Emma by Jane Austen.
VOLUME II.
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,” said Mrs. Weston
rather hesitating, “if you think she will
be of any use.”
“You will get nothing to the purpose from
Miss Bates,” said Emma. “She will be all
delight and gratitude, but she will tell you
nothing. She will not even listen to your
questions. I see no advantage in consulting
Miss Bates.”
“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing!
I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk.
And I need not bring the whole family, you
know.”
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing
what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates,
and let us end the matter at once. She will
enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not
know a properer person for shewing us how
to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates.
We are growing a little too nice. She is a
standing lesson of how to be happy. But fetch
them both. Invite them both.”
“Both sir! Can the old lady?”...
“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be
sure. I shall think you a great blockhead,
Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately
recollect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will
endeavour to persuade them both.” And away
he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short,
neat, brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs.
Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a
good wife, had examined the passage again,
and found the evils of it much less than she
had supposed before—indeed very trifling;
and here ended the difficulties of decision.
All the rest, in speculation at least, was
perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements
of table and chair, lights and music, tea
and supper, made themselves; or were left
as mere trifles to be settled at any time
between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.—Every
body invited, was certainly to come; Frank
had already written to Enscombe to propose
staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which
could not possibly be refused. And a delightful
dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did
she agree that it must. As a counsellor she
was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much
safer character,) she was truly welcome. Her
approbation, at once general and minute, warm
and incessant, could not but please; and for
another half-hour they were all walking to
and fro, between the different rooms, some
suggesting, some attending, and all in happy
enjoyment of the future. The party did not
break up without Emma’s being positively
secured for the two first dances by the hero
of the evening, nor without her overhearing
Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has
asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew
he would!”
CHAPTER XII
One thing only was wanting to make the prospect
of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its
being fixed for a day within the granted term
of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for,
in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she
could not think it so very impossible that
the Churchills might not allow their nephew
to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But
this was not judged feasible. The preparations
must take their time, nothing could be properly
ready till the third week were entered on,
and for a few days they must be planning,
proceeding and hoping in uncertainty—at
the risk—in her opinion, the great risk,
of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in
fact, if not in word. His wish of staying
longer evidently did not please; but it was
not opposed. All was safe and prosperous;
and as the removal of one solicitude generally
makes way for another, Emma, being now certain
of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation
Mr. Knightley’s provoking indifference about
it. Either because he did not dance himself,
or because the plan had been formed without
his being consulted, he seemed resolved that
it should not interest him, determined against
its exciting any present curiosity, or affording
him any future amusement. To her voluntary
communications Emma could get no more approving
reply, than,
“Very well. If the Westons think it worth
while to be at all this trouble for a few
hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing
to say against it, but that they shall not
chuse pleasures for me.—Oh! yes, I must
be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep
as much awake as I can; but I would rather
be at home, looking over William Larkins’s
week’s account; much rather, I confess.—Pleasure
in seeing dancing!—not I, indeed—I never
look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine
dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its
own reward. Those who are standing by are
usually thinking of something very different.”
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made
her quite angry. It was not in compliment
to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent,
or so indignant; he was not guided by 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 for”—
Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina
is no fine lady, I assure you. Do not run
away with such an idea.”
“Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs.
Churchill, who is as thorough a fine lady
as any body ever beheld.”
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong
in disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means
her object to have it believed that her sister
was 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. 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
a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well,
he must be a most extraordinary—”
“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how
very much he suffers.”
“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley
coolly, and resuming the letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What
does this mean? What is all this?”
“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs.
Smallridge’s children—a dear friend of
Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple Grove;
and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears
the disappointment?”
“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige
me to read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only
one page more. I shall soon have done. What
a letter the man writes!”
“I wish you would read it with a kinder
spirit towards him.”
“Well, there 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.
