”
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really
feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent
what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge of such a point of
female right and refinement than he could be; but yet she had a sort of
habitual respect for his judgment in general, which made her dislike having it
so loudly against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry
state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence,
with only one attempt on Emma’s side to talk of the weather, but he made
no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in
these words.
“Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; and I hope
it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to
yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to
suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as a friend I
shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour
in vain.”
Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,
“Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man, and
a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an
imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any body. Elton
may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted
with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s. He knows that he is a
very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his
general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present,
I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him
speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters
are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.”
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Emma, laughing again.
“If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Harriet, it would
have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet
to myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my
own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”
“Good morning to you,”—said he, rising and walking off
abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man,
and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he
had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair,
was provoking him exceedingly.
Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in
the causes of her’s, than in his. She did not always feel so absolutely
satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and
her adversary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete
self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materially cast down,
however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate
restoratives. Harriet’s staying away so long was beginning to make her
uneasy. The possibility of the young man’s coming to Mrs. Goddard’s
that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave
alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the prominent
uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without
having any such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction
which settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley
think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman’s friendship
and woman’s feelings would not justify.
He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered that
Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the
interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr.
Knightley’s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such a
question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able
to believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true, than
what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak
with more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an
imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be
rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make
due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested
motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of
its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any
hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than
a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to
Mr. Elton.
Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not
to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling
her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had
been to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen
him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from
Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr.
Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the
morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to
miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how
shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much
to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr.
Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a
way indeed, that he was going on business which he would not
put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable
commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry
could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a
in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very
conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her
all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking
so very significantly at her, “that she did not pretend to understand
what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton
could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a
doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness.”
CHAPTER IX
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself.
He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he came to
Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was
not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans
and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general
appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton’s
return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got
up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he
ought; and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were visibly forming
themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of
mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no
otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the
utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of
useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first
chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat
than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at
Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or
exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet
at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life,
was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she
could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her
friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not
uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written out at
least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her,
hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more. Emma
assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very
pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as
well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and
tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. “So many
clever riddles as there used to be when he was young—he wondered he could
not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.” And it always ended
in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at
present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be
upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might come
from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of Highbury in
general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose
assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas,
charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of
seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time,
as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing
that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to
him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which
at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote,
Which my second is destin’d to feel
And my whole is the best antidote
That affliction to soften and heal.—
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago
already.
“Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?” said she;
“that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier
to you.”
“Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss
Woodhouse”—he stopt a moment—“or Miss Smith could
inspire him.”
The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a
few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he
said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the
object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately
convinced must be his own.
“I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he.
“Being my friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to
the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.”
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand. There
was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than
her friend’s. He was gone the next moment:—after another
moment’s pause,
“Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
Harriet—“it is for you. Take your own.”
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be
first, was obliged to examine it herself.
To Miss——
CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
Another view of man, my second brings,
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have!
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again
to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then passing it to
Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling
over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness, “Very well, Mr.
Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse charades. —a
very good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is
saying very plainly—‘Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my
addresses to you. Approve my charade and my intentions in the same
glance.’
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the
justest that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much
in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life you
would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade indeed! and
very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now.”
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were
otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of
Harriet’s wondering questions.
“What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an
idea—I cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to
find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it
kingdom? I wonder who the friend was—and who could be the young lady. Do
you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Can it be Neptune?
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one syllable. It
must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do
you think we shall ever find it out?”
“Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking
of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a
mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
That is .
Another view of man, my second brings;
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is ;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.
But ah! united, (, you know,) what reverse we have!
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, which I
think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read
it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you
and to you.”
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the
concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not speak. But
she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.
“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this
compliment,” said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr.
Elton’s intentions. You are his object—and you will soon receive
the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I thought I could not be
so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and
decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes,
Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that
has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr.
Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility
have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my
dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well
feel pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing but good. It
will give you every thing that you want—consideration, independence, a
proper home—it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close
to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an
alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us.”
“Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,”
was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but
when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently
clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she
ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and
therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could
not have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton, who
might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about . He is so
very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss
———.’ Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be
meant for me?”
“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a
certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the play, a
motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose.”
“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a
month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take
place!”
“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do
indeed—and really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what
is so evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of
other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and
Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one another by every
circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying will be equal to the match
at Randalls. There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which
gives love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel
where it ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth—
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
passage.”
“That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all
people, who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like
Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body says he need not
eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more
invitations than there are days in the week. And so excellent in the Church!
Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to
Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did
I think!—The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through
the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us
away, and staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently,
and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought
he looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”
“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be,
must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we are
not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you
married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every
assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same country and
circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished;
and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be
married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable
establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them.”
“Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand
every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This
charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any
thing like it.”
“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
yesterday.”
“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever
read.”
“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”
“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”
“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things
in general cannot be too short.”
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons
were rising in her mind.
“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a
glow—“to have very good sense in a common way, like every body
else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say
just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades
like this.”
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s
prose.
“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two
last!—But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have
found it out?—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”
“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare
say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass
between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall chuse
their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”
“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should not
write it into your book.”
“Oh! but those two lines are”—
—“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for
private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning
change. But take it away, and all ceases, and a very
pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he
would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A
poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the
book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on
you.”
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to
feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love. It
seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.
“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the
longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming:
you will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so
much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that
pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us
all!—You must let me read it to him.”
Harriet looked grave.
“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this
charade.—You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too
conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all
the meaning which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have
left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards
you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough
to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade.”
“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you
please.”
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does your
book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”
“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece
of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a
fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it
in.”
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she
proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen,
especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said.
Very true. ‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my
dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have
written so prettily, but you, Emma.”
Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very tender
sigh, he added,
“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother was
so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can remember
nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention;
I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all the
way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”
“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the
Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”
“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here next
week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what room
there will be for the children?”
“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you
know. Why should there be any change?”
“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was
here!—not since last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John
Knightley’s being a lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor
Isabella!—she is sadly taken away from us all!—and how sorry she
will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!”
“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”
“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I first
heard she was going to be married.”
“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here.”
“Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed
tone)—she is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any
thing.”
“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case
of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we
ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can
give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the
Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas—though
you know it is longer since they were with him, than with us.”
“It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be
anywhere but at Hartfield.”
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his
brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing
a little while, and then said,
“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon,
though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with
us. She and the children might stay very well.”
“Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and
I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her
husband.”
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could
only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea
of his daughter’s attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such
a branch of the subject as must raise them.
“Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother
and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are
very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the
handsomest, Henry or John?”
“Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be
to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”
“I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.”
“Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the
eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second, is named
after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was
not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of
her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably clever; and
they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair, and say,
‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?’ and once Henry asked
me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas. I think
their father is too rough with them very often.”
“He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are so
very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would
not think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they
misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate
father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The
children are all fond of him.”
“And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
very frightful way!”
“But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such
enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their
taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.”
“Well, I cannot understand it.”
“That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other.”
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in
preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this
inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive
him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the
consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and she
imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason,
however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made up in the
evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary
at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his
friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him—had made
such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their
account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she re-declined;
and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table,
she returned it—
“Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank
you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write
it into Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I
hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines.”
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather
doubtingly—rather confused; said something about
“honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the
book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the
view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
“You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must
not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman’s
approbation while he writes with such gallantry.”
“I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though
hesitating a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in
saying—at least if my friend feels at all as do—I have not
the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as
see it, (looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would
consider it as the proudest moment of his life.”
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too
soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade
in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to
indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to
Harriet’s share.
CHAPTER X
Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the
young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a
charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of
Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at
right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place; and,
as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior
dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile down the
lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the
road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much
smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no
possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and
observing eyes.—Emma’s remark was—
“There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these
days.”—Harriet’s was—
“Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There are the
yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.”
“I do not often walk this way ,” said Emma, as they
proceeded, “but there will be an inducement, and I shall
gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and
pollards of this part of Highbury.”
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her
curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and
probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.
Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.
“I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think
of any tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire
about of his housekeeper—no message from my father.”
She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some
minutes, Harriet thus began again—
“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going
to be married! so charming as you are!”—
Emma laughed, and replied,
“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I
must find other people charming—one other person at least. And I am not
only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of
ever marrying at all.”
“Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”
“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question:
and I do wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted.
I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to
repent it.”
“Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—
“I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall
in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been in love;
it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without
love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune
I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe
few married women are half as much mistress of their husband’s house as I
am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and
important; so always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in
my father’s.”
“But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!”
“That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I
thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly—so satisfied—so
smiling—so prosing—so undistinguishing and unfastidious—and
so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry
to-morrow. But between , I am convinced there never can be any
likeness, except in being unmarried.”
“But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dreadful!”
“Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty
only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single woman,
with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the
proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good fortune, is always
respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the
distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the
world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract
the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce
in a very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal
and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good
natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the
taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not
contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world,
she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of
her: that is a great charm.”
“Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you
grow old?”
“If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want
of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s usual
occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or
with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up
music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for
the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of
which is really the great evil to be avoided in marrying, I shall be
very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to care about.
There will be enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of
sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and
every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it
suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews
and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me.”
“Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you must have seen
her a hundred times—but are you acquainted?”
“Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to
Highbury. By the bye, is almost enough to put one out of conceit
with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so
much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is
sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty
times over; her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she
does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters
for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax
very well; but she tires me to death.”
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded.
Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor were as sure of
relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience,
as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance
and their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue
from those for whom education had done so little; entered into their troubles
with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence
as good-will. In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together
which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give
comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene
as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,
“These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make
every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but
these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it
may all vanish from my mind?”
“Very true,” said Harriet. “Poor creatures! one can think of
nothing else.”
“And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,” said
Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the
narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the
lane again. “I do not think it will,” stopping to look once more at
all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within.
“Oh! dear, no,” said her companion.
They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was passed, Mr.
Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say
farther,
“Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good
thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has
produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly
important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the
rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.”
Harriet could just answer, “Oh! dear, yes,” before the gentleman
joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the
first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would
now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and
should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.
“To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,” thought
Emma; “to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase
of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the
declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.”
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards
took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane,
leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes
when she found that Harriet’s habits of dependence and imitation were
bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon after her.
This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some
alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in
complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk
on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and
by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the
comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the
cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth
from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question
her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most
natural, had she been acting just then without design; and by this means the
others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for
her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child’s pace was
quick, and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their
being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking
with animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,
having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a
little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them.
Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma
experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair
companion an account of the yesterday’s party at his friend Cole’s,
and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire,
the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and all the dessert.
“This would soon have led to something better, of course,” was her
consoling reflection; “any thing interests between those who love; and
any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but
have kept longer away!”
They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales,
when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her
again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange
it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it
into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged
her inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in
tolerable comfort.
“Part of my lace is gone,” said she, “and I do not know how I
am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I
hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at
your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any
thing just to keep my boot on.”
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could exceed
his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house and endeavouring
to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the
one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards; behind it was another with which
it immediately communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed
into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable
manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully
intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still
remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she
hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining
room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be
protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her
appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most
favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having
schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the point. He had
been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them
go by, and had purposely followed them; other little gallantries and allusions
had been dropt, but nothing serious.
“Cautious, very cautious,” thought Emma; “he advances inch by
inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.”
Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious
device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much
present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.
CHAPTER XI
Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s power
to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her
sister’s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and
then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and during
the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected—she did
not herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous
assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly
if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether they would
or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who
the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from
Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual interest. Till this
year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between
Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this autumn had been given
to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they
had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr.
Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor
Isabella’s sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and
apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the
fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the
last half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being
happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and
a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The
bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed,
encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and
confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have
endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings
of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of
maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for
their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and
drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without
the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to
him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet
manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her
family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her
father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have
seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a
woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of
her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her
own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many
nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be
of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a
strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in
his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with
reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of
being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often
unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his
great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly
possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme
sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness
of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a
severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him
escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which
Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his
manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were only those of
a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but
hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that
greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of
respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp
retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley
had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense
of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma’s charity,
especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured,
though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed
none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be
hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and
composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh,
called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she
had been there last.
“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a
grievous business.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must
miss her! And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I
have been so grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly
do without her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty
well, sir.”
“Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know
but that the place agrees with her tolerably.”
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the
air of Randalls.
“Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”
“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.
“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the
plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—“Not near so often, my dear, as I could
wish.”
“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we
seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls
or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are
very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa,
if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea
of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every
body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our
missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which is
the exact truth.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as
I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not
be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have
been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so
very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma’s
account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—“yes,
certainly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and
see us pretty often—but then—she is always obliged to go away
again.”
“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.—You
quite forget poor Mr. Weston.”
“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr.
Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of
the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of
the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has
been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons
aside as much as she can.”
“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in
part.— “Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to
be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not
been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of
Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting
Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not
deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I
shall never forget his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day
last Easter—and ever since his particular kindness last September
twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose
to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced
there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If
any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been
here on this occasion—or has he not?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and
I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father.
“He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well
done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He
is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”
“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”
“Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have
thought it—and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother!
Well, time does fly indeed!—and my memory is very bad. However, it was an
exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of
pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on;
and it was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I remember that
perfectly.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs.
John Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To
give up one’s child! I really never could think well of any body who
proposed such a thing to any body else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed
Mr. John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have
felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an
easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as
he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I
suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon
the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five
times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home
affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a
mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the
peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the
strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted
her brother’s disposition to look down on the common rate of social
intercourse, and those to whom it was important.—It had a high claim to
forbearance.
CHAPTER XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the inclination of Mr.
Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr.
Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make
up. Making-up indeed would not do. certainly had not been in the
wrong, and would never own that he had. Concession must be out of the
question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled;
and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when
he came into the room she had one of the children with her—the youngest,
a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now making her first visit
to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It
did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was
soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of
her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were
friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and
then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the
baby,
“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard
to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women,
and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as
you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”
“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in
the wrong.”
“Yes,” said he, smiling—“and reason good. I was sixteen
years old when you were born.”
“A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt
you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not
the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?”
“Yes—a good deal .”
“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently.”
“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience,
and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that
she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and
that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
“That’s true,” she cried—“very true. Little Emma,
grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so
conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as
good intentions went, we were right, and I must say that no effects
on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr.
Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”
“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.
“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with
me.”
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made
his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John,
how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a
calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have
led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely
for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party
made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the
two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely
mixing—and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of
those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who
was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of
law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as
a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what
every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as
could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been
the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a
drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of
every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much
equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if
his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries
even approached a tone of eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full
flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and
interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five
children—“How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my
dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I
will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a
little gruel.”
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr.
Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;—and two
basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel,
with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he
proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,
“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South
End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”
“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or we should
not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the
weakness in little Bella’s throat,—both sea air and bathing.”
“Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good;
and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never
told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure
it almost killed me once.”
“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject,
“I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and
miserable;—I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you
please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry
yet; and he never forgets you.”
“Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”
“Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has
not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has not time to take care
of himself—which is very sad—but he is always wanted all round the
country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there
is not so clever a man any where.”
“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I
have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be
so pleased to see my little ones.”
“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had
better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”
“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or
else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.
Wingfield’s, which we have been applying at times ever since
August.”
“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to
her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have
spoken to—
“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma,
“I have not heard one inquiry after them.”
“Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—but you
mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.
Bates—I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.—They
are always so pleased to see my children.—And that excellent Miss
Bates!—such thorough worthy people!—How are they, sir?”
“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad
cold about a month ago.”
“How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this
autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or
heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza.”
“That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he
has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a
sickly season.”
“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it sickly
except—
“Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a
sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful
thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!—and the air so
bad!”
“No, indeed— are not at all in a bad air. Our part of
London is very superior to most others!—You must not confound us with
London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling,
I own, to live in any other part of the town;—there is hardly any other
that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but are so
remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square
decidedly the most favourable as to air.”
“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it—but
after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different
creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you
are any of you looking well at present.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from
anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before
they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual,
from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of
their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not
believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at
least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes
with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley
very far from looking well.”
“What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr.
John Knightley, hearing his own name.
“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have
wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left
home.”
“My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—“pray do
not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling
yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse.”
“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your
brother,” cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham’s
intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What
will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give
her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear
than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though
no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to
assist in praising.
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John
Knightley.—“It is so long since I have seen her, except now and
then for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good
old grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always
regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at
Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a
delightful companion for Emma.”
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better
companion than Harriet.”
“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be
so very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma’s age.”
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment,
and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a
little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be
said—much praise and many comments—undoubting decision of its
wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the
many houses where it was never met with tolerably;—but, unfortunately,
among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and
therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired
for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin
of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and
ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a
dangerous opening.
“Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on
her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed,
“Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End.
It does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would
not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to
the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however,
he began with,
“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here.”
“But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the
children a great deal of good.”
“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to
South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to hear you had
fixed upon South End.”
“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a
mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the
least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a
mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on,
for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and
family have been there repeatedly.”
“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went
anywhere.—Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best
of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air.
And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from
the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have
consulted Perry.”
“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how
great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of
forty.”
“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to chuse
between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all, better stay
in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is
just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”
Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached
such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law’s
breaking out.
“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,
“would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he
make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my
family to one part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the
use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more
than his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added,
with only sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a
wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no
greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as
willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready
interposition—“very true. That’s a consideration
indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the
path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through
the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if
it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you
call to mind exactly the present line of the path…. The only way of proving
it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey
to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give
me your opinion.”
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend
Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of
his own feelings and expressions;—but the soothing attentions of his
daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of
one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of
it.
CHAPTER XIII
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley,
in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old
acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every
evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that
the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in
being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings;
but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no
avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all
dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a
possible thing in preference to a division of the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could,
but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually at
Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it
hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that
they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only
persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well as the
numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in
every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that Mr.
Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent by Harriet
at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but
for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have
allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her
doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a
bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was
talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority
which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak
of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr.
Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last
tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless
visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards
from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself,
evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in
conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of considerable
illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to
Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the
daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces
shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch
of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined
company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her
friend’s complaint;—“a throat very much inflamed, with a
great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to
find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and
had often alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the
occasion, as he exclaimed,
“A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as
well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry
see her?”
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess
of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and care; but
as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to
reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon
afterwards—as if quite another subject,
“It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like
snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should
really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from venturing;
but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I
do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to
Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should
certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you
consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think
it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of
yourself to-night.”
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was
exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a
fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not
really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma, too eager
and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or
see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering
acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly very cold,” and
walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him
the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.
“You do quite right,” said she;—“we will make your
apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.”
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a
seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and
Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a
done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face
expressed more pleasure than at this moment; never had his smile been stronger,
nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.
“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most
strange!—After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company,
and leave Harriet ill behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there is, I
believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination—such a
passion for dining out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of
their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that
any thing gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a
most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love
with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out
wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in
Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the
justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of
naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he
should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair friend, the last thing
before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be
able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way
that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began
with—
“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he
can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature
works.”
“Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma;
“but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does
overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he
will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect
good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.”
“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness,
“he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”
“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you
imagining me to be Mr. Elton’s object?”
“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.”
“Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!”
“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is so
or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him
encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you, and
ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”
“I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I
are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial
knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to
judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother
for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of
the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and
set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own
carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the
others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to
afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it.
The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in
motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the
appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a
very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing
and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after
dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did
not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all
worth the purchase; and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by
him in expressing his discontent.
“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself
when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as
this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable
fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest
absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not
allowing people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s
not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out
such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we
should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing
than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the
voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his
feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he
can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another
man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard
yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal
weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants taken
out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms
and worse company than they might have had at home.”
Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he
was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true, my love,”
which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion; but she
had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not
be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to
silence. She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself
up, without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton,
spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure
of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he
was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must
have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had
sent while dressing, and the answer had been, “Much the same—not
better.”
“ report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently,
“was not so pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was
answer.”
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he
answered.
“Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling
you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I did the very last
thing before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by
no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had
flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had
been given her in the morning.”
Emma smiled and answered—“My visit was of use to the nervous part
of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it is a
most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably
heard.”
“Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”
“He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not
to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!”
“Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every
moment.”
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but
it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute
afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest
alacrity and enjoyment.
“What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin
for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold
with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a
gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded
from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted.
Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold
afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha!
snows a little I see.”
“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good
deal of it.”
“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable;
and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday,
and prevent this day’s party, which it might very possibly have done, for
Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the
ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for
friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends about them,
and people think little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a
friend’s house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for
only one night, and could not get away till that very day
se’nnight.”
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but said
only, coolly,
“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished
now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite
forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every
thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs.
Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where
small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr.
Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and
for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than
exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft air to
Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley
perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter
into our feelings.”
“I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine
with any body.”
“Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid
for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment.”
“My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed
through the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield
again.”
CHAPTER XIV
Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they walked into
Mrs. Weston’s drawing-room;—Mr. Elton must compose his joyous
looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile
less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the place.—Emma only
might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her
it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite,
and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such
unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom she related with such
conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and
always intelligible, the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and
pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in
which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour’s
uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which the daily
happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit might not afford,
which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the very sight of
Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she
determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s oddities, or of
any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well gone through before
her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the
history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella’s coming,
and of Emma’s being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his
satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, when the others
appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her
attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma.
Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry
to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The
difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from
her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his
happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every
occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not
avoid the internal suggestion of “Can it really be as my brother
imagined? can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his
affections from Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!”—Yet
he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested
about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin
admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed
terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve
her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for
Harriet’s, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even
positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton’s
nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know
that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words
“my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,”
repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much
suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she
could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving
question from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution of never marrying,
there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which
always interested her. She had frequently thought—especially since his
father’s marriage with Miss Taylor—that if she to
marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character and condition. He
seemed by this connexion between the families, quite to belong to her. She
could not but suppose it to be a match that every body who knew them must think
of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded;
and though not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change
it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding
him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure
in the idea of their being coupled in their friends’ imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
cross—and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass
without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it,
from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it proved;—for when happily
released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of
the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure
from the saddle of mutton, to say to her,
“We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see
two more here,—your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my
son—and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not
hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I
had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a
fortnight.”
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his
proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite
complete.
“He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. Weston,
“ever since September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot
command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who
(between ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
January.”
“What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
yourself.”
“Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not know the
parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is quite between
ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are
secrets in all families, you know)—The case is, that a party of friends
are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and that Frank’s
coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot
stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some
consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and though it is thought
necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they always are put off
when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as
confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being
here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the
table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at
Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in
the practice of doing.”
“I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,”
replied Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think
he will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.”
“Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been
at the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—But I never allow
myself to speak ill of her, on Frank’s account; for I do believe her to
be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any
body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her
way—allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to
be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he
should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body
else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of
a temper.”
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston, very
soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy—yet
observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.— Mrs.
Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of
undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: “for I
cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very
much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been
telling you exactly how the matter stands?”
“Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.”
“My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the
certainty of caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not been
attending before—“You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we
are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his
father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure;
in short, upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may venture
on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered
woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,” replied
Isabella: “and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the
greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must
be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it must
be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any children! Poor
little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!”
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have heard
more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she
would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely try to
conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her, excepting those views on
the young man, of which her own imagination had already given her such
instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr.
Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long
after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor
conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with whom he
was always comfortable.
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying,
“And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it
takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”
“Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even
if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some
excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any
reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the
Churchills’ to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are
jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence
on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.”
“He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a
couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young
man’s not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young
, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance
from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young
’s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a
week with his father, if he likes it.”
“One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one
decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs. Weston. “One ought to
use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual
of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by
general rules: is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to
her.”
“But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now,
according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while
she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every
thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards , she should
frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all.”
“My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand a
bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way. I have no
doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly
impossible for him to know beforehand it will be.”
Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satisfied, unless he
comes.”
“He may have a great deal of influence on some points,” continued
Mrs. Weston, “and on others, very little: and among those, on which she
is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of his
coming away from them to visit us.”
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was
quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to
entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other
gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early
separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an
augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them
immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the
expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making
Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair,
lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing
about her, since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he
must confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.”
And in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much attending
to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore
throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were
more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than on
Harriet’s—more anxious that she should escape the infection, than
that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great
earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for
the present—to entreat her to not to venture
into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though
she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its proper course,
there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed.
It did appear—there was no concealing it—exactly like the pretence
of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the
most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty in behaving with
temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, “Would not
she give him her support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to
induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain
that Miss Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied
without a promise—would not she give him her influence in procuring
it?”
“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so
careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day,
and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore
throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I
some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”
Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an
address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first
interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to
have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give
him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his
senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving
her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another
subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining
the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground being
covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind;
concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:
“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.
Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a
storm of snow.”
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had
something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had
some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried
earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was
pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in
venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very
soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and
I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can
hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over
in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare
say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.”
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known
it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr.
Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there
being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return,
that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished
the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at
Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be
found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little
contrivance, every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from
the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.
“What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” was
Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some
time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her
representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their
having so many friends about them, revived him a little.
His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being
blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her
imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous
people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it
settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her
husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted
snow that might impede them.
“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she;
“I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if
we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all
afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you
know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me
cold.”
“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give
you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say.
It will be bad enough for the horses.”
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston
could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely
give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still
discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately
after his brother’s first report of the snow, came back again, and told
them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not
being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it,
either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—some way along
the Highbury road—the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in
many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling
at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its
being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in
there being nothing to apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely
less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was immediately set
as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the
alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort
for him while he continued at Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no
present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it
was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,
Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—
“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”
“I am ready, if the others are.”
“Shall I ring the bell?”
“Yes, do.”
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more, and
Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get
sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit
of hardship were over.
The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston;
but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the
sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a much darker
night than he had been prepared for. “He was afraid they should have a
very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it. And there would
be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do.
They must keep as much together as they could;” and James was talked to,
and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not
belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma
found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton,
that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a
tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would
have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she
could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would
have seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She
believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and
felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was immediately
preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the
night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and
joined the other carriage, than she found her subject cut up—her hand
seized—her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love
to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments
which must be already well known,
hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but
flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and
unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very
much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was
so. Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent
diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself
lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry
as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when
she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore
could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a
mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his
half and half state, she replied,
“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to ! you forget
yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I
shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this to , if you
please.”
“Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly
mean!”—And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent,
such boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with
quickness,
“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account for
it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me,
or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I
will endeavour to forget it.”
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all to
confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having warmly
protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon
his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but acknowledging his wonder
that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he resumed the subject of his
own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and
presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,
“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too
clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express. After
such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss
Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of
observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an
unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe
me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such
professions.”
“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of
this?—Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course
of my existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never
cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied
otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—extremely
sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of
Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no
unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having
paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or
done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration
of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent
meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood
me.”
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of
all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered
to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being ample
encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to take
her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—
“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence.
It confesses that you have long understood me.”
“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far
from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with
respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you
should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from
my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her,
(pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly
wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to
Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits
so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself
particularly to Miss Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of
her?”
“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I
assure you. think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very
good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish
her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object
to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,
quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as
to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my visits to Hartfield
have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received—”
“Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you have been
entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my
friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends
where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led
into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than
myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it
is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no
thoughts of matrimony at present.”
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep
mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the
fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been
so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their
straightforward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment.
Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it
stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house; and he
was out before another syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable
to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly;
and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to
Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had been
trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning
a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in strange
hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if
her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John
Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and
so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if
not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its
being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to
all their little party, except herself.—But her mind had never been in
such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and
cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet
reflection.
CHAPTER XVI
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be
miserable.—It was a wretched business indeed!—Such an overthrow of
every thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of every thing
most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the worst of all.
Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but,
compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have
submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in error—more disgraced by
mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have
been confined to herself.
“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne
any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor
Harriet!”
How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that he had never
thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she could;
but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made
every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked,
wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The picture!—How eager he had been about the picture!—and the
charade!—and an hundred other circumstances;—how clearly they had
seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its “ready
wit”—but then the “soft eyes”—in fact it suited
neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through
such thick-headed nonsense?
Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself
unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere error of
judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others that he had not
always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address,
true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never,
for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect to her as
Harriet’s friend.
To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for
the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers
had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about
Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr.
Elton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a
knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached
herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in
many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud,
assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about
the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his
addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals
did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by
his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes
to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not
suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real
affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been
given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or
fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble
herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if
Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not
quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody
else with twenty, or with ten.
But—that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of
his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry
him!—should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!—look
down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below him,
and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no presumption
in addressing her!—It was most provoking.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior
in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might
prevent his perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence
she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled
for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient
family—and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield
certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey
estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from
other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey
itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a
high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first
entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances
but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his
civility.—But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must
have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming
incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common
honesty to stop and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant
and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive
unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr.
Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If had so
misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that ,
with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to
take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring
too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick
of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved
to do such things no more.
“Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into
being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but
for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not
assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to
think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept
young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me; but there I
should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing
her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one
worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace
is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were
to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an
idea of any body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William
Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe—a pert young
lawyer.”
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more
serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must
be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor
Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the
difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing
feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her
in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last
with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most
dreadfully.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under temporary
gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of spirits.
The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful
operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes
unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter
hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed,
more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting
tolerably out of it.
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with
her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint
him—that Harriet’s nature should not be of that superior sort in
which the feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there could be
no necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except the three
principals, and especially for her father’s being given a moment’s
uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the
ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome that might justify
their all three being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she could not go
to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted
it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and
most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that
unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most
unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every
evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner.
No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday
any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr.
Elton’s absenting himself.
It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and though she
hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it
was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone
in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley,
whom no weather could keep entirely from them,—
“Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr.
Elton?”
These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities,
remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose
feelings must always be of great importance to his companions; and he had,
besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, that his
amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was
always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with
all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was
still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as
made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.
CHAPTER XVII
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather
soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having,
as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children,
was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to his lamentations over
the destiny of poor Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with
those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always
innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to
Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s
best compliments, “that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following
morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties
of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted
the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather and
business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly
civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse
any commands, should be happy to attend to them.”
Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s absence just at this
time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it,
though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was
announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a
civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not
even a share in his opening compliments.—Her name was not
mentioned;—and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an
ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she
thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.
It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so
sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the
end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful
note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation
during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms,
and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to
believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she
should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other
complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs. Goddard’s
accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of
communication; and a severe one it was.—She had to destroy all the hopes
which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in the ungracious
character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken
and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her
convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of
Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—and in every
thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of
herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and all
that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s
side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing to
complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great
a distinction.—She never could have deserved him—and nobody but so
partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.
Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no
dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes—and she
listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior
creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her own
welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and
ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being
humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her
second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims, was to promote
Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affection in some
better method than by match-making. She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her
the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and
conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she could
suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very
inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but it
seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s age, and with the entire
extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of
composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return, as to allow them all to meet
again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying
sentiments or increasing them.
Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any
body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove herself
more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so
natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort
, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long in
equal force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and
indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine
Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each,
for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any
material change of society. They must encounter each other, and make the best
of it.
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.
Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great
girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any
chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth.
Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and
Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true
peace for herself.
CHAPTER XVIII
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs.
Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For
the present, he could not be spared, to his “very great mortification and
regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no
distant period.”
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed, in fact,
than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so
much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good
than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression.
It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an
hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that
Frank’s coming two or three months later would be a much better plan;
better time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any
doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more
apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and
delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered
a great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank
Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The
acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet,
and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she should appear,
in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in
the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s
disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much
as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the
conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a
good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their
confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the
gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have made; and ending
with reflections on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a
disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that
she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making
use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against herself.
“The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley,
coolly; “but I dare say he might come if he would.”
“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come; but
his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”
“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point
of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.”
“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you suppose
him such an unnatural creature?”
“I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that
he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any
thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the
example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a
young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be
proud, luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his
father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his
age—what is he?—three or four-and-twenty—cannot be without
the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.”
“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been
your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the
difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers to
manage.”
“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty should
not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money—he
cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both,
that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear
of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at
Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills.”
“Yes, sometimes he can.”
“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever
there is any temptation of pleasure.”
“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an
intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior
of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may
be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s
temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at
times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others.”
“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and
that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and
resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his
father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he wished to
do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and
resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—‘Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you
will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I must go and see my
father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of
respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off
to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of
decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.”
“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some
made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely
dependent, to use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it
possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly
opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to
the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for
him!—Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as
loud as he could!—How can you imagine such conduct practicable?”
“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He
would feel himself in the right; and the declaration—made, of course, as
a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner—would do him more good,
raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people he depended on,
than all that a line of shifts and expedients can ever do. Respect would be
added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew
who had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as
well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this
visit to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in
their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.
Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort
of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend
to his.”
“I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but
where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a
knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can
imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and
placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you would be able
to say and do just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have a
very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but
then, you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break
through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into
perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at
nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have,
without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to it.”
“Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal
exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”
“Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to
understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing
those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his life.”
“Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of
others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of following his
duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of the child,
but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and
shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed
the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as
he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.”
“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is
nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:
I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in
his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild
disposition than would suit your notions of man’s perfection. I dare say
he has; and though it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him
many others.”
“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of
leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in
finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter,
full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon
the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing
his father’s having any right to complain. His letters disgust me.”
“Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.”
“I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a
woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother’s place,
but without a mother’s affection to blind her. It is on her account that
attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had
she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it
would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend
behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often
say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only
in French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have very good
manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy towards the
feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about him.”
“You seem determined to think ill of him.”
“Me!—not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased;
“I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge
his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely
personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible
manners.”
“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at
Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We
must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you
imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a his coming will produce? There
will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but
one interest—one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill;
we shall think and speak of nobody else.”
“You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him
conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a
chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”
“My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of
every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally
agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so
on to every body, having that general information on all subjects which will
enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require,
and to speak extremely well on each; that is my idea of him.”
“And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn
out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!
at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the
practised politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make
every body’s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to be
dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools
compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such
a puppy when it came to the point.”
“I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn every
thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no
chance of agreeing till he is really here.”
“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”
“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for
Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”
“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to
another,” said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma
immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he
should be angry.
To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different
disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she
was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of
himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a
moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma’s
opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think
that Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more; and she was
therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;—but
it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, and after speaking some
time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than
a very plaintive—“Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!” she
found something else must be done.
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates. She
determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was always
sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called
on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see
imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not
contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart, as to
her deficiency—but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its
being very disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women—and
all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and
third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she
seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing
their door without going in—observing, as she proposed it to Harriet,
that, as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any
letter from Jane Fairfax.
The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the
drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was
every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully
welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the
warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her
more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and
kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries
after Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her
mother’s, and sweet-cake from the beaufet—“Mrs. Cole had just
been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an
hour with them, and had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to
say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss
Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too.”
The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton. There
was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his
going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter over again,
and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company,
and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the
Ceremonies’ ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all
the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always
putting forward to prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.
This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant, having
once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome
topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses of
Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane
Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she
jumped away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from
her niece.
“Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to
dancing—Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath
was—Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane;
for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very
great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how
to shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as
any body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, ‘I
know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for
writing;’ and when I immediately said, ‘But indeed we have, we had
a letter this very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body more
surprized. ‘Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well,
that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’”
Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling
interest—
“Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope
she is well?”
“Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived aunt,
while eagerly hunting for the letter.—“Oh! here it is. I was sure
it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without
being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately
that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole,
and since she went away, I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a
pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often
enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my
huswife—and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she
says;—but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for
her writing so short a letter—only two pages you see—hardly
two—and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother
often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter
is first opened, ‘Well, Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make
out all that checker-work’—don’t you, ma’am?—And
then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she
had nobody to do it for her—every word of it—I am sure she would
pore over it till she had made out every word. And, indeed, though my
mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well
still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My
mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here,
‘I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you
do—and so much fine work as you have done too!—I only wish my eyes
may last me as well.’”
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath; and Emma
said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax’s
handwriting.
“You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly gratified;
“you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure
there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss
Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
Ma’am,” addressing her, “do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is
so obliging to say about Jane’s handwriting?”
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice
over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the
meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her
escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying
away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and
seized her attention.
“My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just nothing
at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,
she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very
remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane
speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all deafer than
she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at my mother’s time
of life—and it really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We
never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole,
we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now.”
“Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”
“Oh yes; next week.”
“Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.”
“Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so
surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be
as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday
or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the
carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole
way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is
what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we
call it; for, in the common course, we should not have heard from her before
next Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my
hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.”
“So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been for
this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My mother is
so delighted!—for she is to be three months with us at least. Three
months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading
to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs.
Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to
see them again—for till she married, last October, she was never away
from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different
kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote
a very urgent letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do not know
which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in
Mr. Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly,
and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their
country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great
deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean—I do not know that she ever
heard about it from any body else; but it was very natural, you know, that he
should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his
addresses—and as Jane used to be very often walking out with
them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their
daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not
at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss
Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he
had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He
is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go
to Ireland, from his account of things.”
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma’s
brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going
to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery,
“You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to
come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between
her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from
accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been
rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance
from us, for months together—not able to come if any thing was to happen.
But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs.
Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend
upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing than their
invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in
the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever
since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that
party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other
among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was
all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of
her habit— (I can never think of it without trembling!)—But ever
since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”
“But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish of
seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs.
Bates?”
“Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend;
and indeed they particularly her to try her native air, as she has
not been quite so well as usual lately.”
“I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon
must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable
degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss
Fairfax.”
“Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly
not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely
plain—but extremely elegant and amiable.”
“Yes, that of course.”
“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of November,
(as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well since. A long time, is
not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she
would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But however, she is so
far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come
home, and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that
three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is
certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if
she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.”
“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”
“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells
leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following—as you will find
from Jane’s letter. So sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,
what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her
illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking
very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that.
I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first,
before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being any
thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do: and so
I began to-day with my usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention
of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me!
poor Jane is ill!’—which my mother, being on the watch, heard
distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was
not near so bad as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to
her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be
so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The
expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of
Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we
could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain,
and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint
of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells
her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her.”
“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at
Harriet, and beginning to rise—“My father will be expecting us. I
had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,
when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the
door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly
detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning.”
And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the
street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her
will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax’s
letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
CHAPTER II
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s youngest
daughter.
The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ——regiment of infantry, and
Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest; but
nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in
action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon
afterwards—and this girl.
By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on losing her
mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of
her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being
permanently fixed there; of her being taught only what very limited means could
command, and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be
engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good
understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her
destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an
excellent officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted
to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had
saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though
some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to
England put any thing in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child
and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a
girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long
visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old, his
daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real
friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the
whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane had
belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and had lived with them entirely,
only visiting her grandmother from time to time.
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the very few
hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence
impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell’s
power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his
fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter’s; but, by giving her
an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence
hereafter.
Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known
nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education.
Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and
understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture; and
Colonel Campbell’s residence being in London, every lighter talent had
been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her
disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do;
and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be
qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of
instruction herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither
father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil
day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane
remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures
of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only
the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good
understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in
particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of
Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature
had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her
higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with
unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that
chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs,
giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged
the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as
they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax
had yet her bread to earn.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be yet
attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty;
though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for
beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period. With
the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to
complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational
intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for
ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution,
though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be
necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they
would have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:—what must
be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been
kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her
from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be
relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable
excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well
since the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have
completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in
duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying
spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something
more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable
comfort.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt
contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was
her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend,
perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom
she was so very dear: and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or
motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready
sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few months spent in her native
air, for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was
that she was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect
novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must
put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of
a two years’ absence.
Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like
through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and
less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult
question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in
her the really accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought
herself; and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there
were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit
her. But “she could never get acquainted with her: she did not know how
it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—such apparent
indifference whether she pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an
eternal talker!—and she was made such a fuss with by every
body!—and it had been always imagined that they were to be so
intimate—because their ages were the same, every body had supposed they
must be so fond of each other.” These were her reasons—she had no
better.
It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by
fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable
absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit
was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was
particularly struck with the very appearance and manners, which for those two
whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant,
remarkably elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her
height was pretty, just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody
could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most
becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health
seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all
this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them
altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very
pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had
never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil
at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no
fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance was the reigning
character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire
it:—elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in
Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold
complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was
determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history,
indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this
elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to
live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect;
especially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were
added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she
had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more
pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was
very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s affections
from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her imagination had suggested
at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her
side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while
a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of
motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to
divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her
career of laborious duty.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made
her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man
worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about
for her.
These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed
herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or
done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to
Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she is better than
handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother
and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former
provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome,
because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and
they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter
she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as
to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and
Jane’s offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and
the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation
of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her
own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so
cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a
cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was
disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the
subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no
real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own value for his
company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general
approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no
service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and
returned to her first surmises. There probably something more to
conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near
changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the
sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had
been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little
acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to
what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”—“She believed he
was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he
agreeable?”—“He was generally thought so.” “Did
he appear a sensible young man; a young man of
information?”—“At a watering-place, or in a common London
acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that
could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had
of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing.”
Emma could not forgive her.
CHAPTER III
Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation nor resentment
were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only
proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the
next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his
approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father
been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to
Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure
in marking an improvement.
“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had
been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers
swept away;—“particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us
some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting
at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women;
sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax
must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad
you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother’s,
it must have been a real indulgence.”
“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I
am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”
“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “ I am
sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If
any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been
handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”
“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are
not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I
think you understand me, therefore.”
An arch look expressed—“I understand you well enough;” but
she said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”
“I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all
that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its
foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”
“You think her diffident. I do not see it.”
“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by
her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant
evening.”
“Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and
amused to think how little information I obtained.”
“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.
“I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, in
his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I
moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss
Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks
rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a
different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort
of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She
must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had
Emma.”
“True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present,
said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—
“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes
from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my
heart.”
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and
before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the
Bates’s, said—
“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a
great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can
venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now
we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is
very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other
pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be
sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without
the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast
pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my
dear?”
“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the
loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”
“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before,
but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is
not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours,
and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or
parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”
“Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news
for you. You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I
think will interest you.”
“News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do you smile
so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?”
He had time only to say,
“No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when the door
was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of
thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr.
Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable
of communication could rest with him.
“Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss
Woodhouse—I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of
pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be
married.”
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely
surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the
sound.
“There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,” said Mr.
Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had
passed between them.
“But where could hear it?” cried Miss Bates.
“Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five
minutes since I received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be more
than five—or at least ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on,
just ready to come out—I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about
the pork—Jane was standing in the passage—were not you,
Jane?—for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large
enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go
down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing
the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’ said I—well, and
just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins—that’s all I know. A Miss
Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for
the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A
Miss Hawkins—”
“I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just read
Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.”
“Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more
generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother
desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says
you really quite oppress her.”
“We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr.
Woodhouse—“indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all other
pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than—”
“Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us.
If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had
every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that
‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr. Knightley, and so
you actually saw the letter; well—”
“It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of
course.”— Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had been so
fortunate as to—I forget the precise words—one has no business to
remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be
married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just
settled.”
“Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as she could
speak. “He will have every body’s wishes for his happiness.”
“He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s
observation. “He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well
off as he was. We were always glad to see him at Hartfield.”
“A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss Bates,
joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!—she says she cannot bear to
have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed.
Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a
curiosity to see him.”
Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to
occupy her.
“No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on
this appeal; “is he—is he a tall man?”
“Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father
would say ‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates and
I that he is just the happy medium. When you have been here a little longer,
Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection
in Highbury, both in person and mind.”
“Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young
man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was
precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent
young woman. His extreme attention to my mother—wanting her to sit in the
vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf,
you know—it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick. Jane says
that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for
it—the warm bath—but she says it did him no lasting benefit.
Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very
charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when good
people get together—and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and
Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; and the
Perrys—I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr.
and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,” turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “I think
there are few places with such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite
blessed in our neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother
loves better than another, it is pork—a roast loin of pork—”
“As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted
with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose can be known. One feels
that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four
weeks.”
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings, Emma
said,
“You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an
interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on
these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss
Campbell’s account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about
Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins.”
“When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “I dare say I
shall be interested—but I believe it requires with me. And as
it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little
worn off.”
“Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss
Woodhouse,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss
Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady
hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I
immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young
man—but’—In short, I do not think I am particularly quick at
those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At
the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss
Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend
for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you
heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do
you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in
person—tall, and with that sort of look—and not very
talkative.”
“Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”
“Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not,
strictly speaking, handsome?”
“Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told you he
was plain.”
“My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,
and that you yourself—”
“Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I
always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the general
opinion, when I called him plain.”
“Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does
not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss
Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece
of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole’s; but I shall not
stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better go home directly—I would
not have you out in a shower!—We think she is the better for Highbury
already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard,
for I really do not think she cares for any thing but pork: when
we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir.
Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane
is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and
Miss Hawkins!—Good morning to you.”
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while he
lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—and to marry
strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own view of the
subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as
proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for
Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could hope was, by giving
the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from
others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to
meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its beginning to rain, Emma was
obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs.
Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her
without preparation.
The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes, when in
came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a
full heart was likely to give; and the “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you
think has happened!” which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of
corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not
now shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran
eagerly through what she had to tell. “She had set out from Mrs.
Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had been afraid it would
rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every moment—but she
thought she might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried on as fast as
possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was
making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it
went on; and though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after
she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran on
directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at
Ford’s.”—Ford’s was the principal woollen-draper,
linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; the shop first in size and
fashion in the place.—“And so, there she had set, without an idea
of any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of a
sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they
always dealt at Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and
her brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have
fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door—Elizabeth
saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she
saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice; and they both went to
quite the farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!—Oh!
dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I
could not go away you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself
anywhere in the world but there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well, at
last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her
buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of
me; and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to
me—(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she came
forward—came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to
shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she
used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to to be
very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no
more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember she said she
was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear, Miss
Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold
up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting
away—and then—only think!—I found he was coming up towards me
too—slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so
he came and spoke, and I answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling
dreadfully, you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and
said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got three
yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to
Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole’s stables,
for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought
it would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him:
you know I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came
round by the stables—I believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was,
or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than
have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing
him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
do talk to me and make me comfortable again.”
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in her power.
She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself.
The young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result of
real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there
had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in
their behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people
before; and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion? It was
folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her—they
must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They
might all have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what
was the value of Harriet’s description?—So easily pleased—so
little discerning;—what signified her praise?
She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by considering all
that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on,
“It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but you
seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and may
never—can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need
not think about it.”
Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about
it;” but still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing
else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was
obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender
caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only
amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet—such a conclusion of Mr.
Elton’s importance with her!
Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel
the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an hour
before, its interest soon increased; and before their first conversation was
over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and
regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could
conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It had been
serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining any influence to
alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her, without seeking
her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to
seek her; for since her refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been at
Mrs. Goddard’s; and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown
together again, with any necessity, or even any power of speech.
CHAPTER IV
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting
situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being
kindly spoken of.
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first mentioned in
Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have every
recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly
accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to
triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of her merits, there was
very little more for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose
music she principally played.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and
mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what
appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but
finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away
deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to another as
superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained
always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy,
caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of
perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so
many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some dignity, as well
as some convenience: the story told well; he had not thrown himself
away—he had gained a woman of 10,000 . or thereabouts; and he had
gained her with such delightful rapidity—the first hour of introduction
had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which he
had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so
glorious—the steps so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner
at Mr. Green’s, and the party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and
blushes rising in importance—with consciousness and agitation richly
scattered—the lady had been so easily impressed—so sweetly
disposed—had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very
ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented.
He had caught both substance and shadow—both fortune and affection, and
was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his own
concerns—expecting to be congratulated—ready to be laughed
at—and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young
ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more
cautiously gallant.
The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please,
and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and when he set out for
Bath again, there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of Mrs.
Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he
would bring his bride.
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to
feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression of his not
being improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over his air.
She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him
pleasing at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very
disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a
source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful
to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he gave
her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.
The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be
lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented—many
awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A would be an excuse for
any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark. It would
be almost beginning their life of civility again.
Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good enough for
Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury—handsome
enough—to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side. As to connexion,
there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunted claims
and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed
attainable. she was, must be uncertain; but she was,
might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she
was at all Harriet’s superior. She brought no name, no blood, no
alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a
Bristol—merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the
profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to
guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of
every winter she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the
very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years
ago, an uncle remained—in the law line—nothing more distinctly
honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him
the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney, and
too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on
the elder sister, who was , to a
gentleman in a , near Bristol, who kept two carriages!
That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had talked her
into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm
of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to be
talked away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly would indeed;
nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but
nothing else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having
once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably
worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of
him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times every
day Harriet was sure to meet with him, or to miss him,
to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, to have
something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of
surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for,
excepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr.
Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and
every report, therefore, every guess—all that had already occurred, all
that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,
servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her regard
was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive,
and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s
happiness, and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!—his
air as he walked by the house—the very sitting of his hat, being all in
proof of how much he was in love!
Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend, or
reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet’s mind, Emma would have
been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the
Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr.
Elton’s engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr.
Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a
little put aside by Elizabeth Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a
few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been prepared
and left for her, written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of
reproach, with a great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared,
she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done
in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in
person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were
forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to
dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return
Elizabeth Martin’s visit.
How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would be necessary—and
what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute
neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingratitude.
It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance—!
After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than
Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had
understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal
acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey
Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to
allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past,
and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the
future.
She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it which
her own heart could not approve—something of ingratitude, merely glossed
over—it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
CHAPTER V
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend
called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led her to the very
spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to , was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into
the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches past; and
every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was
consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be put down,
at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between espalier
apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had given her so
much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local
agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be looking around with a
sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to
exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on herself, to give that
portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and Miss
Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any
alarming young man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk—a Miss
Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with
ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too
much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of
meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin
and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing
beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time—till
just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that she
thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a
warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September, with her
two friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by
the window. had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the
hour, the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness, the same
regrets—to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and they
were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as
ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the carriage
reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and the shortness of it,
were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom
she had thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma could not
but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally
Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal,
or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They
were so deserving, that a higher should have been enough: but as
it was, how could she have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She could
not repent. They must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the
process—so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity
of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to
procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The
refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither
“master nor mistress was at home;” they had both been out some
time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
“This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now
we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know when I have been so
disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs,
or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being the
commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; she
looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to
her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater
pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her
with,
“How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting
with your father—glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I
had a letter this morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a
certainty—he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I
knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three
days; I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have
just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him
completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish.”
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of
such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all was by the words
and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the
purpose. To know that thought his coming certain was enough to make
Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most
delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the
freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s
thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed
his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the
route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and
congratulated.
“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the
conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his wife.
“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are
detaining the girls.”
“Well, well, I am ready;”—and turning again to Emma,
“but you must not be expecting such a fine young man; you
have only had account you know; I dare say he is really nothing
extraordinary:”—though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were
speaking a very different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that
appropriated nothing.
“Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,”
was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant
only for her.
“Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by
three,” was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most
satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness;
every thing wore a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so
sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at
least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw
something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.
“Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as
Oxford?”—was a question, however, which did not augur much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma was now
in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o’clock, that
she was to think of her at four.
“My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental
soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, “always
overcareful for every body’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all
your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all
is right.” The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall.
“’Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence;
and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of
the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him
soon.”
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes,
and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a
day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil
welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize,
introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before
her—he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said
in his praise; he was a good looking young man; height, air,
address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the
spirit and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She
felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of
manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to
be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness
to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and
quicker, that he might gain half a day.
“I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I
told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I
used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on
faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s
friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little
exertion it needs.”
“It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the
young man, “though there are not many houses that I should presume on so
far; but in coming I felt I might do any thing.”
The word made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma
was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction
was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls,
thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be
very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself,
Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of
interest in the country which none but one’s country gives,
and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to
indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma’s
brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly
handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and
speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On
his side were the inquiries,—“Was she a horsewoman?—Pleasant
rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they a large
neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?—There
were several very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they
balls?—Was it a musical society?”
But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably
advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were
engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her
with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for
the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of
himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please—and of
his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance
a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston;
but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what
would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. “His father’s
marriage,” he said, “had been the wisest measure, every friend must
rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be
ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him.”
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits,
without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to
be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved
to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound
it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.
“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he;
“but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more
than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that
I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”
“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my
feelings,” said Emma; “were you to guess her to be ,
I should listen with pleasure; but would be ready to quarrel with
you for using such words. Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of
her as a pretty young woman.”
“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon
it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand
whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my
terms.”
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their
knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever
crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of
acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his
ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she
detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and
even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was
often listening.
Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a
most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving
matrimony than from foreseeing it.—Though always objecting to every
marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension
of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons’
understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against
them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback
of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible
treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in
solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his
journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express
very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching
cold—which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of
himself till after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—“He must be
going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for
Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.” His
son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity
of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as
well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of
yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the
name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house;
though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather say
Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?”
“To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we
passed her house—I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are
acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine
girl she is. Call upon her, by all means.”
“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young
man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree of
acquaintance at Weymouth which—”
“Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done
cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want
of attention to her should be carefully avoided. You saw her with
the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here
she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do
not call early it will be a slight.”
The son looked convinced.
“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she
is a very elegant young woman.”
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost
to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of
elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only
ordinarily gifted with it.
“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said
she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and
hear her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an
aunt who never holds her tongue.”
“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give me
leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is
staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people; I have
known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and
one of my servants shall go with you to shew you the way.”
“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct
me.”
“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses; you
might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on
the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the
street.”
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his
father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend, this is
quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to
Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and
jump.”
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very
well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to
think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in
their comfort.
CHAPTER VI
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs. Weston,
to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting
with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of
exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, immediately fixed on
Highbury.—“He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in
every direction, but if left to him, he should always chuse the same. Highbury,
that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant
attraction.”—Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and
she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither
directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a
minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their
plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive them
walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again,
and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to
whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing
should make amends for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly
satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he
paid his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner
to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as
a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form
a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning.
They were all three walking about together for an hour or two—first round
the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with
every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and
when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made
acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and
interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He begged to
be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been
the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an old woman
who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one
end of the street to the other; and though in some points of pursuit or
observation there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will
towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was
with.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it could
not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself;
that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere
professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the
principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept,
more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on the road;
and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited
there; but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added;
it had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood
had been in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used
as such;—but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the
highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club
established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was
immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of
passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed windows
which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that
its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would
acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough,
handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have
balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss
Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room?—She who could do
any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the
conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be
tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be
persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not
furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars were given
and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience
of such a mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest
difficulty in every body’s returning into their proper place the next
morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was
rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly
against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and
spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing
of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps,
scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on
inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding
cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and being now
almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended
visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
“Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention
it. A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very
much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me
quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only
betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all
that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I
should certainly be at home before him—but there was no getting away, no
pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere
else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very
nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the
possibility of escape before.”
“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”
“Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look
ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can
never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost
always to give the appearance of ill health.—A most deplorable want of
complexion.”
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax’s
complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it
to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her
skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face.” He
listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard many people say
the same—but yet he must confess, that to him nothing could make amends
for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, a
fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good, the effect
was—fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about
taste.—At least you admire her except her complexion.”
He shook his head and laughed.—“I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and
her complexion.”
“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same
society?”
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,
“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of
their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says,
six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If it be
not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong
to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at
Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say they sell
gloves.”
“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will
be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were
Mr. Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and
your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s
Beavers” and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on
the counter, he said—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you
were speaking to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst
of my . Do not let me lose it. I assure you the
utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any
happiness in private life.”
“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party
at Weymouth.”
“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree of
acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.—I shall
not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”
“Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her
account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very reserved,
so very unwilling to give the least information about any body, that I really
think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her.”
“May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me
so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little
in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is
a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like
them all.”
“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is
destined to be?”
“Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.”
“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling;
“remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to
say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a
little farther off.”
“I certainly do forget to think of ,” said Emma,
“as having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest
friend.”
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, “Did
you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?” said Frank
Churchill.
“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she
belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both
began. She plays charmingly.”
“You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could
really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable
taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.—I am excessively fond of
music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body’s
performance.—I have been used to hear her’s admired; and I remember
one proof of her being thought to play well:—a man, a very musical man,
and in love with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of
marriage—would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the
instrument, if the lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed
to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of
known musical talent, was some proof.”
“Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—“Mr. Dixon is
very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from
you, than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”
“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
very strong proof.”
“Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal
stronger than, if had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all
agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music than
love—more ear than eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than
to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”
“It was her very particular friend, you know.”
“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a
stranger preferred than one’s very particular friend—with a
stranger it might not recur again—but the misery of having a very
particular friend always at hand, to do every thing better than one does
oneself!—Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in
Ireland.”
“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she
really did not seem to feel it.”
“So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know
which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of
friendship, or dulness of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must
have felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction.”
“As to that—I do not—”
“Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s
sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I
guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr.
Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”
“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them
all—” he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added,
“however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really
were—how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was
smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must
be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself
in critical situations, than I can be.”
“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and
women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be
intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited
her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little,
perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust
towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and
grandmother, and all their set. And then, her reserve—I never could
attach myself to any one so completely reserved.”
“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he.
“Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is
safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”
“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction may
be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable
companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any
body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is
quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the
least—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and
manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to
suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal.”
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and thinking
so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could
hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she
had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his notions, less of the
spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas
seemed more moderate—his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by
his manner of considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the
church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault
with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to
be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could
not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample room
in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about. Used
only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages
and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the
privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in her own mind,
determined that he know what he was talking about, and that he
shewed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from
worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be
occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but
no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that
whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to be
allowed an early establishment.
CHAPTER VII
Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the
following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have his
hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had
sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more
important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was certainly no
harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there
was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did
not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the
unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern in him
yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which
must be doing something, good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his
father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in
general; he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a
coxcomb, and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like
it, was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making
no other comment than that “all young people would have their little
whims.”
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had
given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how
attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself—how much she saw to
like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open
temper—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe
nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his
uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him—said he would be the
best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being
attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed
to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and,
but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to
denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given
him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least
very near it, and saved only by her own indifference—(for still her
resolution held of never marrying)—the honour, in short, of being marked
out for her by all their joint acquaintance.
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some
weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her
extremely—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much
to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As
Mrs. Weston observed, “all young people would have their little
whims.”
There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so leniently
disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of Donwell and
Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little
excesses of such a handsome young man—one who smiled so often and bowed
so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power
of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told
him at Hartfield; for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost
immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand,
“Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.” She had half
a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation convinced her that it was
really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and
therefore she let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.
Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect particularly
opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want
their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice
they gave.
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in
Highbury, and were very good sort of people—friendly, liberal, and
unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and
only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had lived
in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little
unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable
increase of means—the house in town had yielded greater profits, and
fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views
increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company.
They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of
every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only
to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room,
prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties,
chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best
families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite—neither
Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt to go, if
they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits would be
giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were very
respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them
to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This
lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had
little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before
it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her very differently
affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come
for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it with
“I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not
dine out,” was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to
have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be
assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to
her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been
tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses.
They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and
Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. Might not the evening
end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as
a farther irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur,
even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor
comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at Hartfield,
which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first remark, on
reading it, was that “of course it must be declined,” she so very
soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for
her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without
inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so
properly—there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so
much consideration for her father. “They would have solicited the honour
earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London,
which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of air, and
therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his
company.” Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly
settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his
comfort—how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended
on for bearing him company—Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an
acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a day now near at
hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for going,
Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and
the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.
“I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he—“I never
was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs.
Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in
one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take us in their
afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet
get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer
evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they are so very
desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there, and
Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided
the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then
turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—“Ah! Miss
Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home with me.”
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away,
it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.
Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.”
But the idea of any thing to be done in a , was increasing, not
lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay
it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as
usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for
Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take
the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to Mrs.
Cole.”
“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say
that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must decline their
obliging invitation; beginning with my , of course. But you
will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must
remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall
have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the
new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very
safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would have
him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not
like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over.”
“But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”
“Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many
people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”
“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away
early, it will be breaking up the party.”
“And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The
sooner every party breaks up, the better.”
“But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma’s
going away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured
people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any
body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s
doing it would be more thought of than any other person’s in the room.
You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir;
friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours
these years.”
“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you
for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I
know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches
malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious—Mr.
Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My
dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of
hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish.
You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among
your friends.”
“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only
afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly
comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone
home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed
at your usual time—and the idea of that would entirely destroy my
comfort. You must promise me not to sit up.”
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she
came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that
she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; and
that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in the house,
as usual.
CHAPTER VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his
being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could be
concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good
grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no
reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to
wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and
as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to
herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It
depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this
differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed
of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the
evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No, I am
perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer
time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the
meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be
necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what the
observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the
first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his
propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the
house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and
while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two
ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and
full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their
constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal.—She had
provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that they had
been allowed to eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to see
that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having
little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was
too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his
carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity
now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to
hand her out.
“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a
gentleman.—I am quite glad to see you.”
He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would
have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You might not
have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”
“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath
them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a
sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I
meet you under those circumstances. you have nothing to try for. You
are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller
than any body else. I shall really be very happy to walk into the
same room with you.”
“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr.
Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please,
and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the
kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both
husband and wife; the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked
her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by
her—and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming
among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the
lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with
Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too
numerous for any subject of conversation to be general; and, while politics and
Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to
the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt
herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be
relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She
listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma,
her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been
calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by
the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking instrument—not a
grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story, the
end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and
congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that
this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great
astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first,
by Miss Bates’s account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite
bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it—but now, they were
both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—of
course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was
only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had
a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows
their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for
their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to surprize her.”
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the subject was
equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced
that such a present had been made; and there were enough ready to speak to
allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs. Cole.
“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame,
especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are
absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and
it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at
our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one note from
another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never
make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music,
has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old
spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole
but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of
music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that
some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a
better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the instrument was
bought—or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in
great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this
evening.”
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing more was
to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank
Churchill.
“Why do you smile?” said she.
“Nay, why do you?”
“Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s
being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”
“Very.”
“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”
“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”
“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which
must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”
“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates’s house.”
“You may what you chuse—but your countenance testifies
that your on this subject are very much like mine.”
“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect
whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to
question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”
“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must
know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps
the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman’s
scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you
that your suspicions would guide mine.”
“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend . Dixon
in them.”
“Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be
the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you
know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”
“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had
entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of
either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that,
after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love
with , or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her
side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I
am sure there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury
instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a
life of privation and penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to
the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere
excuse.—In the summer it might have passed; but what can any body’s
native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good
fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate
health, and I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my
suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly
tell you what they are.”
“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr.
Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for
being very decided.”
“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water
party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
“He did. I was there—one of the party.”
“Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course,
for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I
should have made some discoveries.”
“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught
her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and
alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half
an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too general
a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean
to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries.”
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the
awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as
formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again safely
covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and
ease were generally restored, Emma said,
“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a
little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear
that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must
conclude it to come from the Campbells.”
“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not
from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not
have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you
perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in
the business.”
“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you
satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal
kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you
mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the
tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than
as an offering of love.”
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real;
he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects took their turn;
and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children
came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a
few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger
proportion neither the one nor the other—nothing worse than everyday
remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies, in
their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own
particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace,
she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but
could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition
which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs
of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how
many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed
herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and
say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did
look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change
feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having
loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender
of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her
friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did
not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself,
to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposely
kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost immediately
introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations
were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of “my
excellent friend Colonel Campbell.”
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the
circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in
dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone,
touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about
it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the early
was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and after
paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way
directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till
he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body
present must be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it.
She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments
afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had never seen so
lovely a face, and was delighted with her naïveté.” And she, “Only
to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there
were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her
indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing
towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that
he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated sitting
long—was always the first to move when he could—that his father,
Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish
business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant
enough, as he had found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men;
and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether—thought it so abundant in
agreeable families—that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise
the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in
Yorkshire—the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort;
and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned,
there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of
great families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and
invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in
health and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not without
difficulty, without considerable address , that he could
get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at its best,
might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he
liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it
naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could
do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed
(excepting one or two points) he could persuade her to
any thing. One of those points on which his influence failed, he then
mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had been very eager
indeed to be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This had
happened the year before. , he said, he was beginning to have no
longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good
behaviour to his father.
“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short
pause.— “I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I
never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to
enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I
hate the recollection.”
“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out of
so few, in having your hair cut.”
“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be
seen.”
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to
turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had
moved away, and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank
Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting
exactly opposite.
“What is the matter?” said she.
He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I
believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so
odd a way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I
never saw any thing so outrée!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of
her own. I see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her
whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I
will—and you shall see how she takes it;—whether she
colours.”
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss Fairfax,
and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had
improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss
Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one
can get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to
talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss
Bates and her niece came here?”
“How?—They were invited, were not they?”
“Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of
their coming?”
“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”
“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad
it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold as
the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to
more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be
particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it;
so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke
to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes;
and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her
that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought
it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as
herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no
occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was
to take them home again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am
sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very kind attention—and so
thoughtful an attention!—the sort of thing that so few men would think
of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to
think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do
suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was
only as an excuse for assisting them.”
“Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know
no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any
thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a
gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and
for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more
than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived
together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could
betray.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for
more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while
Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been
able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears.
In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the
consequence of keeping you company!—What do you say to it?”
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs.
Weston, how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr.
Knightley must not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from
Donwell?—Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to
Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am
amazed that you should think of such a thing.”
“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want
the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea
has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to
marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of six
years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”
“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr.
Knightley marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it
now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”
“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know.”
“But the imprudence of such a match!”
“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”
“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite
enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you
know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad to shew them
attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making. You do it very
ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling
revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.”
“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of
fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing
unsuitable.”
“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least
idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He is as
happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library,
and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother’s
children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his
heart.”
“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves
Jane Fairfax—”
“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am
sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest
good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”
“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a
very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss Bates
belonging to him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all
day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind and
obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And
then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat.
‘Not that it was such a very old petticoat either—for still it
would last a great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their
petticoats were all very strong.’”
“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience.
And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss
Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he wanted
to say any thing himself, he would only talk louder, and drown her voice. But
the question is not, whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether
he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so
very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety
about her health—his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I
have heard him express himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer
of her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say
that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea
that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been sent here by
somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a
present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help
suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, even without being in
love.”
“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not
think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing
mysteriously.”
“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener
than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of
things, occur to him.”
“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
her so.”
“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong
notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs.
Cole told us of it at dinner.”
“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many
a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I believe
nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that Mr.
Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”
They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining
ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the
two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over,
and the instrument in preparation;—and at the same moment Mr. Cole
approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it.
Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs.
Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss
Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in
every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she
could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little
things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well.
One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize—a second,
slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at
the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having
a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly
denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all,
roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her
place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she
never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her
own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers
round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung
together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr.
Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma’s mind; and
she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston’s
suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary
interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying did not in the
least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great
disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury
to the children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to them
all;—a very great deduction from her father’s daily
comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane
Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way
to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the
heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked
at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet
she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of
touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt
and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short,
she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of
his own.
“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our
carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;
but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to
for such a purpose.”
“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he
replied;—“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he
smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed
another step.
“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this
pianoforte is very kindly given.”
“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her
notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and
the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment
in Colonel Campbell.”
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no
concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from
peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual
preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of
Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.
“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking
aloud—“you have sung quite enough for one evening—now be
quiet.”
Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would
not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one
more.” And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could
manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of
the song falls on the second.”
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but
shewing off his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates,
who at that moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let
your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no
mercy on her.”
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here
ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax
were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the
proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew where—was so
effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly
clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her
country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank
Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her
hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found
time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste,
to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He
was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax
now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was
talking to Mrs. Cole—he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by
somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led
off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple
could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very
delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple
worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late,
and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother’s account. After
some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to
thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.
“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma
to her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
would not have agreed with me, after yours.”
CHAPTER IX
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded
her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be
supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid
in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles—worthy
people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a name behind her that
would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on
which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the
duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s
feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an
idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a
compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite
certain that she ought to have held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she
had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of
her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of
her childhood—and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s
praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”
“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like
her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.”
“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play
quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body
last night said how well you played.”
“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The
truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane
Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”
“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or
that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said
how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your
taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.”
“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”
“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any
taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.—There is no
understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know,
it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The
Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family.
How did you think the Coxes looked?”
“Just as they always do—very vulgar.”
“They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly;
“but it is nothing of any consequence.”
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing
Mr. Elton.
“They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”
“Oh!”
“He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to
dinner.”
“Oh!”
“They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know
what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again
next summer.”
“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should
be.”
“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at
dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to marry
him.”
“Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury.”
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most prudent to go
with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her
present state, would be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always very long
at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins and changing her
mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could not be hoped from
the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry walking
hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr.
Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on
an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and
when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman
travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over
a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker’s little
bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and
was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and
at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons appeared;
Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into Highbury;—to
Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs.
Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford’s; and
had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.—Immediately they crossed
the road and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday’s
engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston
informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order to hear the
new instrument.
“For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely
promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware
of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am
going now.”
“And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,”
said Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for her at
Hartfield—if you are going home.”
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
“I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much
pleased.”
“Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be equally in
the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always
sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss
Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?”
“I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am only
waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go
home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.”
“Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel
Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have
an indifferent tone—what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.
Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be
palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a
civil falsehood.”
“I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.—“I am
persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is
necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent.
Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last
night.”
“Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very
disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield
afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with
me. It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant
it.”
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned
with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door. Emma watched them in, and then
joined Harriet at the interesting counter,—trying, with all the force of
her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use
to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would
still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the
destination of the parcel.
“Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs.
Ford.—“Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my
pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you
please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.—And I could take the
pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly—so it had
better go to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it into two
parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?”
“It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two
parcels.”
“No more it is.”
“No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs.
Ford.
“Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you
please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s—I do not
know—No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to
Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?”
“That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,
if you please, Mrs. Ford.”
“Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied,
“I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.”
Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.
Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
“My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run
across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little
while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How
do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs.
Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”
“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”
“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and
Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to
hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh! then,
said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me just to run
across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so very happy to see
her—and now we are such a nice party, she cannot
refuse.—‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss
Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument will be worth
having.’—But, said I, I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of
you will go with me.—‘Oh,’ said he, ‘wait half a
minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would you believe it,
Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world,
fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The rivet came
out, you know, this morning.—So very obliging!—For my mother had no
use of her spectacles—could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body
ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant
to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or
other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no
saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen
chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to
me. Here is the rivet of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked
apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil
and obliging to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say
that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never
known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the
value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only
three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats
nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if
you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats—so I say
one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of
the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked
apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other
day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had
any doubt before—I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked
apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit
thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes
an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and
these ladies will oblige us.”
Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they
did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,
“How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I
hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back
delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little too
large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”
“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were
all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my
mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!
‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a
job of this kind excessively.’—Which you know shewed him to be so
very…. Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as
I had expected, he very far exceeds any thing…. I do congratulate you, Mrs.
Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could….
‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that
sort excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought
out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very
obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is
nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking
home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so very….
And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very
delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—only we do not
have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them
done three times—but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it.
The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all
from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends
us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple
anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother
says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was really quite
shocked the other day—for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was
eating these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed
them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am
sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another supply;
for I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a
larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more, before they
get good for nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to
ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great many
left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept for
Jane; and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal
as he had been already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she
almost quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never
had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the
apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a great
many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could. However, the very
same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same
sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down
and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose. William
Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however,
I found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of
sort his master had; he had brought them all—and now his
master had not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it
himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William,
you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing; but Mrs.
Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away. She could
not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this
spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any
thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges be cross sometimes, and as
long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And
so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr.
Knightley know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very…. I
wanted to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned
it before I was aware.”
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors walked
upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the
sounds of her desultory good-will.
“Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take
care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather darker and
narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am
quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the
turning.”
CHAPTER X
The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was tranquillity
itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of
the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her
spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her
pianoforte.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most happy
countenance on seeing Emma again.
“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming
at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be
useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”
“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? you
would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this
rate.”
“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I
have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand
steadily, it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see
we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be
persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently employed in
looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise
him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the
pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise
from the state of her nerves; she had not yet possessed the instrument long
enough to touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of
performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin,
and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of
the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been
delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise;
and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be
altogether of the highest promise.
“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill, with
a smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of
Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes
I am sure is exactly what he and would
particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend
very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think
so?”
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been
speaking to her at the same moment.
“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random
guess. Do not distress her.”
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt and
very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,
“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this
occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which
will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s coming to hand. Do
you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at
this time?—Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate
commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an
order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and
conveniences?”
He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,
“Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice
of forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must
be all conjecture.”
“Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one
conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet
quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one
talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues; but we
gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss Fairfax said something
about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs.
Bates,) of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.”
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a little from
the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still
sitting at it, to play something more.
“If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the
waltzes we danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did not
enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad
we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one
ever has to give—for another half-hour.”
She played.
“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which made one
happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else.
He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,
“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know
it?—Cramer.—And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from
such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very
thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could
have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews
it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing
incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused; and when
on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile,
when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had been a
smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less
compunction with respect to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane
Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—Emma
took the opportunity of whispering,
“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least
ashamed of my meaning.”
“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the
idea.”
“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a
key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she
ought to feel it.”
“She is not entirely without it, I think.”
“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing
at this moment— favourite.”
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr. Knightley
on horse-back not far off.
“Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to
thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold; but I
can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in when he
knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!—Our little
room so honoured!”
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every
syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it
had passed within the same apartment.
“How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank
you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my
mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends
here.”
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his
turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,
“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all,
but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no
cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in
any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of
particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism.
“So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the
carriage,” resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with,
“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”
“Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the other
day she wanted something from Kingston.”
“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for
?”
“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?—Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put
up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”
“Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes,
perhaps.”
“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—Quite
delightful; so many friends!”
“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to
Kingston as fast as I can.”
“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”
“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the
pianoforte.”
“Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party
last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever see such
dancing?—Was not it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank
Churchill; I never saw any thing equal to it.”
“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes. And
(raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be
mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs. Weston is the
very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your
friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and
me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.”
“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence—so
shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”
“What is the matter now?”
“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a
great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked! Mrs.
Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not
have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can bear to be
thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it would have been a pity
not to have mentioned…. Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able
to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if
he could do any thing….”
“Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every
thing.”
“Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was
open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have
heard every thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at
Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned…. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you
be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted long; and
on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that
Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could allow themselves only to
walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for
Randalls.
CHAPTER XI
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of
young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball
of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or
mind;—but when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid
motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it must be a very heavy set
that does not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again; and the
last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with
his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the
subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his the greatest zeal in
pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most
solicitous for accommodation and appearance. But still she had inclination
enough for shewing people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to compare
herself with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any
of the wicked aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room
they were in to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the
dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all
that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the
largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s
should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and the
same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered
into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook
to play as long as they could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had
followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the
indispensable division of space to every couple.
“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will be
the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes,
that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax,
will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five couple there will be
plenty of room.”
But soon it came to be on one side,
“But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think
there will.”
On another,
“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. It will
not do to five couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of
the moment.”
Somebody said that Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and
must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed . Gilbert would
have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in for a
second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must
be included, and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it
became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very
interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might not they
use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed the best scheme;
and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it
would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr.
Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very
unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I
could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a
dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you
would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not
let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless. Do
not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been
opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very
inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you
against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!”
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and
said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the
passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they
were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank Churchill’s
part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely
sufficient for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for
ten.
“We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary
room. Ten couple may stand here very well.”
Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could be
worse than dancing without space to turn in?”
“Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But
still he went on measuring, and still he ended with,
“I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”
“No, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable. It would be
dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to
be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!”
“There is no denying it,” he replied. “I agree with you
exactly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of
giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!—Still,
however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It
would be a disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not know
that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very
well.”
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and
that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; but she
took the compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to
him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try
to understand the value of his preference, and the character of his temper; but
for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered the room
with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It
soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” he almost immediately began, “your
inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the
terrors of my father’s little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the
subject:—a thought of my father’s, which waits only your
approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the
two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls,
but at the Crown Inn?”
“The Crown!”
“Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot,
my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there. Better
accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at
Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you
are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten
couple, in either of the Randalls rooms, would have been
insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were the whole time,
but was too anxious for securing to like to yield. Is
not it a good exchange?—You consent—I hope you consent?”
“It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for myself,
shall be most happy—It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do
you not think it an excellent improvement?”
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and
then, being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it
acceptable.
“No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very bad
plan—much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and
dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance,
they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown
in his life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh!
no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than
anywhere.”
“I was going to observe, sir,” said Frank Churchill, “that
one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger
of any body’s catching cold—so much less danger at the Crown than
at Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody
else could.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, “you are very much
mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is
extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the
room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.”
“From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no
occasion to open the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it is
that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated
bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.”
“Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of
opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of
such a thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither your father
nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.”
“Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind
a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I have
often known it done myself.”
“Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it.
But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,
this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it
over—but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One
cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging
as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be
done.”
“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”
“Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for
talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to
be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be
so near their own stable.”
“So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure
of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I
doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.”
“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be
under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the
whole.”
“There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear Mrs.
Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so
many years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If
undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How
often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”
“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor
little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been
very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times a day for a
week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—which was our
great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor
Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry.”
“My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said
Frank Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them
there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you
might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired
to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them, if you could
allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without
you.”
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father, engaging to
think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together
without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see
her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different
way; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.
“Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look!
in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and
forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”
“My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What
does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our
club-nights.”
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never know
when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to
himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
cares.”
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It
regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built,
suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only
addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room
now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves,
still was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another room of much
better size might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of
the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This
made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in
that passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of
being miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c., set
out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A
private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud
upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again.
She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room,
observed,
“I do not think it so very small. We shall not be many, you
know.”
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the
passage, was calling out,
“You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a
mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.”
“I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement
our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally
pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would
be.”
“Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your
neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what
the chief of them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I
call upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.—And I do not know
whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest
of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I go
and invite Miss Bates to join us?”
“Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating,
“if you think she will be of any use.”
“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma.
“She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing.
She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting
Miss Bates.”
“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing
Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.”
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his
decided approbation.
“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter
at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a properer
person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are
growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But
fetch them both. Invite them both.”
“Both sir! Can the old lady?”…
“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great
blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect. Undoubtedly
if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.” And away he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt, and
her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good
wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much less than
she had supposed before—indeed very trifling; and here ended the
difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly
smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea
and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any
time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.—Every body invited, was
certainly to come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a
few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused. And a
delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As a
counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,)
she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and
incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour they were all
walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some
attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up
without Emma’s being positively secured for the two first dances by the
hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his
wife, “He has asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he
would!”
CHAPTER XII
One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely
satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted term of
Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s
confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might
not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not
judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be
properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they
must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty—at the
risk—in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His wish of
staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. All was safe
and prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for
another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next
vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking indifference about it. Either because
he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being
consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined
against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future
amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving
reply, than,
“Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble
for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but
that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.—Oh! yes, I must be there; I
could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be
at home, looking over William Larkins’s week’s account; much
rather, I confess.—Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not I,
indeed—I never look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine
dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing
by are usually thinking of something very different.”
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was not in
compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant;
he was not guided by feelings in reprobating the ball, for
enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her
animated—open hearted—she voluntarily said;—
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What
a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with
great pleasure.”
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the
society of William Larkins. No!—she was more and more convinced that Mrs.
Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly
and of compassionate attachment on his side—but no love.
Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of
joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of every thing. A
letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant return.
Mrs. Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without him; she had been
in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two
days before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant
habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was
too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.
The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston,
instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few
hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his
repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own
convenience.
Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to
Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he
could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be expected at
Hartfield very soon.”
This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once it had
been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of
the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young man might
be feeling!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening as it
would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner the
happiest!—“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.
Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs.
Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for
the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be
safer at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if this
reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of
spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too
much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in
thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to
say,
“Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”
“But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your
only visit to Randalls.”
“Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may be able
to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be the object of
all my thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle and aunt go to town this
spring—but I am afraid—they did not stir last spring—I am
afraid it is a custom gone for ever.”
“Our poor ball must be quite given up.”
“Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize
the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, why are you always so right?”
“Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much
rather have been merry than wise.”
“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on
it. Do not forget your engagement.”
Emma looked graciously.
“Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day
more precious and more delightful than the day before!—every day making
me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at
Highbury!”
“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing,
“I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at
first? Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure
you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming,
if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.”
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma was
convinced that it had been so.
“And you must be off this very morning?”
“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I
must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring
him.”
“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss
Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might have
strengthened yours.”
“Yes—I called there; passing the door, I thought it
better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was
detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it
impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one
laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to
pay my visit, then”—
He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think
you can hardly be quite without suspicion”—
He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to
say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she
did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it
by, she calmly said,
“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
then”—
He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting on what
she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was
natural for him to feel that he had to sigh. He could not believe
her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again;
and in a more determined manner said,
“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to
Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”—
He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.—He was more in
love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended,
if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the
necessity of exertion made him composed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston,
always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating
any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said,
“It was time to go;” and the young man, though he might and did
sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
“I shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief
consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have
engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise
it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested
in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be at
dear Highbury again.”
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-bye,”
closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had
been the notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry
to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence
as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.
It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival.
Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the last two
weeks—indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which
every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his
manners! It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking
from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other
recommendation, he had told her that he loved her. What strength,
or what constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but
at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a
conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,
made her think that she be a little in love with him, in spite of
every previous determination against it.
“I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of
listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ
myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and insipid about the
house!— I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world
if I were not—for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good
to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank
Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his
dear William Larkins now if he likes.”
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that
he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted
him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the
disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added,
“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out
of luck; you are very much out of luck!”
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest regret in
this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was odious. She had
been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, which
made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane
could have attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming
indifference to the languor of ill-health.
CHAPTER XIII
Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only
varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and
afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill
talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs.
Weston; she was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter,
that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and
what was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the
other hand, she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first
morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and
cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults;
and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or
working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their
attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the
conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she
. Their affection was always to subside into
friendship. Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but
still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that
she could not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed
determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment
certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own
feelings.
“I do not find myself making any use of the word ,”
said she.—“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate
negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is
not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not
persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be
sorry to be more.”
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.
“ is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes
it—very much in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his
affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.—It would
be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that
I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had
believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.
Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting
would have been different.—Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is
in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not
know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of
man—I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.—His
feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.—Every
consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness is
not more deeply involved.—I shall do very well again after a little
while—and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every body is
in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily.”
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and she
read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake
her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength.
It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and
of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was
natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local that
could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious
flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling
towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just
enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have
been said but for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own name
was not wanting. appeared more than once, and
never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her
taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time of its
meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she
yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest
compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant
corner were these words—“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as
you know, for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my
excuses and adieus to her.” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for
herself. Harriet was remembered only from being friend. His
information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had
been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in
his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part,
its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs.
Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do
without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions
were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the
addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His
recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the “beautiful
little friend,” suggested to her the idea of Harriet’s succeeding
her in his affections. Was it impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly
was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck
with the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all
the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
“I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“I must not think
of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things
have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will
be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship
which I can already look forward to with pleasure.”
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it
might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter was at
hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s
engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely
borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s disappearance, Mr.
Elton’s concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.—His
wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his
bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before
“Mr. Elton and his bride” was in every body’s mouth, and
Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three
weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been
willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball
in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things;
but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure
as could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing,
and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and
soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she
could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity
and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without
producing any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their
opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said “it was very
true—it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was not worth while
to think about them—and she would not think about them any longer”
but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious
and restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another
ground.
“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make
. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into.
It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure
you.—Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you—and it will
be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of
forgetting it.”
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation.
Emma continued,
“I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would wish
it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit
of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to
propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health
and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have
been pressing on you. They are very important—and sorry I am that you
cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a
very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain.
Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was
due—or rather what would be kind by me.”
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting
gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved
extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was
comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and
support her in it very tolerably.
“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—Want
gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do
for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner
could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued
her affection so highly before.
“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she
afterwards to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and
tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the
clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is
tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved—which
gives Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I know how to
prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the
felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change you for the
clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the
coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for
a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention no
names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”
CHAPTER XIV
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be interrupted,
curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for
the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very
pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her
resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of
Harriet’s going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone
through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she
had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot,
without . A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was not to be supposed
that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behaved very well,
and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there
was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would
not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to
give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being “elegantly dressed,
and very pleasing.”
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she
suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.— She
was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much
ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty; but neither feature,
nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would
turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not permit
a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward
ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all
grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off; she might
have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the
man had only his own good sense to depend on; and when she considered how
peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with
the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman
whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to
look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as
could be.
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—Is not she
very charming?”
There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
“Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”
“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”
“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”
“I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.”
“Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty
fortune; and she came in his way.”
“I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say
she was very much attached to him.”
“Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry the
woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this
the best offer she was likely to have.”
“Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody
could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now,
Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as
superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a different
thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and admire
him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself away,
is such a comfort!—She does seem a charming young woman, just what he
deserves. Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta.’ How
delightful!”
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see more and
judge better. From Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield, and her
father’s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour
of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to
her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain
woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own
importance; that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners
which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions
were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish
she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself, she
would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be
fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The
rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place
and his carriages were the pride of him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, “My brother
Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple
Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house
was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the
size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine.
“Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the
likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at
Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—Mr. Elton was
appealed to.—“Was not it astonishingly like?—She could really
almost fancy herself at Maple Grove.”
“And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very like
the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could
not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me,
to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have
spent so many happy months there! (with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming
place, undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me,
it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss
Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing
at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the
evils of matrimony.”
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient for Mrs.
Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
“So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—the
grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like. The
laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much
in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine large
tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and
sister will be enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds
themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style.”
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who
had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of
any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed,
and therefore only said in reply,
“When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you
have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.”
“Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you
know. Surry is the garden of England.”
“Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties,
I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as Surry.”
“No, I fancy not,” replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile.
“I never heard any county but Surry called so.”
Emma was silenced.
“My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer
at farthest,” continued Mrs. Elton; “and that will be our time for
exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say.
They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly;
and therefore, without saying any thing of carriage, we should be
able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come
in their chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time
draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it
will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of
this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much
as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to
King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully, just
after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many parties of that
kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”
“No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and we are a
very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage
in schemes of pleasure.”
“Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove.
Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, ‘I
really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by
myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a
companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir
beyond the park paling.’ Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no
advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut
themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is
much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in
it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation,
however, Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your
father’s state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try
Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have
no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.”
“My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any
benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not
conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.”
“Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where
the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath
life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it
could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits, which, I
understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to
, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages
of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming
introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could
immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me
would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs.
Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most
happy to shew you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go
into public with.”
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of her
being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an
—of her going into public under the auspices of a
friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who,
with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!—The dignity of
Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given,
and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; “but their going to Bath was quite
out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might
suit her better than her father.” And then, to prevent farther outrage
and indignation, changed the subject directly.
“I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,
a lady’s character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long known
that you are a superior performer.”
“Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior
performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a
quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of music—passionately
fond;—and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any
thing else, upon my honour my performance is to the last
degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it
has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a
musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a
necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a very musical society,
both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I
honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and
expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the
inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had been accustomed
to—of course he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking
of it in that way, I honestly said that I could give
up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed
with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to .
I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a
different thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to
smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a
thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description.
Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did
assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were
spacious apartments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do
not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for
nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.’”
“We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton
would hesitate to assure you of there being a musical society in
Highbury; and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than
may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive.”
“No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to find
myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts
together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and
have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good
plan? If exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of
allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for ,
as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you
know—there is a sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt
to give up music.”
“But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no danger,
surely?”
“I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never touches the
instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans, now
Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my word
it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina; but
really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call
her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my
housekeeper.”
“But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in
so regular a train—”
“Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to
say; and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
“We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found them
both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite with
me already, I assure you. And appears so truly good—there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
directly. She was your governess, I think?”
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for
the affirmative before she went on.
“Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very
lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.”
“Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always
particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them
the safest model for any young woman.”
“And who do you think came in while we were there?”
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—and how
could she possibly guess?
“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley
himself!—Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the
other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a
friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great curiosity. ‘My friend
Knightley’ had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to
see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be
ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much.
Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.”
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe.
“Insufferable woman!” was her immediate exclamation. “Worse
than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!—I could not have
believed it. Knightley!—never seen him in her life before, and call him
Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar
being, with her Mr. E., and her , and her resources,
and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover
that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the
compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to
propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we
were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!—Astonished that the person who had
brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her
equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what
would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted
he would be! Ah! there I am—thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as
regularly into my mind!”—
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had
arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons’ departure, and was
ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.
“Well, my dear,” he deliberately began, “considering we never
saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she
was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little
quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am
nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss
Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no
doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have
married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on
him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I
in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon
a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like
the corner into Vicarage Lane.”
“I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows
you.”
“Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid my
respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient.”
“But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why
should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a ? It ought to be
no recommendation to . It is encouraging people to marry if you make
so much of them.”
“No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always
wish to pay every proper attention to a lady—and a bride, especially, is
never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to . A bride, you know,
my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may.”
“Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what
is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such
vanity-baits for poor young ladies.”
“My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common
politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to
people to marry.”
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand
. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton’s offences, and long, very
long, did they occupy her.
CHAPTER XV
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion
of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton
appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met
again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She
had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that
she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and
improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a
place in society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his
wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of
congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even
Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance,
disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss
Bates’s good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as
clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so
that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to
do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution
and talked with a good grace of her being “very pleasant and very
elegantly dressed.”
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. Her
feelings altered towards Emma.—Offended, probably, by the little
encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her
turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was
agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing
Emma’s dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr. Elton’s, were
unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it
must rapidly work Harriet’s cure; but the sensations which could prompt
such behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was not to be doubted that
poor Harriet’s attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and
her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and
the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of
course, the object of their joint dislike.—When they had nothing else to
say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity
which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in
contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not merely
when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the
other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a
natural and reasonable admiration—but without solicitation, or plea, or
privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.—Before Emma
had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she
heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry on the subject.—
“Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I quite rave
about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and
ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you I think she has very
extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well. I
know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely
charming! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my word, I talk of
nothing but Jane Fairfax.—And her situation is so calculated to affect
one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do
something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be
suffered to remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those charming
lines of the poet,
‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.”
“I cannot think there is any danger of it,” was Emma’s calm
answer—“and when you are better acquainted with Miss
Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has been, with Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be
unknown.”
“Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed with
the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure
she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she feels the want of
encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must confess it is a
recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for timidity—and I am sure
one does not often meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it
is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful
character, and interests me more than I can express.”
“You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how you or any
of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those who have known her
longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than”—
“My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to
act. You and I need not be afraid. If set the example, many will
follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations.
have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and live in a style
which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least
inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us
up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked than Jane
Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not
likely that I , considering what I have been used to. My greatest
danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in doing too
much, and being too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model
more than it ought to be—for we do not at all affect to equal my brother,
Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my resolution is taken as to noticing
Jane Fairfax.—I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall
introduce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her
talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation. My
acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of
something to suit her shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very
particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will
like her extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears
will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either
but what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often indeed while
they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the
barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.”
“Poor Jane Fairfax!”—thought Emma.—“You have not
deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a
punishment beyond what you can have merited!—The kindness and protection
of Mrs. Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let
me not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!—But upon
my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s
tongue!”
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively
addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated with a “dear Miss
Woodhouse.” The change on Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards
appeared, and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the very
particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the
very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a
general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.
She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s gratitude for Mrs.
Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity
and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies—the most amiable, affable,
delightful woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton
meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should
accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard
of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with
the Eltons! This was astonishing!—She could not have believed it possible
that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and
friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.
“She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she.—“To chuse
to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to
chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s notice and the penury of her
conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always
loved her with such real, generous affection.”
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells were gone
to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter
to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to
join them there. According to Miss Bates—it all came from her—Mrs.
Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found,
servants sent, friends contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to
exist; but still she had declined it!
“She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this
invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some
sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great
fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.—She is to be
with the . The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she
consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.”
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few
who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.
“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my
dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good
creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider
what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes
to.”
“You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly,
“Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of
Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have
chosen her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from
Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.”
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was
herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied,
“Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, would
rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I
should have imagined any thing but inviting.”
“I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax
were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s
eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates
may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of
the very natural wish of a little change.”
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes
silence, he said,
“Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs. Elton does
not talk Miss Fairfax as she speaks her. We all know the
difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst
us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our
personal intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted. We
cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of
the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this,
as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by
her superiority both of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton
treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane
Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton’s way before—and no
degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness
in action, if not in consciousness.”
“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little
Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
irresolute what else to say.
“Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think of
her.”
“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but
soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she
hurried on—“And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how
highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day
or other.”
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather
gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause,
brought the colour into his face, as he answered,
“Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave
me a hint of it six weeks ago.”
He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think. In a moment he went on—
“That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say,
would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall never
ask her.”
Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and was pleased enough
to exclaim,
“You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and in a manner which
shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,
“So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”
“No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for
me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now, meant
nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a
serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your
marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come in and sit with us
in this comfortable way, if you were married.”
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No,
Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by
surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.”
And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not
the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,”
said she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”
“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he
asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier
than his neighbours.”
“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what she
calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar
vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole? And so
I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents
to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more
readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can
believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no
faith in Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought,
word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule
of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting
her visitor with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will
not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her
a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring
parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”
“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do
not accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are
strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience,
self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think,
than she used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded
to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and
conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no
thought beyond.”
“Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them,
“what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane
Fairfax?”
“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were
to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.”
CHAPTER XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed
to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were
made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon
the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.
“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead
among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite
the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable.
From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged
day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been at a
loss.”
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly
natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a
little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at
rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates,
Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge
of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to be
arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one
very superior party—in which her card-tables should be set out with their
separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters
engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry
round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield
for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to
odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there
must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no
unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom
of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should
do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must
be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course—and it was
hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the
eighth:—but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on
many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s begging to be
allowed to decline it. “She would rather not be in his company more than
she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy
wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be
displeased, she would rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma
would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was
delighted with the fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew
it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now
invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane
Fairfax.— Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley,
she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often
been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane
Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.
“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to
me, which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the
same age—and always knowing her—I ought to have been more her
friend.—She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I
will shew her greater attention than I have done.”
Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys
were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the
spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at
Hartfield—which one day would be the very day of this party.—His
professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father
and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight
persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—and
here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very
much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight
hours without falling in with a dinner-party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing
that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little,
that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality
a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant
conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley
came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on
the very day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not
to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the
arrival of the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on
hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma’s vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley
seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of
drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was
talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make
her, he looked at in silence—wanting only to observe enough for
Isabella’s information—but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and
a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he
was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning
to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,
“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure
you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned
directly.”
“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home
before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters
when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk
before breakfast does me good.”
“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”
“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards
from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John
had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a
great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will
begin to think letters are never worth going through the rain for.”
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older
should make me indifferent about letters.”
“Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become
indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse.”
“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
friendship.”
“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he
coolly. “Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever
does.”
“Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I
am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can
easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but
it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, it
is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand,
I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my
affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in
worse weather than to-day.”
“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of
years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of
situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other.
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the
daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old
friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may
have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank
you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear
in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now
claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions,
making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the
ladies, was ending with her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in
the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies are
delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their complexion. My
dear, did you change your stockings?”
“Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me.”
“My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared
for.—I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my
very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do
us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly
sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at
Hartfield.”
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done
his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her
remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
“My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office in the
rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl, how could you
do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.
“Oh! do not tell . You really are a very sad girl, and do not
know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs.
Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our
authority.”
“My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I
certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such
risks.—Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be
particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always
think requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half
a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now
do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You
look as if you would not do such a thing again.”
“Oh! she do such a thing again,” eagerly
rejoined Mrs. Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing
again:”—and nodding significantly—“there must be some
arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who
fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name) shall
inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties
you know; and from I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no
scruple to accept such an accommodation.”
“You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my
early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk
somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely
ever had a bad morning before.”
“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is
(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing without
the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be
cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that
my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable
difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.”
“Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means
consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If
the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I
am not here, by my grandmama’s.”
“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a kindness
to employ our men.”
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of answering,
she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.
“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said
she.—“The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that
it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”
“It is certainly very well regulated.”
“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a
letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is
even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost!
And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to
be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”
“The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some
quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any
farther explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it.
That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served
well.”
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations
made.
“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the
same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master
teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the
likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little
teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella
and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their
writing apart.”
“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I
know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”
“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse;
“and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a
sigh and half a smile at her.
“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began,
looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was
attending to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect,
“Now, how am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his
name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any
roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in
Yorkshire;—that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very
bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I
certainly get better and better.—Now for it.”
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank
Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”
“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too
small—wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”
This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base
aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a large
hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about
her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very lately, but having
answered the letter, had put it away.
“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my
writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of
his.—Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one
day?”
“He chose to say he was employed”—
“Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince
Mr. Knightley.”
“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr.
Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of
course, put forth his best.”
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was
ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed
to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—
“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”
Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet
walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it ; that
it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of
hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought
there was an air of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of
complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of
the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—but she
abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane
Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room,
arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and
grace of each.
CHAPTER XVII
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly
possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—with so much
perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax
and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either
talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane
repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that
passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s
side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The
post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and friendship,
were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least
equally unpleasant to Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any
situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated
activity.
“Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about
you. June will soon be here.”
“But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely looked
forward to the summer in general.”
“But have you really heard of nothing?”
“I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.”
“Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the
difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”
“I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton,
who can have thought of it as I have done?”
“But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know
how many candidates there always are for the situations. I saw a
vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr.
Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was
anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in
the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom
Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish to see you in.”
“Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,”
said Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want
it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would
not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”
“Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble;
but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested
about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall
give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible.”
“Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;
till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble.”
“But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,
or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us.
Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your
friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a
moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no
inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am
quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long
unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce
something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human flesh—but
of human intellect.”
“Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the
slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the
abolition.”
“I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied
Jane; “governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely
different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the
greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to
say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should
have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.”
“Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye,
may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest
creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up
with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
life.”
“You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it
would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would
only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s
family is all that I should condition for.”
“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be
a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side;
with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your
musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many
rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that
is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am
very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I really believe you might,
even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;—and you must and
shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells
or I have any rest.”
“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a
situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;
however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present
for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body
who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the
summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I
am.”
“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton
gaily, “in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends
to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr.
Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma
heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
“Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of
his gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature
he is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,
old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern
ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish you had heard
his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro
sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took
notice of my gown. How do you like it?—Selina’s
choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not
over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being
over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now,
because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but
my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so
infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few
people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show and finery are every
thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and
silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?”
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr. Weston
made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to
Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected by the best
judges, for surprize—but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as
glad to see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John
Knightley only was in mute astonishment.—That a man who might have spent
his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London, should set off
again, and walk half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being
in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility
and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who
had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and might now have
been still, who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been
in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to quit
the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening of a
cold sleety April day rush out again into the world!—Could he by a touch
of his finger have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a
motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather than break up the party.
John Knightley looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and
said, “I could not have believed it even of .”
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was
exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being
principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was making
himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of his
wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her careful directions
to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had
heard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally
addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly
interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank,
and to herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of
opening it.
“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only
a few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them
the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body.
“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say
to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not
I?—Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe
me?—In town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for
is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done;
most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all
nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again,
so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be
half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news,
is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we
will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall
only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way.”
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and words
had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew
she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could
not speak so fluently. was a little occupied in weighing her own
feelings, and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she
rather thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want
others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved
away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what
the whole room must have overheard already.
It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might not
have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They
were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made
happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so
deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive
an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention
disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.
CHAPTER XVIII
“I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to
you,” said Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended her by
such a hope, smiled most graciously.
“You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” he
continued—“and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my
name.”
“Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.
Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.”
“You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I am
sure.— He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it
in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my
son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to
me—it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure
you. I hardly ever get a letter.”
“And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.
Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most
dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours follow
your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we married
women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have
believed it of you!”
“Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a
hurry, merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up
to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well
the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to
move southward without loss of time.”
“Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”
“Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a
considerable journey.”
“Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than from
Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large
fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling,
sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice in one week
he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four horses.”
“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston,
“is, that Mrs. Churchill, , has not
been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter
she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without
having both his arm and his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great
degree of weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she
means to sleep only two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word.
Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton.
You must grant me that.”
“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my own
sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable
antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you,
if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not
wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to avoid it.
Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have caught a
little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent
precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”
“Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine lady
ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land
for”—
Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure you.
Do not run away with such an idea.”
“Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough a
fine lady as any body ever beheld.”
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly. It was
by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was a
fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and
she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston went on.
“Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may
suspect—but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank,
and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health now;
but indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would not
say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.
Churchill’s illness.”
“If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or
to Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too
cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has
now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she
begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very
retired.”
“Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired
from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You
seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete retirement.—And
Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy that
sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herself to
be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many
resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be
quite independent of society.”
“Frank was here in February for a fortnight.”
“So I remember to have heard. He will find an to the
society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call
myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being such a
creature in the world.”
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr. Weston, with
a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,
“My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible.
Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have been
full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
“When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain
when we might see him again, which makes this day’s news doubly welcome.
It has been completely unexpected. That is, always had a strong
persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would
turn up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully
desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed
that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so forth—I
always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.
I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going
untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.”
“Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to
a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because things
did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his
feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this
rate it would be before Hymen’s saffron robe would be put on
for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him
cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments about the
carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in despair.”
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly seized
the opportunity of going on.
“You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is
ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than
Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable
prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely the
season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at the
longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and never too
hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best of it; but there
was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February,
you know, and we could not do half that we intended. Now will be the time. This
will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the
uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will be of
his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to
happiness than having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it
is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be
pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought
a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s partiality
for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifying to me. She
thinks nobody equal to him.”
“And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion
will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank
Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those
who always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by
others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall judge of
him.—I am no flatterer.”
Mr. Weston was musing.
“I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon
poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but
there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak
of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton,
of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with; and,
between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the
instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been slighted as she was but
for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife’s:
his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody,
and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is
arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair
pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely the
daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she
has out-Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I
assure you, she is an upstart.”
“Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a
horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of
that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who are such an
annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your
description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them directly. People of the
name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low
connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a
footing with the old established families. A year and a half is the very utmost
that they can have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody
knows. They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you
know, Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there
is something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of the
Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their
manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling,
who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is infinitely too bad.
Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose
father had it before him—I believe, at least—I am almost sure that
old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his death.”
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having said all
that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse to
cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their
getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for
conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had inclination to
pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer
being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to leave them
early the next day; and he soon began with—
“Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the
boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at full
length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than
her’s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.”
“I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall
do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”
“And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.”
“That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”
“I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or
even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to
increase as much as they have done lately.”
“Increase!”
“Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a great
difference in your way of life.”
“Difference! No indeed I am not.”
“There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than
you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day,
and you are engaged with a dinner-party!—When did it happen before, or
any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you mix more with it.
A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh
gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls at the Crown. The difference
which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.”
“Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it
all.”
“Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry
and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send
them home.”
“No,” cried Mr. Knightley, “that need not be the consequence.
Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Emma, “you amuse me! I should like
to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being
of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to
attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what have
they been? Dining once with the Coles—and having a ball talked of, which
never took place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John
Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at
once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield,
why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine.
And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for
them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is
absent from home about five hours where she is absent one—and who, when
he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.”
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without
difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to talk to him.
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I
A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of
her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced
that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed;
it was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it
was not worth thinking of;—but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so
much the most in love of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of
sentiment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a
separation of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and
evils before her:—caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She
did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be
incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That
would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet,
she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the
spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter
her present composed and tranquil state.
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before
she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill’s feelings.
The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had been imagined, but he
was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he
could not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield,
she could then exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how
he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness.
There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an
almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the
same tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It was a clear thing
he was less in love than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of
her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he was
not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative
indifference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was
restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not
satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying
only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.
“He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he
passed—he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a
word—but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did
not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry
off.” She had no doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his
agitated spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she
was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a
discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was
often hoping, intending to come—but was always prevented. His aunt could
not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at Randall’s. If
he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred that
Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had been of no service to the wilful
or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very certain; he
had declared himself convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy,
he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of
health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from
any thing that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might
not have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on,
by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely
imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure
its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the
ten days’ end, her nephew’s letter to Randalls communicated a
change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs.
Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there,
and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite
spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and
seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of
such near neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the house was taken for
May and June. She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of
being often with them, almost as often as he could even wish.
Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was considering
her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so.
Two months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It
was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be really
having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young
man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The difference
in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference
of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles—nay,
eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—was a
serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent in
coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as
well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.
Better than nearer!
One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this
removal,—the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it
had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was
absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the
Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank, to say that his
aunt felt already much better for the change, and that he had no doubt of being
able to join them for twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name
as early a day as possible.
Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood
between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was
better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the
evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that
neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have any thing the matter
with them, while dear Emma were gone.
CHAPTER II
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached, the day
arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all
the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing
was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at the
Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a common meeting in
a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her arriving
there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose of taking her
opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons
came, that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet
interval in the young man’s company. She was to convey Harriet, and they
drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before
them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not say
much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening. They all
walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and within
a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma could
not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize. “So unreasonably
early!” she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it was a
family of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to
help Mr. Weston’s judgment; and they were so very closely followed by
another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same
distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the
company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory
inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston
depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so
many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale
of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness
would have made him a higher character.—General benevolence, but not
general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.—She could fancy such
a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then,
having nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to
observe in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though
, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the number of privy
councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to
offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by
the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which
shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he
was watching for the sound of other carriages,—impatient to begin, or
afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” said he.
“I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.”
A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back, said,
“I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.”
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.
“But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, looking about.
“We thought you were to bring them.”
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma longed to
know what Frank’s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was
affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness.
He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very
proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of
rain.—“I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank
to his father: “Miss Bates must not be forgotten:” and away he
went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by
her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man
himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
“A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you I
should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased
with him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very
handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and
approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies—quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever
any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things!
Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.”
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was chained; but when
she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving
to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so extremely
expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.—What a
pleasure it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!—I understand
you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of .”
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the
room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s
to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who
looked on like Emma; but her words, every body’s words, were soon lost
under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not
finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle
at the fire. As the door opened she was heard,
“So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do
not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares—Well!—(as
soon as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is
admirable!—Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could
not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane,
look!—did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have
had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I
saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs.
Stokes,’ said I—but I had not time for more.” She was now met
by Mrs. Weston.—“Very well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you
are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a
headache!—seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you
must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you
for the carriage!—excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep
the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and I am sure our
thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly
sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But two such offers in one
day!—Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my
word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone
to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—for the evenings are
not warm—her large new shawl— Mrs. Dixon’s
wedding-present.—So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at
Weymouth, you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were three others,
Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather
preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your
feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:—but Mr. Frank
Churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to step upon—I shall
never forget his extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell
you my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet
never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does not she,
Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?—Ah! here’s
Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?—Very well I
thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!—Such a
transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most
complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse,
you do look—how do you like Jane’s hair?—You are a
judge.—She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her
hair!—No hairdresser from London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I
declare—and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a
moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you. This
is delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—Oh! there
he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young
ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the other day as you rode
through the town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway, and
Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr.
George and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all do?—Quite
well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.—Don’t I hear another
carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon
my word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a
noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for
me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir, by and
bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!”
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss Bates was
quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton
and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—He was
thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not determine. After a
good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly
and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented
herself—and it was, “How do you like my gown?—How do you like
my trimming?—How has Wright done my hair?”—with many other
relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said,
“Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do—but upon such
an occasion as this, when every body’s eyes are so much upon me, and in
compliment to the Westons—who I have no doubt are giving this ball
chiefly to do me honour—I would not wish to be inferior to others. And I
see very few pearls in the room except mine.—So Frank Churchill is a
capital dancer, I understand.—We shall see if our styles suit.—A
fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well.”
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not but
imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
more;—and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till another
suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly forward.—Mr.
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
“Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?—I
was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
tidings of us.”
“Jane!”—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
displeasure.—“That is easy—but Miss Fairfax does not
disapprove it, I suppose.”
“How do you like Mrs. Elton?” said Emma in a whisper.
“Not at all.”
“You are ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful!—What do you mean?” Then changing from a frown to
a smile—“No, do not tell me—I do not want to know what you
mean.—Where is my father?—When are we to begin dancing?”
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked off to
find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He
had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before Emma. It
had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the
ball; that she would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of
giving Emma that distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.
“And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said Mr.
Weston. “She will think Frank ought to ask her.”
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and boasted
himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect approbation
of—and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting to dance
with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him
into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the
way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand
second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly
for her. It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had
undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for
though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by
the change. Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of
this little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the
respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so
many hours of unusual festivity before her.—She was more disturbed by Mr.
Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There he was, among
the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,—not
classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were
pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were made
up,—so young as he looked!—He could not have appeared to greater
advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm,
upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly
men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting
her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men who could
be compared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps
were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he
must have danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his
eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished
he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill
better.—He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that
he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did
not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.
They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank Churchill
thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant attentions of
Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed happy; and the praise of
being a delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased
to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this. Of
very important, very recordable events, it was not more productive than such
meetings usually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something
of.—The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no
partner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been
hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was
the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing
Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were
possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she was expecting
him every moment to escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where the
sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front of them, as
if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not omit
being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to those who were close
to her.—Emma saw it. She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up
from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning
her head a little she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole
group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch;
but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which
just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his
wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only listening also, but
even encouraging him by significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle
Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr.
Elton?” to which his prompt reply was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston,
if you will dance with me.”
“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I
am no dancer.”
“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have
great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an
old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great
pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.”
“Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely
obliging—and if I were not an old married man.—But my dancing days
are over, Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most
happy to do, at your command—but my dancing days are over.”
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the
amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round for a moment; he
had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself for
settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his
wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face
might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley leading
Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for
Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too distant for
speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good; and
Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel
state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense
of the distinction which her happy features announced. It was not thrown away
on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in
a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing
very like her;— spoke some of her feelings, by observing
audibly to her partner,
“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very
good-natured, I declare.”
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that
moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up her
spoon.
“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be
draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One door nailed
up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.
Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so
gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said
I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed
me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you. Grandmama was
quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and
backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and wine
before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws: and she inquired a
great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were your partners.
‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing
with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself
to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her
next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’ My dear sir, you are too
obliging.—Is there nobody you would not rather?—I am not helpless.
Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the
other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear
Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all
follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, here we are at
the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but
one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there
were two, and there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and
style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama,
Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The baked apples and
biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee
of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse,
not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now
there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus—so
she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to any
body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so
very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could
not have supposed any thing!—Such elegance and profusion!—I have
seen nothing like it since—Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where sit is of no
consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?—Well, I am sure, Mr.
Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as you please. What you
direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect
half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so
soon, but it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning.”
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but,
when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to
come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton’s
conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton’s looks also
received the due share of censure.
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma,
why is it that they are your enemies?”
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
“ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that
you did want him to marry Harriet.”
“I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only
said,
“I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever
tell me I am wrong?”
“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you
wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.”
“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is
a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was
fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of
strange blunders!”
“And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice
to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for
himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is
totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely
to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I
found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle of Mr.
Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!”
“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask
me.”
“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.
“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
“Brother and sister! no, indeed.”
CHAPTER III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable pleasure. It
was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which she walked about the
lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that they had come
to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and that their opinions of
both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his
concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the
Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening,
had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked
forward to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s
infatuation.—From Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance
before they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her
eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not
the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could
harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy.
She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the
discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.—Harriet
rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting
to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that he could
not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at
home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to
rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the
demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great
iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had never less
expected to see together—Frank Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his
arm—actually Harriet!—A moment sufficed to convince her that
something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and
he was trying to cheer her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not
twenty yards asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet
immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and
surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the suspense of
them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.
Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and
taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough for
safety, had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury,
making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became for a
considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some
way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a
broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the
watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened,
gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank,
cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut
back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much
from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on
such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in this state,
and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous,
must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and
Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and
a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in
word.—More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and
taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more,
or to use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was
moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was
followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning,
they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had
been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment. The
pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his
horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury—and
happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates,
and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door,
and go in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and
being on foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The
terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then their own
portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging
to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield,
before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to
Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of
Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He
dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not
another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to
Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the
neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings
that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman
thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to
the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a
linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen what she
did, have witnessed their appearance together, and heard their history of it,
without feeling that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly
interesting to each other?—How much more must an imaginist, like herself,
be on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a
groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before
to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of
the kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very
hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue
her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did,
the favourable state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more. He
was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering
from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the
most interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence should
not be strongly recommending each to the other.
In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while
Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her
naïveté, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility
amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had
been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss
Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course,
however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a
hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a
scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would
on no account proceed.
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what
had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but she
soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known
all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who talk most, the
young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the
happiness of frightful news. The last night’s ball seemed lost in the
gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen,
would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond the
shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after himself
and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired
after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and
he had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very
indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,
and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an
unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she hardly
knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she
could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took themselves
off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked again in safety
before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter of
little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in her imagination it
maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every day for the
story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if
she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.
CHAPTER IV
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning
to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating,
thus began:
“Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I
should like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you
know, it will be over.”
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as her
words, for something more than ordinary.
“It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued,
“to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an
altered creature in , it is very fit that you should
have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary—I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I
dare say you understand me.”
“Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”
“How I could so long a time be fancying myself!…” cried Harriet,
warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary in
him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the
two I had rather not see him—and indeed I would go any distance round to
avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her
nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that,
but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall never forget
her look the other night!—However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish
her no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not give me
another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I have been speaking
truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to have destroyed long
ago—what I ought never to have kept—I know that very well (blushing
as she spoke).—However, now I will destroy it all—and it is my
particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I am
grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?” said she, with a
conscious look.
“Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”
“No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have
valued very much.”
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words
on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within
abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet
opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton,
Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
“Now,” said Harriet, “you recollect.”
“No, indeed I do not.”
“Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last times we
ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my sore
throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the
very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had none
about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine out
and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller,
and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me.
And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it—so
I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great
treat.”
“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,
and jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the
finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about
me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my
pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a
continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down
again)—go on—what else?”
“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally.”
“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his
sake!” said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of
court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal
to this.”
“Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is
something still more valuable, I mean that more
valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him, which the
court-plaister never did.”
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old
pencil,—the part without any lead.
“This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you
remember one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I
forget exactly the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before
, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book;
it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out his
pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not
do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for
nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and
never parted with it again from that moment.”
“I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember
it.—Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I
both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to
like it too. I perfectly remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing
just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here.”
“Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I
cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about
where I am now.”—
“Well, go on.”
“Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to
say—except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I
wish you to see me do it.”
“My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?”
“Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it now, and
wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you
know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but
had not resolution enough to part with them.”
“But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I have
not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be
useful.”
“I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a
disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes,
and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”
“And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr.
Churchill?”
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already made,
and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had no fortune,
might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after the
alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. Emma was
not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more
valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, “Well,
Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so”—and
thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence she heard Harriet
say in a very serious tone, “I shall never marry.”
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment’s
debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,
“Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”
“It is one that I shall never change, however.”
After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I
hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”
“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh!
no”—and Emma could just catch the words, “so superior to Mr.
Elton!”
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no
farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect
nothing?—Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or
perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her
to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been,
such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly
resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once,
all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had
previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the
sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own
brain laid down with speed.—She was decided, and thus spoke—
“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea
that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in
situation to think of you. Is not it so?”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to
suppose— Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to
admire him at a distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all
the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially.”
“I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
was enough to warm your heart.”
“Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very
recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him
coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In
one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”
“It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes,
honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it will
be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to
give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned.
Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your
feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you
are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the
guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never
speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We
were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no
doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but
yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been matches
of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you too
sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to
, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to
value.”
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very
decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its
tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must be saving her
from the danger of degradation.
CHAPTER V
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon
Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons
were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of
their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmother’s;
and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August,
instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two
months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s
activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful
situation against her will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly taken
an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He
began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma
was his object appeared indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own
attentions, his father’s hints, his mother-in-law’s guarded
silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion,
told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma
herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some
inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there
were symptoms of intelligence between them—he thought so at
least—symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he
could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning, however he might
wish to escape any of Emma’s errors of imagination. was not
present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family,
and Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single
look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed
somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help
remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it
were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
“Myself creating what I saw,”
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private
liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his
evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and,
on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it
wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and
Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met.
They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was
exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them
all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it
immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons
listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s
most obliging invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The
gentlemen spoke of his horse.
“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently,
“what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever had
any such plan.”
“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”
“Me! impossible!”
“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was
certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely
happy about it. It was owing to persuasion, as she thought his being
out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it
now?”
“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”
“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must
have dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk
as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”
“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about
Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad
he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”
“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it
from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs.
Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many
weeks ago, with all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard
a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great
dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have
gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.
Perry.”
“It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should
have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very
likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his
carriage! and his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his
health—just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a
little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!
And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream
certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma,
you are a great dreamer, I think?”
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her
father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston’s
hint.
“Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in
vain to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject,
there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to
say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams
in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that
there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my
mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a
secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry
was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great
spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t
you remember grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget
where we had been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was
to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed
I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;
she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond:
and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At
the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint,
because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker,
you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me
which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it
never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh!
just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary
dream, indeed!”
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss
Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he
thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily
turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr.
Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her
pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching
her eye—he seemed watching her intently—in vain, however, if it
were so—Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be borne
with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern
circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma
could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of
the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years
been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
“Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table
behind him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away
their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it?
This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as
winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I
want to puzzle you again.”
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly
scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ
as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any
body else who would be puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly
eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated
sort, which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily
occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the
“poor little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any
stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance
round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane
opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it
was his object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent observation.
The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away. If meant to be
immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she should have
looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed; and
Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it
up, and fell to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for
help. The word was ; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it,
there was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise
ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be,
was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite
could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided
involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every
turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a
child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill’s
part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm and
distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word
prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that
Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was
something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said,
“Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a
glance towards Jane, “I will give it to her—shall
I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing
warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”
It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without
feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed over
the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility
entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity to know
what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his
eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be . Jane
Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was
certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those
five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing
herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying
only, “I did not know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away
the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no
other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made
the attack, and turned towards her aunt.
“Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had not
spoken a word—“I was just going to say the same thing. It is time
for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be
looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
night.”
Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had
preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so
many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought
he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and
resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her
shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it was growing dusk, and the
room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had
seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his observations, he
must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious
friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her
in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty.
“Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great
amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I
saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to
the one, and so very distressing to the other.”
Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true
explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really
ashamed of having ever imparted them.
“Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant
nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.”
“The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and
Mr. Churchill.”
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy
herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety
of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless interference.
Emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her
affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing
that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare;
to encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
“My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do
you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the
gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”
“Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes,
perfectly.—Why do you make a doubt of it?”
“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or
that she admired him?”
“Never, never!” she cried with a most open
eagerness—“Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an
idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your head?”
“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between
them—certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be
public.”
“Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can
vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very
sorry to check you in your first essay—but indeed it will not do. There
is no admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which have
caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather
of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to
explain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which
is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from
any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world
can be. That is, I it to be so on her side, and I can
for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s
indifference.”
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which
silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the
conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look
described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly
entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be
useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not
be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s
tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon
afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of
Donwell Abbey.
CHAPTER VI
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling,
the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that
they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties
could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of
news, they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while
the Sucklings’ coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs.
Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the
situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually
be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours
was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of
pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and
every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at
first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing need not
be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did
not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled
that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been
long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma had never
been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing,
and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it
was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to
the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade
of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but feel
some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had
been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that
the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very
readily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her
objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr.
Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward
again:—it could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be
giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to
an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement
which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of
Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of
her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her
reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.
“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very
comfortably. “But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing
without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its
own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave
her out.”
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing
impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and
cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty.
It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were useable;
but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation.
Mrs. Elton’s resources were inadequate to such an attack.
“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she
cried.—“And such weather for exploring!—These delays and
disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?—The year will wear
away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we
had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”
“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley.
“That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are
ripening fast.”
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his
proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like it of all
things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its
strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea was
necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only
wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to
come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely gratified by
such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to
consider it.
“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come.
Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”
“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some
others whom I would wish to meet you.”
“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”
“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not
trouble you to give any other invitations.”
“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be
afraid of delegating power to . I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all
to me. I will invite your guests.”
“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one
married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she
pleases to Donwell, and that one is—”
“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather
mortified.
“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage
such matters myself.”
“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you
like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her
aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the
Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”
“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on Miss
Bates in my way home.”
“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you
like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing.
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my
arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more
simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or
parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and
gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—and whatever else
you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors—a table spread in
the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that
your idea?”
“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the
table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and
ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals
within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there
shall be cold meat in the house.”
“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by
the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our
opinion?—Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs.
Hodges, or to inspect anything—”
“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is
extremely clever.”
“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would
spurn any body’s assistance.”
“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I really
must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to
be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not
possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and very long walks, you
know—in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.”
“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is
never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you
prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing to be as
much to your taste as possible.”
“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under
that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As
I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes, believe me, Knightley,
I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this scheme. You
have hit upon the very thing to please me.”
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He wished
to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that
to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably make him
ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious pretence of a morning drive,
and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him for his
easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two years.
“Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well;
and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the
gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day.
He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy
to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.—He could not
see any objection at all to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going
there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to
invite them—very kind and sensible—much cleverer than dining
out.—He was not fond of dining out.”
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The
invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs.
Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to
themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure
from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if
possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed
with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see
him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no arguments
to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill
was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one
day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactly right.
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely
conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco
party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially
prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his
ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every
body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who
seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with
him, remained, when all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient
listener and sympathiser.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was
satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look
around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular
observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be
so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the
present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the
respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching
down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old
neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in
rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted
up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering
a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one
or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and it looked
what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence
of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and
understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had
connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor names,
nor places, that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she
walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did,
and collect round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled,
excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and
Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,
was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s
favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest
sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—the only way of
really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best time—never
tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no
comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very
scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price
of strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple
Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking
exactly different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of
their way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much
of—inferior to cherries—currants more refreshing—only
objection to gathering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired
to death—could bear it no longer—must go and sit in the
shade.”
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by
Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire
if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears of
his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear
what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation, a most
desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that
morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with
Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was
with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at
Maple Grove. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines,
ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and
she positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax
continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing,
repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.—Still
Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the
morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing to
Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with
a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—“Should
not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens—all the
gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The pertinacity
of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one
another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the
finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing; nothing but a view at
the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in
their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never
had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a
termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it
extremely pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the
Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half
a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed
with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and
sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river
making a close and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being
oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and towards
this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the
rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an odd
tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There had been a time when he
would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little
ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had been a time also
when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the
Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all
its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks,
orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them
at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He
was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma
received a smile which seemed to say, “These are my own concerns. I have
a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert
Martin.”—She did not suspect him. It was too old a
story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.—They
took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was most refreshing,
and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they
were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston
looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and
laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part
with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to coming, with more than
common certainty. “His aunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt
of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s state, however, as
many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might
disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston
was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of
Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while
the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no
emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what
had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the
clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the
pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr. Woodhouse, who had
already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no
damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his
daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away
by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells,
and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for
his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly
answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been
shewing them all to him, and now he would shew them all to
Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child, than in a
total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and
methodical.—Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma
walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation of
the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly there, when Jane
Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of
escape.—Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a
start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say
that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware
how late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall
be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about
it to any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to
the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be
missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am
gone?”
“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to
Highbury alone?”
“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in
twenty minutes.”
“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be
round in five minutes.”
“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather
walk.—And for to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may
so soon have to guard others!”
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”
“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is
not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss
Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I
confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let
me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into her
feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely
off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her
parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes
alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe
somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some
of those who loved her best.
“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back
into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray
of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished
some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the
room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of
him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The
black mare was blameless; were right who had named Mrs. Churchill
as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her; a
nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given up
every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride
he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he
should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any
thing like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him
like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.
“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be going
soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met as I
came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour.
Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his
constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of
such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment; he
would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room—and she humanely
pointed out the door.
“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret—
“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper
will not mind it.”
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all
the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like
himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was
not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made
himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in
Swisserland.
“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he.
“I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will
have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to
read—or my poem. I shall do something to expose myself.”
“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go
to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave
England.”
“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for her.
I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I
have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I
ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am serious,
Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of
England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I could.”
“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
“ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every
thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.”
“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and
eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold
meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with
the rest of us.”
“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best
cure.”
“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a
change. You will stay, and go with us?”
“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”
“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”
“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”
“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you
all there without me.”
“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected. With
some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very
composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss
Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it was time for every body
to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for the next
day’s scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill’s little inclination to
exclude himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
“Well;—if wish me to stay and join the party, I
will.”
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to
take him back before the following evening.
CHAPTER VII
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward circumstances
of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant
party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and
the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together;
Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs.
Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when
they got there. Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and
every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general
amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits,
a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into
parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates
and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston
tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental
division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no
unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two
whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of
separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or
any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill
so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked without
seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing what
she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull
likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for
Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every
distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and
be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and Emma, glad to
be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all
the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever
given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which
now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most
people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but
flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves open
to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove
by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from
any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had
expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him
for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or
playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She
still intended him for her friend.
“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to
come to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”
“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you
were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you
deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.”
“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame
me.”
“It is hotter to-day.”
“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
“You are comfortable because you are under command.”
“Your command?—Yes.”
“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than
mine.”
“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive.
You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are
always with me.”
“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could
not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour
before.”
“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen
you first in February.”
“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her
voice)—nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be
talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”
“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively
impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear
me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on
the other. I saw you first in February.” And then
whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do
to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They talk. Ladies and
gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to
say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs.
Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr.
Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?”
“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she
could—“Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I
would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you
are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,
(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of
knowing.”
“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,
“which should not have thought myself privileged to inquire
into. Though, perhaps, as the of the party— never
was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married
women—”
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,
“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard
of—but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every
body knows what is due to .”
“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of
them affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and
gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her
right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven
of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining
already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever,
be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderately
clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh
heartily at them all.”
“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be
uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me,
you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my
mouth, shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on
every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”
Emma could not resist.
“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you
will be limited as to number—only three at once.”
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately
catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a
slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to
Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”
“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will
do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”
“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his
son;—“but we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who
leads the way.”
“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of
Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let
me hear it.”
“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It
is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the
alphabet are there, that express perfection?”
“What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not
know.”
“Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you
understand?”
Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent
piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and
so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the rest of the party
equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,
“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body else.
should not have come quite so soon.”
“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton;
“ really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of
thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at
all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well at
Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my
opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must
excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at every body’s
service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my
own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold
my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane,
and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us.
“Yes, yes, pray pass ,” added her husband, with a sort of
sneering consciousness; “ have nothing to say that can entertain
Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good
for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”
“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy
couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very
lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public
place!—They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!
Peculiarly lucky!—for as to any real knowledge of a person’s
disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing;
there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among
their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment.
Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck.
How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all
the rest of his life!”
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates,
spoke now.
“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a
cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.
“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances
do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very
frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—but there is
generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean,
that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be
always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to
be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards
said, in a lively tone,
“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.)
Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on
by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father).
Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her.”
“And make her like myself.”
“By all means, if you can.”
“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming
wife.”
“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I
shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come to
you for my wife. Remember.”
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes
excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have
Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? Referring the education
to her seemed to imply it.
“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join
Mrs. Elton?”
“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready
to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake
her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of the
ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I
declare—”
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his
son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s spirits now
rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and
merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the
others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil
observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants
looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and
even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of
Mrs. Elton to have carriage first, were gladly endured, in the
prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable
enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many
ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He looked
around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I
cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so
unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of
her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not thought it
possible.”
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped
it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”
“I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it
since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour
and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in
being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving from
yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”
“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in
the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are
most unfortunately blended in her.”
“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she
prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous
over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of
manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how far this
is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was
born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation
should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had
known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice
was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the
moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and
before others, many of whom (certainly ,) would be entirely guided
by treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you,
Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I
will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by
very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me
greater justice than you can do now.”
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and,
before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the
feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were
combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She
had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a
moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having taken no leave,
making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with
voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He had
turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but in
vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the
hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have
been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt
so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most
forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no denying. She
felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss
Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she
valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude,
of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it
more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak.
There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very
willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost
all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as
they were.
CHAPTER VIII
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the
evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not
tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways, might be
looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more
completely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time,
and more to be abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed. A whole
evening of back-gammon with her father, was felicity to it. ,
indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of
the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the
degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her
general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she
was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How
could you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths
while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If
attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven.
She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in
thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the
warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and
it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly
intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing
might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr.
Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying her
visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the
penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she
walked, but she saw him not.
“The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any
wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it,
except in subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. She
heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid
looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and
then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the
adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and,
before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my
dear, I shall you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are
ill enough.”
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite
understand what was going on.
“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not
know; they me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here
presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone.
I am very little able—Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you
like? I am sure she will be here presently.”
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates
keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—“Very happy and
obliged”—but Emma’s conscience told her that there was not
the same cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A
very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.
“Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have
heard—and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy,
indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very
trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a
dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters,
you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My
dear,’ said I, ‘you will blind yourself’—for tears were
in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great
change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I
suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do not
think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good
fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you
were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one
cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To
look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured
such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you—she is not
able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie down upon the
bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon
the bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But,
now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will
be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will
excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was quite
ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened
that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not
know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’ said I,
‘depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’
‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and
it may as well be now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you.
‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like
to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’ said she; and up she
got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—and
extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go, my dear,’
said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the
bed.’”
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing kinder
towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of
every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the
remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past, obliged
her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any
other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she
felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that the
circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined
on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as
possible. “It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it
was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”
“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always
kind.”
There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her
dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—
“Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”
“To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to
have the charge of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible
that any situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,
Mrs. Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge
is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only
four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple
Grove.”
“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax
owes—”
“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would
not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, ‘No;’ for when Jane
first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were
at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against
accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she
had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell’s
return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at
present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am
sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!—but that good
Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not
every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse
to take Jane’s answer; but she positively declared she would
write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and,
sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a
surprize to me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and
told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs.
Smallridge’s situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting
it.—I did not know a word of it till it was all settled.”
“You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”
“Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon
the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. ‘You
spend your evening with us,’ said
she—‘I positively must have you come.’”
“Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”
“No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off,
he did not;—but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very
agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must
always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the
morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot
say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However,
shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the
kind friends who included me in it.”
“Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?”
“I dare say she had.”
“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in the
world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is
not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs.
Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!—A
style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the children,
except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant
sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and
kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And
her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss
Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that
so much could be given to a young person like Jane.”
“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like
what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned.”
“You are so noble in your ideas!”
“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”
“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a
fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know
how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come
ma’am, do not let us think about it any more.”
“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their
return?”
“Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation
as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she
first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at
the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was before
tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going
to cards—and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking—Oh!
no, now I recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not
that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy’s
son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he
was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is
bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—I must
go and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And
poor John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish;
he is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler,
and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some
help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been
telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to Randalls
to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It
was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.”
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she could be
ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she
proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon
after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger, however, had
been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a
few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill,
and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early;
but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly, without
waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off
immediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass
by, the boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught
Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged
her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the world,
and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing, the other
nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny,
and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss
Bates’s saying,
“Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just
now.—‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You
will have no business here.—Let it stay, however,’ said she;
‘give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk about
it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my
difficulties.’—And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether
it was his present or his daughter’s.”
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of all her
former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon
allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a
repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good wishes
which she really felt, took leave.
CHAPTER IX
Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but
on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and
Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her
father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly
graver than usual, said,
“I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and
therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days
with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the
‘love,’ which nobody carries?”
“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”
“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little
time.”
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time, however,
she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he
stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father began his inquiries.
“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did you find
my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say they must have been
very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and
Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to
them!”
Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and
shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.—It
seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his
eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her
feelings were at once caught and honoured.— He looked at her with a glow
of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in another moment still more so,
by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.—He
took her hand;—whether she had not herself made the first motion, she
could not say—she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he
took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his
lips—when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he
should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but
done, she could not perceive.—He would have judged better, she thought,
if he had not stopped.—The intention, however, was indubitable; and
whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however
else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.—It was with
him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.—She could not but recall
the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He left
them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the
alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he
seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had
left her ten minutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure to talk
over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.—Neither would she
regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his
visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better
time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have been
pleasanter.—They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be
deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished
gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his
good opinion.—He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It
was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the disagreeableness
of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on
horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of
Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a
very useful check,—interested, without disturbing him. He had long made
up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s going out as governess, and could talk of
it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpected
blow.
“I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably
settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her
acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and
that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I
am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You know, my dear, she is
going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be
better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her
home so long.”
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else into the
background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her
account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A
sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general
state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was
no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of gravity and
sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends;
and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried.
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to
do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be
recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at
least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In
one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be
seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the
selfishness of imaginary complaints.
“Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more
than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the temper.
It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what would
Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be dreadful
indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr. Weston
shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman, who would
have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be as handsome
as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a
commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was
among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with
Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind
glanced over them both with awe and compassion—and then rested with
lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited,
how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to
Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of
his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any
thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should
form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no
certainty of its being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What
ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified,
to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from
any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of
Mrs. Churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was
immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than
could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for
Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr.
Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was
nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could
yet be possible on Emma’s side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose
prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements now
allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a
stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been
so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished
every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted
to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She
resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to
urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. “Miss
Fairfax was not well enough to write;” and when Mr. Perry called at
Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to
have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was
suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made
him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time
proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite
quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing
touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the
family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than
she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.
Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was
unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confined always to one room;—he
could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old
friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that
description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in
fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil
than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her
more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To
take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt, to give her
change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or
two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in
the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the
carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr.
Perry’s decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The
answer was only in this short note:
“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise.”
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract
this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore,
she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s, in the hope that
Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not do;—Miss Bates
came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly
in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—and every thing
that message could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged
to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of
going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her,
and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss
Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss
Woodhouse in. “Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear
to see any body—any body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be
denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said
so much—but, except them, Jane would really see nobody.”
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys, and the
Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any
right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and only questioned
Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet, which she longed
to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and
very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:—Mr. Perry
recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had
any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an examination of
her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched
to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was
returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would
not be satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not
take—and, moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all
in want of any thing.”
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the
meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on
which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily
refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no
doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was resolved to
receive no kindness from . She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was
grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of
irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and
it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or
esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing
that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could
Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax,
could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have
found any thing to reprove.
CHAPTER X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and
wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the
parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his
voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be
possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered
the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you , and that you
know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”
“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what
you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not
ill?”
“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something really
important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she
endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would
take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and
on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.
“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep
gates,—“now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”
“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask
me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better
than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with
terror.—“Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at
once.—Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me,
I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you by
all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
“Upon my word, Emma.”—
“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your
honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What
can be to be to me, that does not relate to one of that
family?”
“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is
not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley.”
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being
to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does
not concern you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we
hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so
uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a disagreeable
business—but things might be much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall
soon be at Randalls.”
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no
more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed
out to her the probability of its being some money concern—something just
come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the
family,—something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward.
Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—and
poor Frank cut off!—This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of
agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.
“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they
proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than
with any other view.
“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not
Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this
time.”
“Has your son been with you, then?”
“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and
demure,
“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my
dear,” said he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her,
and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no
use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma
distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the
room,—“I have been as good as my word. She has not the least
idea.”
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that
Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly
said,
“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been
walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let
mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever
it may be.”
“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
“Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you
are to hear?”
“So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”
“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you
directly;” (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.)
“He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It
is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,—to announce an attachment—”
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet.
“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an
engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say,
Emma—what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and
Miss Fairfax are engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,
“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean
it?”
“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her
eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to
recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been
a solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth,
and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but
themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so
wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew
him.”
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two
ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor
Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.
“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is
a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all
comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of
them came to Highbury?”
“Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me,
Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. of his
conduct we cannot excuse.”
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend
to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that
no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive
of.”
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as
steady as her words.
“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present
perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like
him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was
attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately,
however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these
three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is
the simple truth.”
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance,
assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else
in the world could do.
“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she.
“On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was
so.— Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”
“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful
wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit , Mrs. Weston; and
I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among
us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly
did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he
certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How could he
tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that he might not
be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong indeed.”
“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather
imagine—”
“And how could bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before
her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can
neither comprehend nor respect.”
“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.
He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of
an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of
the time he could stay—but that there had been misunderstandings he
decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them;
and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of
his conduct.”
“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much
beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in
my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick
and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his
life.”
“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong
in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having many,
very many, good qualities; and—”
“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs.
Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could
he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to
suffer her even to think of such a measure!”
“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him.
It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at least
not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I know he
said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how,
but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery of what she was
doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at
once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short,
put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so
long.”
Emma began to listen better.
“I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told
me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which seemed
to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait,
therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make many
things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be understood.
Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry to condemn him.
Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one
point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out
well, and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal
under such a system of secresy and concealment.”
“ sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear
to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”
“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a
difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family! While
poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a
chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family
vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would
have required. What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the
grave!—He gave his consent with very little persuasion.”
“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for
Harriet.”
“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some
time—and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his
uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he
could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much
agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a
different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In addition
to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which
he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was every appearance of his
having been feeling a great deal.”
“And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such
perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the
engagement?”
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
“None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in
the world but their two selves.”
“Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow
reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it
a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of
hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us
with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to
judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely
duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two
people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and
sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to
hear.—They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other
spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!”
“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am
very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might
not have heard.”
“You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when
you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”
“True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to
speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.”
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,
evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and,
while he was coming round, added, “Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you
to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to
be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it—and, indeed,
almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to
gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be
a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have
attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as
I have always given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her
credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right.
And how much may be said in her situation for even that error!”
“Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can ever be
excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane
Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is
not their’s, nor the world’s law.’”
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming,
“A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a
device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of
guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your
property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it
turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate you, Mr. Weston,
with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and
accomplished young women in England for your daughter.”
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as right
as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate.
His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and
gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove, that
he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad
thing. His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth
objections; and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had
talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was
become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing
that Frank could possibly have done.
CHAPTER XI
“Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay
the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the
real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by
herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much
behaviour as her , which made her so angry with him. It was the
scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the
deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of
her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically, when
he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet
Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but
disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this
instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the
mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have
entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her
admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a
hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what
she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase
of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very
conscious that she ought to have prevented them.—She felt that she had
been risking her friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common
sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself
to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his
ever caring for her.—“But, with common sense,” she added,
“I am afraid I have had little to do.”
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry with
Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for Jane Fairfax,
she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her
account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about
Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin,
must be equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil were
over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.—Emma could
now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many
smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s
eyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of
assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would
have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been
poison. She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself
from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that
Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But
poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be
spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second
disappointment would be more severe than the first. Considering the very
superior claims of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger
effect on Harriet’s mind, producing reserve and self-command, it
would.—She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon as
possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s parting
words. “For the present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret.
Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had
so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due
decorum.”—Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It
was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous, that
she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to perform by
Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intelligence,
which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously
announcing to another. Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep
and voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when was
approaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal
resemblance!—But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.
“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the
room—“is not this the oddest news that ever was?”
“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or
voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
“About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange?
Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me
himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret; and,
therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said
you knew it.”
“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.
“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill
are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one another
this long while. How very odd!”
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that
Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely
changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or
peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with
her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see
into every body’s heart; but nobody else—”
“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any
such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not
openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never
had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”
“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should
you caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”
“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,”
replied Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a
time—and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to
understand that you did care about him?”
“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake
me?” turning away distressed.
“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s
pause—“What do you mean?—Good Heaven! what do you
mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat down,
waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did
not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly
as agitated as Emma’s.
“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you
could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but
considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should not have
thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr.
Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at him in the
company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank
Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been so
mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you entirely
approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered
it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first,
if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had
been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should
not have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it
possible—But if , who had been always acquainted with
him—”
“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself
resolutely—“Let us understand each other now, without the
possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”
“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and
so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as
possible.”
“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all
that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could
almost assert that you had Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the
service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the
gipsies, was spoken of.”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”
“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on
the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that
considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely
natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your
sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations had been in
seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of it is strong on
my memory.”
“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean;
but I was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the
gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some
elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr.
Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand
up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the kind
action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was the service
which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon
earth.”
“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most
unfortunate—most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”
“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At
least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had
been the person; and now—it possible—”
She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you
should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You
must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I
hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
appear—. But you know they were your own words, that
wonderful things had happened, matches of disparity had taken
place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if
such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be so
fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should
really—if does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in
the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”
Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in
consternation, and hastily said,
“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your
affection?”
“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I
must say that I have.”
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in
a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making
her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion,
made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she acknowledged the
whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr.
Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased
by Harriet’s having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with
the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few
minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed her before.
How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how
indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness,
what madness, had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she was
ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for
herself, however, in spite of all these demerits—some concern for her own
appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no
need of to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr.
Knightley—but justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any
coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with
calmness, with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it
was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired
into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had
been so voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by
the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from
reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again,
and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject
which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was
quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and
themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be
called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a
friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of
her hopes with great, though trembling delight.—Emma’s tremblings
as she asked, and as she listened, were better concealed than Harriet’s,
but they were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the
perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil,
such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She
listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to
Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well
delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated
from all the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her
spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own
memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of
Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since those
two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion, found her
much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time
of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of him, Harriet had begun to
be sensible of his talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of
his having indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness
and sweetness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of it. When they
had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked by her, and
talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her.
Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the
change, to almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of
approbation and praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest
agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for
being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had
dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s
memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a
look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a
preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma.
Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and contained
multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who
now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of
strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma
herself.—The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in
the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma
came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest
to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way
than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet
could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking her,
whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse)
appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talking about
farming:—The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an
hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his being
at Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
stay five minutes—and his having told her, during their conversation,
that though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that
he left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had
acknowledged to . The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet,
which this one article marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little
reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is not
it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of your
affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr.
Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
spirit.
“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope
I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of
it.”
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss Woodhouse,
to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she,
“but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour
be the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may
deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very
wonderful.”
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made
the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable her to say on
reply,
“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last
man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his
feeling for her more than he really does.”
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and
Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have
been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s footsteps. He was
coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him.
“She could not compose herself— Mr. Woodhouse would be
alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready encouragement
from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another door—and the
moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings:
“Oh God! that I had never seen her!”
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her
thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had rushed
on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize;
and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—How to
understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had been thus
practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the blindness of
her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried her
own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every posture, she
perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by
others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a
degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find
this day but the beginning of wretchedness.
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. To
that point went every leisure moment which her father’s claims on her
allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling declared him
now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?— When had he
succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for a
short period, occupied?—She looked back; she compared the
two—compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the
time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as they must at any
time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by any blessed
felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She saw that
there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as
infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the
most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the
contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own
heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill
at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the
knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and
without being long in reaching it.—She was most sorrowfully indignant;
ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her—her affection for
Mr. Knightley.—Every other part of her mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every
body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every
body’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she
had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had brought
evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on her
must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his attachment,
she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would never have
known Harriet at all but for her folly.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every wonder
of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became
commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize,
presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.—Mr.
Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her side! Such a
debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the
general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would
prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the
thousand inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was
impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—Was it a new
circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very
inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize
of a girl who would seek him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to
be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as
second causes) to direct the human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she ought,
and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly which no
tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man who
would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which she
ought to belong—all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel
would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr.
Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man
till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less humble, had fewer
scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation,
seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton’s
being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at
pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but
herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and that
her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If Harriet, from
being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.
CHAPTER XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known how much
of her happiness depended on being with Mr. Knightley, first in
interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due,
she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the dread of being
supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.—Long, very
long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his own,
there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she
had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had
herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she
had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully
opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because
he would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own—but
still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he
had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve
her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all
shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not
say, very dear?—When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow
here, presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet
Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively,
passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. could not. She could not
flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment to . She
had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.—How shocked had he
been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he
expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the
offence—but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than
upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no hope, nothing to
deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself
which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at
times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be
overrating his regard for .—Wish it she must, for his
sake—be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all
his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all,
she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let him but continue the
same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the
world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of
friendship and confidence, and her peace would be fully
secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be
incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him.
Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if she
were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped,
that when able to see them together again, she might at least be able to
ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them henceforward
with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto misunderstood
even those she was watching, she did not know how to admit that she could be
blinded here.—He was expected back every day. The power of observation
would be soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were
in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.—It
would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking
of it farther.—She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could
doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To
talk would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but
decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield;
acknowledging it to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion
of topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were
allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of
others—she objected only to a tête-à-tête—they might be able to act
as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet
submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or
waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on
her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much
in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so
interesting an interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through his
share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then induced
Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to say,
and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs.
Bates’s parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have
afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend
related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal of agitation
herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present, to be
allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious
call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to
the engagement’s becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought
such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston
had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to
Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be
excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for
“such things,” he observed, “always got about.” Emma
smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had
gone, in short—and very great had been the evident distress and confusion
of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and
action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet,
heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a
gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable
in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of
Jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly
feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a
fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and
declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of
their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her
embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject. Apologies
for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest
expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr.
Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by,
they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the
engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the
greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing
had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the
subject.
“On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so
many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was
one of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into the
engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never
known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering lip,
Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart.”
“Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for
having consented to a private engagement?”
“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to
blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state
of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment
that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no
expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my
sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the
kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to
be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she continued, ‘that I
was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care
of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do
assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to
give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel
Campbell.’”
“Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then
excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could
be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her
judgment.”
“Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.”
“I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often
have contributed to make her unhappy.”
“On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had
something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which
he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had
involved herself in,” she said, “was that of making her
. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to
a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that
must have been—that had been—hard for him to bear. ‘I did not
make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have done, for
his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that
playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am
sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.’
She then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her
during her illness; and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected,
desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank
you too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was
sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from
herself.”
“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seriously,
“which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience,
she must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if
there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss
Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is
all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting
particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very
good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be
on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.”
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of
Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and
her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason,
and at least equal affection—but she had too much to urge for
Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she
forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, “We have
not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon
come,” she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at last obliged
to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was which
they were so anxious for.
“Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.
“Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me
intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant
reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past
injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a
closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had
certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr.
Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which
was every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part
towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in
Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from every pain
which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been
equally marking one as an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and
the other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had never become
intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s
confidence on this important matter—which was most probable—still,
in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved
from the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which
she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so
unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject
of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or
carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding
the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must
herself have been the worst. She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never
could have been all three together, without her having stabbed Jane
Fairfax’s peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had
been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield. The
weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of
July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and
the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably
comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and by
exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of
their first forlorn tête-à-tête, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and
dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of
Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly
be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no
pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings she feared would
experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was
threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that might
not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might take place among
the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she
left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than herself;
and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would be occupied by it. They should
lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank
Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it was reasonable
to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury. They would be married, and
settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and
if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of
cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no
longer coming there for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at all
hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How
was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s
sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s
society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the
dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of
existence; what could be increasing Emma’s wretchedness but the
reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start,
or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few
seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation or
composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and
the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be the following and
every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more
rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret when it
were gone.
CHAPTER XIII
The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the same
loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in
the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds
were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again. With all the eagerness
which such a transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as
possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil,
warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for
the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in
soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time
in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits freshened, and
thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr.
Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming towards her.—It was
the first intimation of his being returned from London. She had been thinking
of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There
was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and
calm. In half a minute they were together. The “How d’ye
do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after
their mutual friends; they were all well.—When had he left
them?—Only that morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He
meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just looked into the
dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred being out of
doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the
first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps
been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in
which they had been received.
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her,
and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. And this
belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his
attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to
begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such
subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With
him it was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and, trying to
smile, began—
“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather
surprize you.”
“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what
nature?”
“Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.”
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he
replied,
“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that
already.”
“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks
towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called
at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.
“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and
at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure,
“ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you
have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to
give me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a
sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having
excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and
pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great
sensibility, speaking low,
“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own
excellent sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know
you will not allow yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he
added, in a more broken and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest
friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”—And in a
louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, “He will soon be gone. They
will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for . She deserves a better
fate.”
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of
pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you
right.— I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what
was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay
me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I
was not in the secret earlier.”
“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you,
indeed?”—but checking himself—“No, no, I understand
you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much.—He
is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before
that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate that
your affections were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess,
from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I
could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which
I never believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of
man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—Jane,
Jane, you will be a miserable creature.”
“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really
confused—“I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you
continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an
impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have
been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural
for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I never
have.”
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would not. She
supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was
a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on,
however.
“I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his
attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,
probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of
my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I
do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the
son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him very
pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes
ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was
flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time,
indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought
them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has
imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him.
And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me.
It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—It was
his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more
effectually blinded than myself—except that I was
blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow
or other safe from him.”
She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her conduct
was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge,
deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
“I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has been but
trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn
out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no motive for
wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his
good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.”
“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma;
“I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”
“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy.
“So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man
chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such
a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before
him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love,
for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every
thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as
regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in
every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to
be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow
the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to give a woman a
better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there
is no doubt of regard, must, I think, be the happiest of
mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every
thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young woman at a
watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent
treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the world for a
perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt is
in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends
are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used every body ill—and
they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a fortunate man
indeed!”
“You speak as if you envied him.”
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my
envy.”
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet,
and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her
plan; she would speak of something totally different—the children in
Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley
startled her, by saying,
“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined,
I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but cannot be
wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid
the next moment.”
“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly
cried. “Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”
“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in
her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would
listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give
just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence,
relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than
any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.
“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.
“No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed
manner in which he still spoke—“I should like to take another turn.
Mr. Perry is not gone.” And, after proceeding a few steps, she
added—“I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I
am afraid, gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me
as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in
contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear
whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think.”
“As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma,
that I fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I
hesitate?—I have gone too far already for concealment.—Emma, I
accept your offer—Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer
myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever
succeeding?”
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his
eyes overpowered her.
“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be,
whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be
said.”—She could really say nothing.—“You are
silent,” he cried, with great animation; “absolutely silent! at
present I ask no more.”
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of
being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of
such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it
more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I
have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in
England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell you now,
dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may
have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent
lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my
feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear,
once to hear your voice.”
While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to
catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s
hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a
delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that she was every
thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all
taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts,
her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement
from herself.—And not only was there time for these convictions, with all
their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also to rejoice that
Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not,
and should not.—It was all the service she could now render her poor
friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted
her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as
infinitely the most worthy of the two—or even the more simple sublimity
of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any
motive, because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for
Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad,
opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had
led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her
judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been
before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and
degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on
being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of
course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew there need not be
despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He despaired at
one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for
the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing to hear
him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;—her proposal of
taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had just put an
end to, might be a little extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but
Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther
explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom
can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken;
but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are
not, it may not be very material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma
a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept
of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed
her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety
to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view,
no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe
or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work of the moment, the
immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The delightful assurance of
her total indifference towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart
completely disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he
might gain her affection himself;—but it had been no present
hope—he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment,
aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The
superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more
enchanting.—The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to
create, if he could, was already his!—Within half an hour, he had passed
from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect
happiness, that it could bear no other name.
change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the
same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree
of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been a
long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank
Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill,
from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to
the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the
country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save
himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—He
had gone to learn to be indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place.
There was too much domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore
too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only
in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy
before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.—He
had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this very
morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with
the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having
never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much
fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He
had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to
see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her
faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was a villain.—
He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s
character was not desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when
they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill
then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.
CHAPTER XIV
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she
had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a little
respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness,
and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the
flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table—how often
it had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same
shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western
sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it;
and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be
the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast
of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might
not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have seen the heart, he would
have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination
of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing
extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very
comfortably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked
on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have
told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued; but
when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and subdued—and
in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening,
she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel,
that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She
could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims;
and how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. With
respect to her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet
what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart
produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She
even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be
only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger
of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.—How
to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;—how to spare
her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement; how to
appear least her enemy?—On these subjects, her perplexity and distress
were very great—and her mind had to pass again and again through every
bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded it.—She
could only resolve at last, that she would still avoid a meeting with her, and
communicate all that need be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly
desirable to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury,
and—indulging in one scheme more—nearly resolve, that it might be
practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.—Isabella
had been pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her
some amusement.—She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape
being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the
children.—At any rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in
herself, from whom every thing was due; a separation for the present; an
averting of the evil day, when they must all be together again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which left her
so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield
to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen
afterwards to go over the same ground again with him, literally and
figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper share of the
happiness of the evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest
inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from
Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and
deprecated the necessity of reading it.—She was now in perfect charity
with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted only to have her
thoughts to herself—and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she was
sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded through, however. She
opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to
herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
“I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a
doubt of its happy effect.—I think we shall never materially disagree
about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We
are quite well.—This letter has been the cure of all the little
nervousness I have been feeling lately.—I did not quite like your looks
on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own being
affected by weather, I think every body feels a north-east wind.—I felt
for your dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday
morning, but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had
not made him ill.
“Yours ever,
“A. W.”
[.]
Windsor—July.
M M,
“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected;
but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and
indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of
even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.—But I
have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage rises while
I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I have already
met with such success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in danger
of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have
had any ground of offence.—You must all endeavour to comprehend the exact
nature of my situation when I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me
as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My
right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another
question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to it a
right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and
casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties
in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and
I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce
the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a secret
engagement.—Had she refused, I should have gone mad.—But you will
be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?—What did you look
forward to?—To any thing, every thing—to time, chance,
circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health
and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of
blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If
you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your
husband’s son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for
good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value
of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit
to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have
been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come till Miss
Fairfax was in Highbury; and as were the person slighted, you will
forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s compassion, by
reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so long I lost
the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight
which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting
on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of my
conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very
solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship,
do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to add, with
the deepest humiliation.—A few words which dropped from him yesterday
spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable to.—My
behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.—In
order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more
than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately
thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible
object—but I am sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not
been convinced of her indifference, I would not have been induced by any
selfish views to go on.—Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she
never gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was
perfectly free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my
conviction as my wish.—She received my attentions with an easy, friendly,
goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each
other. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were
felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand me
before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;—when I called to
take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of confessing the
truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt of
her having since detected me, at least in some degree.—She may not have
surmised the whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot
doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present
restraints, that it did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me
hints of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton
gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I hope this history of my
conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation
of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma
Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and procure for
me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said Emma
Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly affection, as to long to have
her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.—Whatever strange things I
said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My heart was in
Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and
with the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the
right account.—Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only
necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss
F—, who would never have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given
her.—The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear
madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly
hope, know her thoroughly yourself.—No description can describe her. She
must tell you herself what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a
human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I
began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard from
her.—She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never
complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know
you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is
paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand
particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered,
how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from
happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with,
of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with
joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I
deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her
again!—But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me
to encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all
that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail yesterday; but
the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair
burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., as you
will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not
have presumed on such early measures, but from the very particular
circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk
from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with
multiplied strength and refinement.—But I had no choice. The hasty
engagement she had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam, I
was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I
have been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make
the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most
mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that
my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable.
disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—My plea of
concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.—She was displeased; I
thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily
scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If
I had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she
deemed proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever
known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember the morning spent at
Donwell?— every little dissatisfaction that had occurred
before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and
wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to
allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing
in it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind
the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable
particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal
which might have made every previous caution useless?—Had we been met
walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been
suspected.—I was mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her
affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such
conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent
devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to
endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to
me.—In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side,
abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might
have staid with you till the next morning, merely because I would be as angry
with her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be
reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and
I went away determined that she should make the first advances.—I shall
always congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you
witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought
well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it
produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with
the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of
her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not
quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has been so richly extended towards
myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which
that woman has known.—‘Jane,’ indeed!—You will observe
that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you.
Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons
with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of
imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—She
closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next
day to tell me that we never were to meet again.—
:
.—This letter reached me on the very
morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from
the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at
once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that
day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written
enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any
uneasiness.—I was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again
speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy, and—may I
add?—too cheerful in my views to be captious.—We removed to
Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters
all returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her
extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding,
that as silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be
equally desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as
soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and
requested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to
Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to her
at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near
Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about
it, and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with
that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she
had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, was equally
descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to
threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected
my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.—What was to be
done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my uncle. Without his
sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—I spoke; circumstances
were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was,
earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and
could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as
much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it would
be of a different sort.—Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have
suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at
stake?—No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had
made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached
Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast
hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not
disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my
journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to
persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than
ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my
dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and
a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand
for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.—If you think me
in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss
W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.—In one
respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,
Your obliged and affectionate Son,
F. C. W C.
CHAPTER XV
This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged, in
spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice
that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was
irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every
line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain
itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very
strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment.
She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was
impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than
she had supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and he was
so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was
so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the
room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she
desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be
communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to
blame in his conduct.
“I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it
seems long. I will take it home with me at night.”
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must
return it by him.
“I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.”
He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say, “Had I been
offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-law
a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such
indifference.”
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile,
observed, “Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One
man’s style must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be
severe.”
“It will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to
speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.
It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it—”
“Not at all. I should wish it.”
Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.
“He trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. He knows
he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He ought not to
have formed the engagement.—‘His father’s
disposition:’—he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr.
Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable
exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to
gain it.—Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here.”
“And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you were
that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very
handsomely—but you were perfectly right.”
“I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but yet, I
think—had not been in the case—I should still have
distrusted him.”
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head;
a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject
required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection,
thus—
“Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a most
dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.—No
judge of his own manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own
wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.—Fancying
you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of
intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how
they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove
more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each
other?”
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet’s account,
which she could not give any sincere explanation of.
“You had better go on,” said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! Ah! That
was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the
inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme,
indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any
proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did
know that she would have prevented the instrument’s coming if she
could.”
After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill’s
confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more
than a word in passing.
“I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark.
“You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.” And
having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their
disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane
Fairfax’s sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, “This is
very bad.—He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a
situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his
first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must have
had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he
could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been
such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember
that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that
she should have been in such a state of punishment.”
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew
uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply
ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however,
steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one
momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving
pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.
“There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the
Eltons,” was his next observation.—“His feelings are
natural.—What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She
felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each—she
dissolved it.—What a view this gives of her sense of his
behaviour!—Well, he must be a most extraordinary—”
“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers.”
“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the
letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is all
this?”
“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s
children—a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple
Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the
disappointment?”
“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read—not even of
Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man
writes!”
“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”
“Well, there feeling here.—He does seem to have suffered
in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of
her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he may long continue
to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.—He is a very liberal
thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I
deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me
the child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s
words, were they?— And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The
child of good fortune! That was your name for him, was it?”
“You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still
you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I hope it
does him some service with you.”
“Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in
thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond
a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have
the advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his
character will improve, and acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of
principle that it wants. And now, let me talk to you of something else. I have
another person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot
think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning,
Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject.”
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike English, such
as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with, how to be able to
ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father.
Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. “While her dear father
lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could never quit
him.” Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility
of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the
inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been
thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce
Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it
feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive
himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation
would be a risk of her father’s comfort, perhaps even of his life, which
must not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt
that it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the
sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect
objectionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as
her father’s happiness—in other words, his life—required
Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing
thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an
alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the
affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be
sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living
constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much,
very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to
think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter
his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her,
very long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins
the whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I
am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you
ask mine.”
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to
think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which
she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any
sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had
formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible
difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy
conscious smile about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause of
that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax, or any
body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude
of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His
evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to
outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety
and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner in all those duties and
cares to which time must be giving increase of melancholy!
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her
own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be
even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was
securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at
a distance from. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her
future absence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party,
Harriet would be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl
herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in
such a state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but
this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be
doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley,
always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, would never
deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it really was too much to hope even
of Harriet, that she could be in love with more than men in one
year.
CHAPTER XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to
avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by letter. How much
worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches,
or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of
resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the
desirableness of their being separate.—It might be only her own
consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without
resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was
fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to
invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished
some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was delighted to be of
use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her—and though not
so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet
under her care.—When it was thus settled on her sister’s side, Emma
proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.—Harriet was to
go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr.
Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all completed,
and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could talk,
and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice,
of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when remembering how
disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that moment, and at a
little distance, be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps
an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not think
of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment, which must be
averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her
mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication before her, one
which only could be competent to make—the confession of her
engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at
present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were
safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among
those she loved—and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation
before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of
mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of
this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought to
go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect
would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing
Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been
into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in
such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her
sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being still unwelcome,
determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage,
and send up her name.—She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle
succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—No;
she heard nothing but the instant reply of, “Beg her to walk
up;”—and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane
herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her were felt
sufficient.—Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging.
There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her
countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an
offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,
“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me
to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely
without words.”
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of
Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it
expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations
into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which accounted
for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but
she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her
with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and
understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss
Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what was still
a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression
of her face; and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing
to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of
anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been
reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple and gold reticule
by her side, saying, with significant nods,
“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want
opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I only
wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended.
You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You would
have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word more. Let us be
discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember
those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:
“For when a lady’s in the case,
“You know all other things give place.”
Now I say, my dear, in case, for , read——mum!
a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I
want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.— representation,
you see, has quite appeased her.”
And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs.
Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
“I mentioned no , you will observe.—Oh! no; cautious as
a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible
occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and
Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,
“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is
charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest
credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word,
Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had seen
her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was
saying something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a word of any
that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young
physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.”
“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she
shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant
party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not
seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of
some.—So it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I
think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to our
collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine
weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party,
not exception.”
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by
the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from
doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is
impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest
Jane’s prospects—that is, I do not mean.—But she is
charmingly recovered.—How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so
glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little circle as you find
us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so
very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to
Jane!”—And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight
towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little
show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now
graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond
a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,
“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that
I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his
respects to you.”
“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That
will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and
Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”
“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning
to night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some
pretence or other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are
always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without
him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you
than I.—I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument,
if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I
absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have
not played a bar this fortnight.—However, he is coming, I assure you:
yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to
screen her words from Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you
know.—Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!
“He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from
Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep
consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton
gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”
“Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole
will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.—I
fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.”
“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost
certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr.
Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”
“Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer,
which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s
side.—“I do believe,” she continued, “this is the most
troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple
Grove.”
“Your parish there was small,” said Jane.
“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject
talked of.”
“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you
speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only
school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.”
“Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain
you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we
could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce
perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that
people may not think perfection already.—But hush!—not a
word, if you please.”
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to
Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of
distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it
could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling
vivacity.
“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance
to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But you knew what a
dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord
and master appeared.—Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these
young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who can say, you
know, how soon it may be wanted?”
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away. His
civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object was to
lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for
nothing.
“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be
found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning,
and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till
one.”
“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have
not been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the
Crown.”
“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see
Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling
morning!—I went over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great
ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home!
I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me.
The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very
extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to
Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—Miss
Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain
it?”
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed, and
that she had not a syllable to say for him.
“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a
wife ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you,
of all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure
he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his
servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to
happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely
awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a creature as his
Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges,
Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright a receipt, and
never sent it.”
“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near
the house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not
believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what
was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech
of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it really is of
very great importance that should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes
a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this
hot walk to no purpose.”
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all
probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might
be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not
towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her
out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity
which she immediately made use of, to say,
“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not
been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a
subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly
correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.”
“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought
infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual
composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have
been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more
collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great
misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my
friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such
a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long
to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very
due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my
friend—”
“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly,
and taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you
might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted
even—”
“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold
and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of
deceit!—I know that I must have disgusted you.”
“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest,
and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant
accounts from Windsor?”
“Very.”
“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose
you—just as I begin to know you.”
“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here
till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma,
smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I am
sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at
Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of deep
mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait
for.”
“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured
of.—Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and
open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by knowing
her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for a
Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a
match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons; but she was
convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would be a
great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—and even Mr. Weston might
be growing older ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the
sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished
from home; and Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be
most to her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she
continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse
d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall
now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even
more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It
will be the only difference.”
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of
her?”
“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable
in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my
bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my
happiness to , would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be
severe on them?”
Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether my own
sense would have corrected me without it.”
“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss
Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite
as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right
has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that
it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The
good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to
me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all;
and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since
you were thirteen at least.”
“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very
often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I
am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled,
it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done
for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.”
“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you
knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
feelings instead of one.”
“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my
speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”
“‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr.
Knightley;’ and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And
yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know
what.”
“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable
fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but,
as you made no objection, I never did it again.”
“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”
“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr.
Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of
Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will promise,” she added
presently, laughing and blushing—“I will promise to call you once
by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess
where;—in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service
which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which would have
saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy
with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.—She could not enter
on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side,
might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was rather
inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances,
that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting
under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more,
and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did,
on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the
pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected; on
her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly
natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had
been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known
her before.—Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if
Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have
escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by
Harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at
least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was
invited to remain till they could bring her back.
“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley.
“Here is his answer, if you like to see it.”
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted
it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would
say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was
unmentioned.
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr.
Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to
have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making
flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her
praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read
the letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers
the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not
without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think
me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should
not have believed him.”
“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”
“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps,
than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject.”
“Emma, my dear Emma—”
“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your
brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing
justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your
side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into
‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion towards
oppressed worth can go no farther.”
“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily
convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,
to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did
you notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly
by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the
kind.”
“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for
that.”
“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any
difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time
for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so, I suppose. I
dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I
believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one
evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired
now.’”
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons’
reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to
admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle
reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at
home, and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to her father at
last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have
failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such
a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced to
speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject
of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it
a misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him
first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said, that if his
consent and approbation could be obtained—which, she trusted, would be
attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of
all—she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would
receive the constant addition of that person’s company whom she knew he
loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having
always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal
better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss
Taylor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and
smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella
and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made
a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always
there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for
the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for
having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the
idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny
that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business
but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his
letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so
attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the
spot?—Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too
often; he should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every
day as it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the
idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.—To
Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose
fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon
used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—They had all the
assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation;
and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the
most serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good
one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations
to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and
every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for
his happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he
began to think that some time or other—in another year or two,
perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to
him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized, never more
so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only
increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the
utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved
even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and
unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest
importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed
as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and
that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it,
and wished it long ago.—How very few of those men in a rank of life to
address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.
Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an
arrangement desirable!—The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse
had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for a marriage
between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had
been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by
herself—but even he had never been able to finish the subject better than
by saying—“Those matters will take care of themselves; the young
people will find a way.” But here there was nothing to be shifted off in
a wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No
sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the highest promise of
felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or
delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these,
was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could increase her
delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set
of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his
five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea
to his quickness of mind.—He saw the advantages of the match, and
rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was
very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that
he had always foreseen it.
“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters
are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let
me be told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has any
suspicion.”
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that point. He
told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he
must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs.
Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more than
the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its
being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking
of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with great
sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others
might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing
to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another might
predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was
no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the
Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr.
Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped “the
young lady’s pride would now be contented;” and supposed “she
had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;” and, on the point of
living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather he than
I!”—But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed
indeed.—“Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for
him.”—She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he
had a thousand good qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—Did not
think him at all in love—not in the least.—Poor
Knightley!—There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with
him.—How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked
him! But that would be all over now.—Poor fellow!—No more exploring
parties to Donwell made for . Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley
to throw cold water on every thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was
not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other
day.—Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family
near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end
of the first quarter.
CHAPTER XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would be
arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning,
as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. Knightley
came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of pleasure
he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with,
“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”
“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
“I do not know which it ought to be called.”
“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying
not to smile.”
“I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very
much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.”
“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which
pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”
“There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which
we do not think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes
fixed on her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—Do not you
recollect?—Harriet Smith.”
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she
knew not what.
“Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he.
“You have, I believe, and know the whole.”
“No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”
“You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin.”
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her eyes,
in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impossible!” but her lips were
closed.
“It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from
Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”
She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
“You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions
were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one or
the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much
on the subject.”
“You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exerting
herself. “It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy,
but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to
say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has
even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it.”
“I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling
but determined decision, “and been accepted.”
“Good God!” she cried.—“Well!”—Then having
recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing
all the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must
be expressing, she added, “Well, now tell me every thing; make this
intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was
more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure
you.—How—how has it been possible?”
“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,
and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to
John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked
by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s. They were going
to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to be our brother
and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could not
resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely amused; and my
brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which he did—and
in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of
speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—She made him,
by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by
yesterday’s coach, and was with me this morning immediately after
breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own.
This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet
will make a much longer history when you see her.—She will give you all
the minute particulars, which only woman’s language can make
interesting.—In our communications we deal only in the
great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s heart seemed for
, and to , very overflowing; and that he did mention,
without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at
Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John,
and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in
such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”
He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was
sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait
a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after
observing her a little while, he added,
“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you
unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His
situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your
friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you
know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.—As
far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands.
His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I
assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could
quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not to smile
too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,
“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
Harriet is doing extremely well. connexions may be worse than
. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they
are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot
imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I
was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against
him, much more, than she was before.”
“You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley;
“but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely
to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved
her.”
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my word, I believe
you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly
sure that she has absolutely and downright him. I could suppose
she might in time—but can she already?—Did not you misunderstand
him?—You were both talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle,
or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects,
mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was certain
of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.”
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and Robert Martin
was, at this moment, so strong to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the
recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet’s side, so
fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, “No, I hope I
know better than to think of Robert Martin,” that she was really
expecting the intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not
be otherwise.
“Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare to
suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking
of?—What do you deserve?”
“Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any
other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite
sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now
are?”
“I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly,
“that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity,
nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that
it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no
one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or
friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs.
Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to
see her in the course of this day.”
“I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest
smiles, “and most sincerely wish them happy.”
“You are materially changed since we talked on this subject
before.”
“I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”
“And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all
Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for
Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much
in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to
her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have
thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin’s cause,
which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her
being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good
principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic
life.—Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”
“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor
Harriet!”
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise
than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father.
She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter
and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in
dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked
to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put
the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had,
therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of
him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own.
Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and
circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and
yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She
must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five
weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a
pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be
over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might
soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect
confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always
listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or
silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to
Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly
had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for
coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two
figures passing near the window.
“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just
going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day
with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see
him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing
recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down
again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to
doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank
Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of
pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was
fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation—or of courage
and opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,
“I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message
in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you less
willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”
“No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the
least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give
you joy in person.”
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with
serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
“Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
“Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs.
Weston doat upon her.”
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of
Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
“I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme
shame.”
“The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But
is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know,
you had none.”
“I never had the smallest, I assure you.”
“That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I
had—it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong
things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no
service.—It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the
bond of secrecy and told you every thing.”
“It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma.
“I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being
persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When
the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I
trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a distance
from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we have
not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?”
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay
thought, he cried,
“Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for
the moment—“I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He
paused.—She coloured and laughed.—“I know you saw my letter,
and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your
congratulations.—I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest
interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot presume to
praise.”
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his
mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his
next words were,
“Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such
delicacy!—and yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call her
fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and
hair—a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in
it.—Just colour enough for beauty.”
“I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma, archly;
“but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being
so pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite
forgotten?”
“Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I
dare—”
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help
saying,
“I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you
had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I
am sure it was a consolation to you.”
“Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the
most miserable wretch!”
“Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a
source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all
in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth,
I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. I
think there is a little likeness between us.”
He bowed.
“If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of
true sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which
bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own.”
“True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your
side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete
angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of
her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will
be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle
means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set. I am
resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in
her dark hair?”
“Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly,
that he gratefully burst out,
“How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent
looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should
certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.”
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account of a
little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant’s
appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed
her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps
she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been almost as uneasy as
herself.—In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well
again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr.
Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and
only regretted that she had not done it. “She should always send for
Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only
for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often.
It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child
seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if
Perry had seen it.”
Frank Churchill caught the name.
“Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss
Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.
Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel
now?—Has he set up his carriage?”
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh,
it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was really hearing
him, though trying to seem deaf.
“Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can never
think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse.
I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do
not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which
sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole blunder is
spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending
to listen to the others?”
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly
remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady
voice,
“How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They
sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!”
He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but Emma’s
feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and
falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as
she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding him as she did with
friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high
superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy day, received its
completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison
produced.
CHAPTER XIX
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a momentary
doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her attachment to Mr.
Knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, it
was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such
uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she had no
sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she became
perfectly satisfied—unaccountable as it was!—that Robert Martin had
thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of
happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at first: but
having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived,
before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her
without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in the present and
future; for, as to her friend’s approbation, Emma had instantly removed
every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified
congratulations.—Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the
evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it
all with the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?—The
fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert
Martin; and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.—Beyond
this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh reason
for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage became known. She proved to be
the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable
maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to have always wished
for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly
been so ready to vouch for!—It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as
the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for
Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills—or even for Mr.
Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would
have been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man was treated
liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted with
Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in
him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her
little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s happiness with any
good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the
hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in
the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself;
retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be
never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be
respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the
world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a
man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins, was less
and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—The intimacy
between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort
of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already
beginning, and in the most gradual, natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw her hand
bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances,
even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could
impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton, but as
the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on
herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of
the three, were the first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of
her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills were also in
town; and they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by Emma and
Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage ought to be
concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them the
fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the
plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving
it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to
consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant
event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost
hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—He began to
think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising
step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy.
Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage failed.
She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself
neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of
both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were over, his distress would
be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.
In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden illumination
of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any wonderful change of his nervous system,
but by the operation of the same system in another way.—Mrs.
Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the
neighbourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was to Mr.
Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his
son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every night
of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr.
Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them protected
him and his, Hartfield was safe.—But Mr. John Knightley must be in London
again by the end of the first week in November.
The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary, cheerful
consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment, she was
able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month
from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr.
Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have no taste
for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her
husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her
own.—“Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful
business!—Selina would stare when she heard of it.”—But, in
spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the
predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were
fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
FINIS
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