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 them 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!
We 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 one 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 you, or suppose Mr. Knightley to
mean you. 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 will 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 that 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. She 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.
Woodhouses 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 little bit of
tart— a very little bit. Ours are all
apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. do not
advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine? A small 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 she 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— —mused 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
"two
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 her 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 wanted 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 them 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 him. You might not see one in a hundred with gentleman 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 them. 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
will thrive, and be a very rich man in
time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us."
"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 him, 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
him 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 then;—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 that,"—
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 your
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
here; 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 her, 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 that.—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 she 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
naivete,
"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
very 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 at
present, 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 naivete 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. I'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 your 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 purport 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 doubts 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!—You banished to Abbey-Mill
Farm!—You 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, one 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 you 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. You
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 your 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 your 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 was 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 that 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 letting 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 very
particular 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 lady 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. Courtship— 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 court.
Another view of man, my
second brings; Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is ship;—plain as it can be.—Now for the
cream.
But ah! united, (courtship, 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 what 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 him. 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 happily 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 well 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 appropriation 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 I do— I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see
his little effusion honoured as I 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 now,"
said Emma, as they
proceeded,
"but then 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 within side 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 not 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 us, 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 not 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, that 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. She
certainly had not been in the wrong, and he 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 nearer."
"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 both 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 very 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—we 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 we 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 tolerable;—
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."
"My report from Mrs. Goddard's,"
said she
presently,
"was not so pleasant as
I had hoped— — 'Not better' was my
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 were 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 that
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 woman, 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 man'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: she 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 him, 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 when 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 promise
him 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 tete-a-tete
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 her 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 me! 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 me, 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.
I 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 she had so
misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that he, 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 not 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 unrequited, 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 sensation 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 she 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 joint
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 wish 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 fondling 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 actions 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 was 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;
"that 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 you 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 that
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 boiled 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 try 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 l. 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
Mrs.
Elton 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.
What she was, must be uncertain; but who 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 very
well
married, to a gentleman in a great
way, 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 just to
meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just 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 The Rev. Philip Elton,
White-Hart, Bath, 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. He 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 little 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 she 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 very fine young man; you have
only had my 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 very 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 home I felt I might do any
thing."
The word home 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 own 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 eighteen, I should listen with pleasure;
but she 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 here 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 amor
patriae. 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 her,"
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 I 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 did 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 her 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 his 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 moment, 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 compliments, 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 ten
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 not 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. Now 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. Now 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 say what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your
thoughts 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 Mr. 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 her, 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 naivete."
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 at
times, 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 with
time 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. Now,
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 outree!—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 that 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 would 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 all
that
party 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 has 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 Robin
Adair at this moment— his 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 you?"
"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
invite five couple. It can be allowable only as the
thought of the moment."
Somebody said that
Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and must
be invited with the rest.
Somebody else
believed
Mrs. 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 marry 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 any
thing 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 Miss
Taylor 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 is 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,"
aid 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
her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she 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 very 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 have 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 must 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 cause 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 almost 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 must 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 refused
him. 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 sacrifice,"
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.
"He 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. Miss
Woodhouse 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
her 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 me. 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 recollecting. 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 our 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 you, 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 introduction —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 mediocre 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 the
world 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 me. 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 very
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 we exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of
allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for me, 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 she
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 caro
sposo, 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 should 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 bride? It ought to be no
recommendation to you. 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 her. 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. 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 we set the example, many will follow it as
far as they can; though all have not our situations. We have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and we 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 more than Jane Fairfax to
partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I
should, 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 not to be with the Dixons.
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 to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of 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 not 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 me. 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 shall
not 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 us 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 had;
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 first 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, that 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 him."
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 she 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. She 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,
as
we
understand,
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 fo"—
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 not 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 that
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 addition 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, I
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 May 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 difference. 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 May, 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
them."
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 him 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;—
she
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 I
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,
"She 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 naivete, 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
one
respect, 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 Most
precious
treasures 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 must 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 has
been 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 that
evening, 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 told 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 him, 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.
She
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 her 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 she 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 blunder; 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 Dixon. 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 presume it to be so on
her side, and I can answer 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 me. 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
tete-a-tete; 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 me 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;
they 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 one 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?"
"I
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 you 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 shall 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 I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into.
Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party
—I 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
you."
"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. Perfection should not have come quite so soon."
"Oh! for myself, I
protest I must be excused,"
said Mrs. Elton;
"I 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 me,"
added her husband, with
a sort of sneering consciousness;
"I
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
her 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 some,) would be entirely guided by your
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.
There, 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 say 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
tell 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 not 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 must
all spend your evening with us,' said she—'I
positively must have you all 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, I
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 her.
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 alone, 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 broke 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
broke 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. Some
part of his conduct we cannot excuse."
Emma pondered a moment, and
then replied,
"I will not pretend not 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 him, 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 very 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 she 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."
"His 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 his behaviour as
her own, 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 she 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 you, 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 named 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 is 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
more wonderful things had happened, matches of
greater 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 he 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 compassion 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.
She knew that
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 her. 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 first 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. She could not.
She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment
to her. 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 her.—
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 one 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 tete-a-tete —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 unreasonable. 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
tete-a-tete, 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,
"You 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 her. 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 not 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 her 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 I 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 had 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.
Her
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."
[To Mrs. Weston.]
Windsor-July.
My Dear Madam,
"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 think 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 you 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. She 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?—There 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.—
She felt the engagement to be a source of
repentance and misery to each she dissolved
it.—
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. WESTON CHURCHILL.
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 you 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 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 is 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 three 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 she 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 secret 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 our case, for lady,
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.—My 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 names, 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 assistance 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 one 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 some people may
not think you 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 I 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 you, 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 you 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 her. 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 him, and to
me, 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. Her connexions may be worse than his. 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 accepted 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 will 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 housebreaking 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