Chapter 1 Emma by Jane Austen
CHAPTER I
Emma
Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy
disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had
lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex
her. She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate, indulgent
father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage, been mistress of his
house from a very early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have
more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and her place had been
supplied by an excellent woman as governess, who had fallen little short of a
mother in affection. Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's
family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but
particularly of Emma. Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the
mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the
shadow of authority being now long passed away, they had been living together as
friend and friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what she liked;
highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of
herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they did
not by any means rank as misfortunes with her. Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but
not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married.
It was Miss Taylor's loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day
of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any
continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself
were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening.
Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then
only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every
promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable
character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some
satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had
always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.
The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her
past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen years--how she had taught
and how she had played with her from five years old--how she had devoted all her
powers to attach and amuse her in health--and how nursed her through the various
illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the
intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve
which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being left to each other,
was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion
such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all
the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly
interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she
could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as
could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?--It was true
that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that
great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them,
and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and
domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude.
She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet
her in conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual
disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much
increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all
his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than
in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and
his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony,
being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled through at
Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her
husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant
society again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost
amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and
shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses
were first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many
acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one
among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It
was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for
impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful.
His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of
every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of
every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he
was by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could ever
speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of
affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his
habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other
people could feel differently from himself, he was very much disposed to think
Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been
a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield.
Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such
thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he
had said at dinner,
"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again.
What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"
"I cannot
agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured,
pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;--and you would
not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear all my odd humours,
when she might have a house of her own?"
"A house of her own!--But
where is the advantage of a house of her own? This is three times as large.--And
you have never any odd humours, my dear."
"How often we shall be
going to see them, and they coming to see us!--We shall be always meeting! We
must begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon."
"My dear,
how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could not walk half so
far."
"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the
carriage, to be sure."
"The carriage! But James will not like to put
the horses to for such a little way;--and where are the poor horses to be while
we are paying our visit?"
"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's
stable, papa. You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over
with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will
always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.
I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,
papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you
mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"
"I am very glad I did
think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think
himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very good
servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her.
Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty
manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always
turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will
be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to
have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see
his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her
how we all are."
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier
flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably
through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The
backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and
made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or
eight-and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but
particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband. He
lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual
connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days'
absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick
Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.
Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many
inquiries after "poor Isabella" and her children were answered most
satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is
very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.
I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."
"Not at all, sir. It
is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your
great fire."
"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish
you may not catch cold."
"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck
on them."
"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast
deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at
breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding."
"By the bye--I have
not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be
feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went
off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?"
"Ah!
poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."
"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse,
if you please; but I cannot possibly say `poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great
regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or
independence!--At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than
two."
"Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful,
troublesome creature!" said Emma playfully. "That is what you have in your head,
I know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."
"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh.
"I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."
"My
dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or suppose Mr. Knightley to
mean you. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves
to find fault with me, you know-- in a joke--it is all a joke. We always say
what we like to one another."
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the
few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever
told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma
herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not
have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by
every body.
"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley,
"but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two
persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a
gainer."
"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--"you want to hear
about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks: not a tear,
and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be
only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."
"Dear
Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is
really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more
than she thinks for."
Emma turned away her head, divided between
tears and smiles. "It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,"
said Mr. Knightley. "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage;
she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's time of life, to be
settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a
comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain
as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily
married."
"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said
Emma, "and a very considerable one--that I made the match myself. I made the
match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the
right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort
me for any thing."
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father
fondly replied, "Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell
things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more
matches."
"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must,
indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after
such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry
again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed
so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his
business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went,
always cheerful-- Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone
if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some
people even talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the
son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on
the subject, but I believed none of it.
"Ever since the day--about
four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when,
because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed
two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I
planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this
instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."
"I do not understand what you mean by `success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent,
if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this
marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather
imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it,
your saying to yourself one idle day, `I think it would be a very good thing for
Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself
every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit?
What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be
said."
"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky
guess?-- I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess
is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word
`success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without
any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there may be a
third--a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted
Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed
many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you
must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that."
"A straightforward,
open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor,
may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have
done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference."
"Emma
never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined Mr. Woodhouse,
understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches;
they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously."
"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton,
papa,--I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who
deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so
comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him single any longer--and I
thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he
would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr.
Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service."
"Mr.
Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I
have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear,
ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing. I
dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him."
"With a great
deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley, laughing, "and I agree
with you entirely, that it will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner,
Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to
chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take
care of himself."
CHAPTER
II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a
respectable family, which for the last two or three generations had been rising
into gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on
succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed for any
of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and had
satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering into the
militia of his county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general
favourite; and when the chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with
him, nobody was surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen
him, and who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would
offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full
command of her fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the
family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to
the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due
decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much happiness.
Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm
heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due to her in return for the
great goodness of being in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit,
she had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite
of her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that
brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison of
Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be
the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain
Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills, as making such an
amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when his
wife died, after a three years' marriage, he was rather a poorer man than at
first, and with a child to maintain. From the expense of the child, however, he
was soon relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim of a
lingering illness of his mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation;
and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young
creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the
little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance the
widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were overcome by other
considerations, the child was given up to the care and the wealth of the
Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to
improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He
quitted the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already established in
a good way in London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern
which brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,
where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation and the
pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed
cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy competence--enough to
secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always
longed for--enough to marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to
live according to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it had not
shaken his determination of never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and
the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone steadily on,
with these objects in view, till they were accomplished. He had made his
fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period
of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed
through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from
that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a
well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the pleasantest
proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite
gratitude than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his
choice: his fortune was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly
brought up as his uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have
him assume the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no
apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her husband
entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that any caprice
could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly
dear. He saw his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond
report of him as a very fine young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in
him too. He was looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his
merits and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill
was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed,
though the compliment was so little returned that he had never been there in his
life. His coming to visit his father had been often talked of but never
achieved.
Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally
proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There
was not a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea
with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now
was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope
strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new mother on the
occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury included some mention
of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. "I suppose you have heard of
the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand
it was a very handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr.
Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his
life."
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of
course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome
addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her
marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman; and she
had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the
only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her
had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.
She knew
that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without pain, of Emma's
losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui, from the want of her
companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was more equal
to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and
spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little
difficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy
distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female
walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the
approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week
together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of
gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her
satisfaction---her more than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just
and so apparent, that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by
surprize at his being still able to pity `poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her
at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the
evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did
she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss
Taylor! She would be very glad to stay."
There was no recovering Miss
Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some
alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over; he
was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the
wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own
stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any
body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any
wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent
any body's eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the
apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man,
whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon
being applied to, he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against
the bias of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with
many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion,
in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of
the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for
his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange
rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs.
Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never believe
it.
CHAPTER III
Mr.
Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his
friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from his long
residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and
his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great
measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that
circle; his horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for
any acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for
him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the
parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not
unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best
to dine with him: but evening parties were what he preferred; and, unless he
fancied himself at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an evening in
the week in which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real,
long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a
young man living alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant
evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of Mr.
Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no
danger of being thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the
most come-at-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three
ladies almost always at the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who
were fetched and carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no
hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it
would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar
of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.
She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with
all the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of
popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates
stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having much of the public
favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or
frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She had never boasted
either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her
middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to
make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a
woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal good-will
and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was
interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to every body's merits;
thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such
an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that
wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented
and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity
to herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr.
Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs.
Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an establishment, or
any thing which professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine
liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles and new
systems--and where young ladies for enormous pay might be screwed out of health
and into vanity--but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a
reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and
where girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into a
little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard's
school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a
particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the children
plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and in
winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a
train of twenty young couple now walked after her to church. She was a plain,
motherly kind of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought
herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly
owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave
her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or
lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma
found herself very frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her
father's sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was
no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father
look comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things so
well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that every
evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully
anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such
a close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in
most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most
welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very
well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her beauty. A
very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no longer dreaded by the
fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter
of somebody. Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's
school, and somebody had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that
of parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history. She
had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just
returned from a long visit in the country to some young ladies who had been at
school there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty
happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump,
and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look
of great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased
with her manners as her person, and quite determined to continue the
acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in
Miss Smith's conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing, shewing
so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for being
admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by the appearance of every
thing in so superior a style to what she had been used to, that she must have
good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft
blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior
society of Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though very
good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of the name of
Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of Mr.
Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell--very creditably, she
believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of them--but they must be coarse
and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a
little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice her;
she would improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and
introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It
would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly becoming
her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.
She was so busy
in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and listening, and forming all
these schemes in the in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual
rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such parties, and for which she
had been used to sit and watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and
moved forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the
common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of
doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind
delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of the meal, and
help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency
which she knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil scruples of
their guests.
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were
in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion
of his youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would have
welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their health made him grieve
that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his
own was all that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he
might constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer
things, to say:
"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of
these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands
boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any
body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see--one of our
small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little bit of
tart--a very little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of
unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say
you to half a glass of wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I
do not think it could disagree with you."
Emma allowed her father to
talk--but supplied her visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the
present evening had particular pleasure in sending them away happy. The
happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so
great a personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given
as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with
highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at
last!
CHAPTER IV
Harriet Smith's intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick and
decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her
to come very often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their
satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had very early foreseen
how useful she might find her. In that respect Mrs. Weston's loss had been
important. Her father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of
the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and
since Mrs. Weston's marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had
ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith,
therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw more of her, she
approved her, and was confirmed in all her kind designs.
Harriet
certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition, was
totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked
up to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and her inclination for
good company, and power of appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that
there was no want of taste, though strength of understanding must not be
expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly
the young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required. Such
a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could never be
granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of thing, a
sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which
had its basis in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she
could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every
thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find
out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell
every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma was
obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe that in the same
situation she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet had no penetration.
She had been satisfied to hear and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell
her; and looked no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the
girls and the affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part of
the conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill
Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good
deal; she had spent two very happy months with them, and now loved to talk of
the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many comforts and wonders of the
place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness-- amused by such a picture of another
set of beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so
much exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "two parlours, two very good parlours,
indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's drawing-room; and of her
having an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and of their
having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very
pretty little Welch cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond
of it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a very handsome
summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to drink
tea:-- a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people."
For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings arose.
She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son and
son's wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared that the Mr. Martin,
who bore a part in the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation for
his great good-nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that there
was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her
poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were
not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and meaning; and
she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently
no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in
their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his
being so very good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day
in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of
them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his shepherd's son
into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of
singing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very clever, and
understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and, while she was with them,
he had been bid more for his wool than any body in the country. She believed
every body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs.
Martin had told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was
impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever
he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she wanted him to marry. She
was in no hurry at all.
"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You
know what you are about."
"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin
was so very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose
Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked
all the three teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup
with her."
"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond
the line of his own business? He does not read?"
"Oh yes!--that is,
no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good deal--but not what you would
think any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that
lay in one of the window seats--but he reads all them to himself. But sometimes
of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the
Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the Vicar of
Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the
Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is
determined to get them now as soon as ever he can."
The next question
was--
"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"
"Oh! not
handsome--not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at first, but I do not
think him so plain now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you never
see him? He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through
every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed you very often."
"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea
of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last
sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the order of
people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. A degree or two lower, and a
creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their
families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, and is,
therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below
it."
"To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have
observed him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight."
"I
have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know, indeed, that he
is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine his age to be?"
"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the
23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd."
"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly
right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she
were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years
hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his
own, with a little money, it might be very desirable."
"Six years
hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"
"Well, and
that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an
independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make--cannot be
at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his
father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all
afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and
good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have
realised any thing yet."
"To be sure, so it is. But they live very
comfortably. They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and
Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year."
"I wish you may not
get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does marry;--I mean, as to being
acquainted with his wife--for though his sisters, from a superior education, are
not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he might marry any
body at all fit for you to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make
you particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your
being a gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station by
every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people who would
take pleasure in degrading you."
"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there
are. But while I visit at Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse,
I am not afraid of what any body can do."
"You understand the force
of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in
good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want
to see you permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to
have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you should
still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you may not be drawn in
by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will
probably be some mere farmer's daughter, without education."
"To be
sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body but what had
had some education--and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set
up my opinion against your's--and I am sure I shall not wish for the
acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great regard for the Miss
Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for
they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar
woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it."
Emma
watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no alarming
symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted
there was no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty, on
Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her own.
They
met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the Donwell road. He
was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at her, looked with most
unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such an
opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward, while they talked
together, soon made her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert
Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man,
but his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with
gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's
inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed
her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin looked as
if he did not know what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes
together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then came
running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss
Woodhouse hoped very soon to compose.
"Only think of our happening to
meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone
round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this road. He thought we
walked towards Randalls most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of
the Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite
forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet!
Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do
you think him so very plain?"
"He is very plain,
undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing compared with his entire
want of gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but
I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally without air. I had
imagined him, I confess, a degree or two nearer gentility."
"To be
sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel as real
gentlemen."
"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you
have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you
must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you
have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be
surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Martin again
without perceiving him to be a very inferior creature--and rather wondering at
yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin
to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by
his awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard
to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here."
"Certainly, he is not like
Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I
see the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!"
"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to
compare Mr. Martin with him. You might not see one in a hundred with gentleman
so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you
have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr.
Martin with either of them. Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of
walking; of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference."
"Oh yes!--there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old man. Mr.
Weston must be between forty and fifty."
"Which makes his good
manners the more valuable. The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important
it is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any
loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is
detestable in later age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be
at Mr. Weston's time of life?"
"There is no saying, indeed," replied
Harriet rather solemnly.
"But there may be pretty good guessing. He
will be a completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances,
and thinking of nothing but profit and loss."
"Will he, indeed? That
will be very bad."
"How much his business engrosses him already is
very plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you
recommended. He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing
else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with
books? And I have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a very rich man in
time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb us."
"I
wonder he did not remember the book"--was all Harriet's answer, and spoken with
a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to itself.
She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning was,
"In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton's manners are superior to Mr. Knightley's or
Mr. Weston's. They have more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a
pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston,
which every body likes in him, because there is so much good-humour with it--but
that would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley's downright,
decided, commanding sort of manner, though it suits him very well; his figure,
and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to
set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a
young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model. Mr.
Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He seems to me to be
grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of
ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional softness, but it
strikes me that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means any
thing, it must be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the
other day?"
She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had
drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and
smiled, and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr.
Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young farmer out of
Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent match; and only too
palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit in
planning it. She feared it was what every body else must think of and predict.
It was not likely, however, that any body should have equalled her in the date
of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the very first evening of
Harriet's coming to Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her
sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the
gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of any
family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a
comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for though
the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known to have some independent
property; and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, well-meaning,
respectable young man, without any deficiency of useful understanding or
knowledge of the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he
thought Harriet a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings
at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be
little doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual
weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a young man
whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned very handsome; his
person much admired in general, though not by her, there being a want of
elegance of feature which she could not dispense with:--but the girl who could
be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding about the country to get walnuts for
her might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton's admiration.
CHAPTER V
"I do not
know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, of this great
intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing."
"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?-- why so?"
"I think
they will neither of them do the other any good."
"You surprize me!
Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest,
Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the
greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel!--Not think they will do each
other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels
about Emma, Mr. Knightley."
"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose
to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight
your own battle."
"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he
were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it
only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be
such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not
allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone,
that you do not know the value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good
judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after
being used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith.
She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the
other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement
to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know."
"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years
old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times of books
that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists they were--very
well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes
by some other rule. The list she drew up when only fourteen--I remember thinking
it did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare
say she may have made out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting
any course of steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing
requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the
understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely affirm that
Harriet Smith will do nothing.-- You never could persuade her to read half so
much as you wished.--You know you could not."
"I dare say," replied
Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so then;--but since we have parted, I can
never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing I wished."
"There is
hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as that,"--said Mr. Knightley,
feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. But I, he soon added, "who have
had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember.
Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had
the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at
seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And
ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all.
In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her
mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her."
"I
should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on your recommendation,
had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not
think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always
thought me unfit for the office I held."
"Yes," said he, smiling.
"You are better placed here; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a
governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time
you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your
powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from
her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and
doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I
should certainly have named Miss Taylor."
"Thank you. There will be
very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston."
"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with
every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not
despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his
son may plague him."
"I hope not that.--It is not likely. No, Mr.
Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter."
"Not I,
indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for
foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a
Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But Harriet Smith--I have not half
done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma
could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing
every thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because
undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any
thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful
inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she cannot gain by
the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other
places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable
with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much
mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a
girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.--They
only give a little polish."
"I either depend more upon Emma's good
sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot
lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!"
"Oh! you
would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not
attempt to deny Emma's being pretty."
"Pretty! say beautiful rather.
Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether-- face and
figure?"
"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I
have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a
partial old friend."
"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so
brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a
bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright
figure! There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her
glance. One hears sometimes of a child being `the picture of health;' now, Emma
always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She
is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?"
"I have not a fault
to find with her person," he replied. "I think her all you describe. I love to
look at her; and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally
vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied
with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of
my dislike of Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm."
"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not
doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent
creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer
friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any
one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is
in the right a hundred times."
"Very well; I will not plague you any
more. Emma shall be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas
brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a
blind affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not
quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their opinions
with me."
"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust
or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider
myself, you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's
mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible
good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a matter of much
discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may
be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable
to nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an
end to it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many
years my province to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley,
at this little remains of office."
"Not at all," cried he; "I am much
obliged to you for it. It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate
than your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to."
"Mrs.
John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about her sister."
"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my
ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella does not
seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so
great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder
what will become of her!"
"So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very
much."
"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course,
means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man
she cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with
a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a
return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and
she goes so seldom from home."
"There does, indeed, seem as little to
tempt her to break her resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well
be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any
attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's
account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no
slight to the state, I assure you."
Part of her meaning was to
conceal some favourite thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as
much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but
it was not desirable to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr.
Knightley soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall
we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise about
Hartfield.
CHAPTER VI
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet's fancy a
proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good
purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton's
being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners; and as she had no
hesitation in following up the assurance of his admiration by agreeable hints,
she was soon pretty confident of creating as much liking on Harriet's side, as
there could be any occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton's being in
the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no scruple
with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that she
could not suppose any thing wanting which a little time would not add. His
perception of the striking improvement of Harriet's manner, since her
introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of his
growing attachment.
"You have given Miss Smith all that she
required," said he; "you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful
creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have
added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature."
"I
am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted drawing
out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the natural grace of
sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little."
"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr.
Elton--
"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of
character, have taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way
before."
"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much
superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!"
"Great
has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition more truly
amiable."
"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of
sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased
another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have
Harriet's picture.
"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?"
said she: "did you ever sit for your picture?"
Harriet was on the
point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say, with a very interesting
naivete,
"Oh! dear, no, never."
No sooner was she out of
sight, than Emma exclaimed,
"What an exquisite possession a good
picture of her would be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to attempt
her likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I
had a great passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends,
and was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or
another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture, if Harriet
would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her picture!"
"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight! Let me
entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in favour of your
friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? Is not
this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs.
Weston some inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?"
Yes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking
likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don't pretend to be in raptures about
mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet's face. "Well, if you give me such kind
encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can do. Harriet's
features are very delicate, which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a
peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth which one
ought to catch."
"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines
about the mouth--I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As
you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite
possession."
"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to
sit. She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of
answering me? How completely it meant, `why should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But
still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."
Harriet was soon
back again, and the proposal almost immediately made; and she had no scruples
which could stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both the others.
Emma wished to go to work directly, and therefore produced the portfolio
containing her various attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been
finished, that they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many
beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil,
crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had always wanted to
do every thing, and had made more progress both in drawing and music than many
might have done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She played
and sang;--and drew in almost every style; but steadiness had always been
wanting; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence which she
would have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed of. She was not
much deceived as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was
not unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for
accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in
every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited;
but had there been much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight and
admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They were both in
ecstasies. A likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must
be capital.
"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma. "I had
only my own family to study from. There is my father--another of my father--but
the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only take
him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and
again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my kindest friend on every
occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and really
quite her own little elegant figure!--and the face not unlike. I should have
made a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a
hurry to have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here
come all my attempts at three of those four children;--there they are, Henry and
John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them
might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them drawn that I
could not refuse; but there is no making children of three or four years old
stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them,
beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser featured than any of
mama's children ever were. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I
took him as he was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his
cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his head most
conveniently. That's very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner
of the sofa is very good. Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty sketch of a
gentleman in small size, whole-length-- "my last and my best--my brother, Mr.
John Knightley. --This did not want much of being finished, when I put it away
in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could not help being
provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made a very good
likeness of it--(Mrs. Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very
like)--only too handsome--too flattering--but that was a fault on the right
side-- after all this, came poor dear Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it
was a little like--but to be sure it did not do him justice." We had had a great
deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of;
and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to
have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in
Brunswick Square;--and, as I said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body
again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no
husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my resolution now."
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and
was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you
observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives," with so interesting a
consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them
together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a
little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait.
It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was
destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over
the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and
blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a
very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But
there was no doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching
every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and
gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and
request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in
reading.
"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a
kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen
the irksomeness of Miss Smith's."
Mr. Elton was only too happy.
Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still
frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little
in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump
up and see the progress, and be charmed.--There was no being displeased with
such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before
it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his
complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very
satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day's sketch to wish
to go on. There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude,
and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a
little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of
its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined
place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the
skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable
associations as Mr. Elton's very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he
ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
"By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party."
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and
satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of
the picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but
Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that she was
addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith
has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has
them not."
"Do you think so?" replied he. "I cannot agree with you.
It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a
likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."
"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly added,
"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider,
she is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in short gives
exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions,
fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss
Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"
"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse.
"So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any
body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is,
that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold."
"But, my dear
papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree."
"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."
"You,
sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess that I regard it
as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is
touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much
less in character. The naivete of Miss Smith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it
is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness."
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a
few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order
must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be
depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be
applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea
of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December. But no sooner was the
distress known to Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on
the alert. "Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure
should he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was
impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an
errand."
"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!-- she
would not give him such a troublesome office for the world,"--brought on the
desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few minutes settled
the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the
frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to
ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful
of not being incommoded enough.
"What a precious deposit!" said he
with a tender sigh, as he received it.
"This man is almost too
gallant to be in love," thought Emma. "I should say so, but that I suppose there
may be a hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man,
and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an `Exactly so,' as he says himself;
but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I
could endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second. But
it is his gratitude on Harriet's account."
CHAPTER VII
The very day of Mr. Elton's going to
London produced a fresh occasion for Emma's services towards her friend. Harriet
had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had
gone home to return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been
talked of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something
extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a minute
brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard's,
that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at home,
nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of his
sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she had actually found,
besides the two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself;
and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal
of marriage. "Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know
what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good letter, at least
she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her very much--but she did
not know--and so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss Woodhouse what
she should do.--" Emma was half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and
so doubtful.
"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined
not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he
can."
"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Pray do. I'd rather
you would."
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was
surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were
not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have
disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected,
and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was
short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even
delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching
for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a
good letter? or is it too short?"
"Yes, indeed, a very good letter,"
replied Emma rather slowly--"so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing
considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly
imagine the young man whom I saw talking with you the other day could express
himself so well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of
a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a
woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent
for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts
naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand the sort
of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not coarse. A
better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected."
"Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--" well--and-- and what shall I do?"
"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?"
"Yes."
"But what are you in doubt of? You must
answer it of course--and speedily."
"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear
Miss Woodhouse, do advise me."
"Oh no, no! the letter had much better
be all your own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no
danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning
must be unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present
themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You need not be prompted to
write with the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment."
"You
think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.
"Ought
to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any doubt as to
that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I
certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt as to the purport
of your answer. I had imagined you were consulting me only as to the wording of
it."
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma
continued:
"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect."
"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would
you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do."
"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do
with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."
"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet, contemplating the
letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence; but beginning to
apprehend the bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she
thought it best to say,
"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet,
that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she
certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to `Yes,' she ought to say
`No' directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful
feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than
yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to influence
you."
"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you
would just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you say,
one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be hesitating--It is a very
serious thing.--It will be safer to say `No,' perhaps.--Do you think I had
better say `No?'"
"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously,
"would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge of your own
happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the
most agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate?
You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this moment under such a
definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with
by gratitude and compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?"
The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned
away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was
still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma
waited the result with impatience, but not without strong hopes. At last, with
some hesitation, Harriet said--
"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give
me your opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite
determined, and really almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you
think I am right?"
"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet;
you are doing just what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my
feelings to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no
hesitation in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have
grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the consequence of
your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said
nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it would have been the loss
of a friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill
Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever."
Harriet had not surmised her
own danger, but the idea of it struck her forcibly.
"You could not
have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast. "No, to be sure you could not; but
I never thought of that before. That would have been too dreadful!--What an
escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up the pleasure and honour of
being intimate with you for any thing in the world."
"Indeed,
Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it must have been.
You would have thrown yourself out of all good society. I must have given you
up."
"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed
me never to come to Hartfield any more!"
"Dear affectionate
creature!--You banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--You confined to the society of the
illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the
assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself."
"I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her
conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured, and I
shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard for-- but that is
quite a different thing from--and you know, though he may like me, it does not
follow that I should--and certainly I must confess that since my visiting here I
have seen people--and if one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is
no comparison at all, one is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do
really think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of
him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a letter--but as
to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration."
"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be parted. A
woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is
attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter."
"Oh no;--and it
is but a short letter too."
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend,
but let it pass with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation to her,
for the clownish manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to
know that her husband could write a good letter."
"Oh! yes, very.
Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always happy with pleasant
companions. I am quite determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? That shall
I say?"
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer,
and advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of her
assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any assistance being
wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The looking
over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a softening tendency, that it
was particularly necessary to brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and
she was so very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so
much of what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that
they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man had
come in her way at that moment, he would have been accepted after all.
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business
was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but Emma
could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of
her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of Mr. Elton.
"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a
sorrowful tone.
"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with
you, my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to
Abbey-Mill."
"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am
never happy but at Hartfield."
Some time afterwards it was, "I think
Mrs. Goddard would be very much surprized if she knew what had happened. I am
sure Miss Nash would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and
it is only a linen-draper."
"One should be sorry to see greater pride
or refinement in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would
envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would
appear valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is
quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the
tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are the only people to
whom his looks and manners have explained themselves."
Harriet
blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that people should like
her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a
time, she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.
"Now he has got my letter," said she softly. "I wonder what they are all
doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I
hope he will not mind it so very much."
"Let us think of those among
our absent friends who are more cheerfully employed," cried Emma. "At this
moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother and sisters,
telling how much more beautiful is the original, and after being asked for it
five or six times, allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name."
"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street."
"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest
Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till just before
he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace,
his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you among them,
it diffuses through the party those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager
curiosity and warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious,
how busy their imaginations all are!"
Harriet smiled again, and her
smiles grew stronger.
CHAPTER VIII
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she
had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a
bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect,
safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present.
She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but
it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular
visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat
some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously
made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and
was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own
civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had
nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided answers, an
amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other.
"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will
not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and go
out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my
three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We
invalids think we are privileged people."
"My dear sir, do not make a
stranger of me."
"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter.
Emma will be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your
excuse and take my three turns--my winter walk."
"You cannot do
better, sir."
"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr.
Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you;
and, besides, you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey."
"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I
think the sooner you go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the
garden door for you."
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr.
Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly
inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with
more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.
"I cannot rate
her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a pretty little creature, and I am
inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her character depends upon those
she is with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable woman."
"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be wanting."
"Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell
you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle;
she really does you credit."
"Thank you. I should be mortified indeed
if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will
bestow praise where they may. You do not often overpower me with it."
"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"
"Almost every
moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended."
"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps."
"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!"
"Harriet may not consider
every body tiresome that you would."
Emma knew this was too true for
contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,
"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that
I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to
her advantage."
"Indeed! how so? of what sort?"
"A very
serious sort, I assure you;" still smiling.
"Very serious! I can
think of but one thing--Who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant?"
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton
looked up to him.
"I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet
Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable
quarter:--Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems
to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her."
"He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means
to marry him?"
"Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will
that do? He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about
it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I
believe, considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I
thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought her
too young: in short, whether I approved his choice altogether; having some
apprehension perhaps of her being considered (especially since your making so
much of her) as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all
that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He
always speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He
told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed
doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son
and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that
he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do
better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If
he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me
then; and, I dare say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor
man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly
suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and
as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he
should be at Mrs. Goddard's to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor,
without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch."
"Pray, Mr.
Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself through a great part of
this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?"
"Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but
it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?"
"Come," said
she, "I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did
speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was refused."
This was
obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Knightley actually
looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation,
and said,
"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.
What is the foolish girl about?"
"Oh! to be sure," cried Emma, "it is
always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of
marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her."
"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the
meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is so; but I
hope you are mistaken."
"I saw her answer!--nothing could be
clearer."
"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this
is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him."
"And if I did,
(which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not feel that I had done
wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be
Harriet's equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to
address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a
pity that they were ever got over."
"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed
Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments
afterwards, "No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in
sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What
are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any
connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of nobody knows
whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable
relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a
sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing
useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At
her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely
ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered,
and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as
being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to
fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as to a rational
companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could not reason so
to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her
having that sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily
led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all
on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there would be
a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I made sure
of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friend's
leaving Highbury, for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying
to myself, `Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a
good match.'"
"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of
Emma as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and
all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate friend!
Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could
never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you should think it possible
for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think
your statement by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet's claims. They
would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may
be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in
society.--The sphere in which she moves is much above his.--It would be a
degradation."
"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be
married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!"
"As to the
circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be called Nobody, it
will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others, by
being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up.--There can
scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman--and a gentleman of
fortune.--Her allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her
improvement or comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to
me; that she associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend, will
deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."
"Whoever might be her
parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have had the charge of her, it does
not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you
would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education she is
left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs.
Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently
thought this good enough for her; and it was good enough. She desired nothing
better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no
distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as
possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then.
If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith,
Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt
persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much
real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to
conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had
encouragement."
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct
reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject
again.
"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said
before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so
contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better
sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding
spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be,
as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in the
degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to the world in
general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by
ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more
philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they
do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with
such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired and sought after,
of having the power of chusing from among many, consequently a claim to be nice.
Her good-nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does,
real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself,
and a great readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken
if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest
claims a woman could possess."
"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you
abusing the reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be
without sense, than misapply it as you do."
"To be sure!" cried she
playfully. "I know that is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as
Harriet is exactly what every man delights in--what at once bewitches his senses
and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself,
ever to marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just
entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she
does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let her have time to look
about her."
"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said
Mr. Knightley presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now
perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her
up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in a
little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity
working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for
a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find
offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of
sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family
would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity--
and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they
might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let
her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but
if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied
with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a
parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life--or, at least, (for
Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow
desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master's son."
"We
think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there can be no use
in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more angry. But as to my
letting her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him, and so
decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application. She must abide by
the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal
itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I
assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His appearance is
so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to
favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen any body
superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took
pains to please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have
been his great assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him
disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and
nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet."
"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!" cried Mr.
Knightley.--"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to
recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could
understand."
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully
unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to
be gone. She did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a
better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;
but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which
made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him sitting just
opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in
this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the
weather, but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts
appeared at last in these words.
"Robert Martin has no great loss--if
he can but think so; and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views
for Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love
of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you
have;--and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I
think it will be all labour in vain."
Emma laughed and disclaimed. He
continued,
"Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good
sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to
make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any
body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well
acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's. He knows that he
is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from
his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men
present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have
heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his
sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece."
"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again. "If I had
set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to
open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done
with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls.
I shall leave off while I am well."
"Good morning to you,"--said he,
rising and walking off abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the
disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of
promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded
Emma had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
Emma
remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more indistinctness in the
causes of her's, than in his. She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied
with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her
adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete
self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materially cast down,
however, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate
restoratives. Harriet's staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy.
The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and
meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread
of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet
appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason to give
for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own
mind, and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she
had done nothing which woman's friendship and woman's feelings would not
justify.
He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she
considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done,
neither with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of
Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on such a
question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able to
believe, that he had rather said what he wished resentfully to be true, than
what he knew any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with
more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an
imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be
rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make
due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested
motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its
effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any
hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than a
reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr.
Elton.
Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came
back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been
telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr.
Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen
him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from
Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr.
Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the
morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to
miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how
shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much
to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr.
Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a very particular way
indeed, that he was going on business which he would not put off for any
inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and
being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite
understand him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case, and he
told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off
in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal
more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, "that she
did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that
any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in
the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or
agreeableness."
CHAPTER IX
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not
quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual
before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks
shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the
contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to
her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The Picture,
elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being
hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it,
and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for
Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and
steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon
perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he
furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of
useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first
chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat
than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at
Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise
it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at
present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was
the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could
meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and
ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such
collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at
Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had
taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a
great many more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as
Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the
first order, in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as
much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect
something worth their putting in. "So many clever riddles as there used to be
when he was young-- he wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he
should in time." And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did
not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had desired Perry
to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something, he thought, might
come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that
the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton
was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any
really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she
had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections; and
at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing
ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his
lips. They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and
exultation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited,
that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote, Which my
second is destin'd to feel And my whole is the best antidote That affliction to
soften and heal.--
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had
transcribed it some pages ago already.
"Why will not you write one
yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she; "that is the only security for its
freshness; and nothing could be easier to you."
"Oh no! he had never
written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow!
He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he stopt a moment-- "or Miss Smith could
inspire him."
The very next day however produced some proof of
inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the
table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to
a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was
immediately convinced must be his own.
"I do not offer it for Miss
Smith's collection," said he. "Being my friend's, I have no right to expose it
in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to
meet her eye than her friend's. He was gone the next moment:--after another
moment's pause,
"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper
towards Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was in a
tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to
examine it herself.
To Miss--
CHARADE.
My first
displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth! their luxury and
ease. Another view of man, my second brings, Behold him there, the monarch of
the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have! Man's boasted power
and freedom, all are flown; Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And
woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Thy ready wit the word will soon
supply, May its approval beam in that soft eye!
She cast her eye over
it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again to be quite certain, and
quite mistress of the lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily
smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all
the confusion of hope and dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I
have read worse charades. Courtship--a very good hint. I give you credit for it.
This is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly-- `Pray, Miss Smith, give
me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my intentions in the
same glance.'
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets, the justest
that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much
in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the
benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life you
would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade indeed! and very
much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now."
She was
obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise
of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of Harriet's wondering
questions.
"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have
not an idea--I cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to
find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it
kingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young lady. Do you
think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
And woman, lovely woman,
reigns alone.
Can it be Neptune?
Behold him there, the
monarch of the seas!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no!
shark is only one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought
it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"
"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where
would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or
a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ----------, read Miss
Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the
earth! their luxury and ease.
That is court.
Another view
of man, my second brings; Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is ship;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.
But ah!
united, (courtship, you know,) what reverse we have! Man's boasted power and
freedom, all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, And woman,
lovely woman, reigns alone.
A very proper compliment!--and then
follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much
difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no
doubt of its being written for you and to you."
Harriet could not
long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the concluding lines, and was
all flutter and happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak.
It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.
"There is so
pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment," said she, "that I
cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You are his object-- and you
will soon receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I thought
I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as
clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.
Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen
what has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr.
Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility
have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear
Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel
pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing but good. It will
give you every thing that you want--consideration, independence, a proper
home--it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield
and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance
which can never raise a blush in either of us."
"Dear Miss
Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet, with many tender
embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more
like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt,
anticipated, and remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very
ample acknowledgment.
"Whatever you say is always right," cried
Harriet, "and therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but
otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I
deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about
him. He is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses--"To Miss
--------." Dear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?"
"I
cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a certainty.
Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the
chapter; and will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose."
"It is a
sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a month ago, I had no
more idea myself!--The strangest things do take place!"
"When Miss
Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and really it is strange;
it is out of the common course that what is so evidently, so palpably
desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of other people, should so
immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. Elton are by
situation called together; you belong to one another by every circumstance of
your respective homes. Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls.
There does seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love
exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought
to flow.
The course of true love never did run smooth--
A
Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage."
"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like
Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body says he need not eat
a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations
than there are days in the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has
put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear
me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!-- The
two Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we
heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look
through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look too,
which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was
arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole."
"This is an alliance which,
whoever--whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at
least they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing our conduct to
fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose
amiable character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled
in the same country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it
will be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the common
phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable
establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them."
"Yes,
very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You understand every thing.
You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the other. This charade!--If I had
studied a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it."
"I
thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it yesterday."
"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."
"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."
"It is
as long again as almost all we have had before."
"I do not consider
its length as particularly in its favour. Such things in general cannot be too
short."
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most
satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.
"It is one thing,"
said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have very good sense in a common
way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and
write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to
write verses and charades like this."
Emma could not have desired a
more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose.
"Such sweet lines!"
continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall I ever be able to return the
paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about
that?"
"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening,
I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall chuse
their own time for beaming. Trust to me."
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a
pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have
not got one half so good."
"Leave out the two last lines, and there
is no reason why you should not write it into your book."
"Oh! but
those two lines are"--
--"The best of all. Granted;--for private
enjoyment; and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less
written you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor
does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a
very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he
would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A
poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the
book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on
you."
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the
parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of
publicity.
"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said
she.
"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the
longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming:
you will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so
much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that
pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us
all!-- You must let me read it to him."
Harriet looked grave.
"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this
charade.--You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and
too quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which
may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of
admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper
while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let
us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed,
without our sighing out our souls over this charade."
"Oh! no--I hope
I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please."
Mr. Woodhouse
came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the recurrence of his very
frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does your book go on?--Have you got any
thing fresh?"
"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something
quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we
suppose, by a fairy)-- containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
it in."
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read,
slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
part as she proceeded-- and he was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen,
especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.
"Aye, that's
very just, indeed, that's very properly said. Very true. `Woman, lovely woman.'
It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought
it.-- Nobody could have written so prettily, but you, Emma."
Emma
only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very tender sigh, he
added,
"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear
mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have heard me
mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, Kindled a flame I yet deplore, The
hood-wink'd boy I called to aid, Though of his near approach afraid, So fatal to
my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is
very clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."
"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from
the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know."
"Aye, very
true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen
maid.
The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near
being christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here
next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her--and what room
there will be for the children?"
"Oh! yes--she will have her own
room, of course; the room she always has;--and there is the nursery for the
children,--just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change?"
"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not since last
Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's being a lawyer is
very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly taken away from us all!--and
how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!"
"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."
"I do not know, my dear.
I am sure I was very much surprized when I first heard she was going to be
married."
"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while
Isabella is here."
"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very
depressed tone)--she is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any
thing."
"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems
a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and
we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they
can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the
Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas-- though you
know it is longer since they were with him, than with us."
"It would
be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be anywhere but at
Hartfield."
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's
claims on his brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat
musing a little while, and then said,
"But I do not see why poor
Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I
shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might
stay very well."
"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to
accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay
behind her husband."
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome
as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his
spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she
immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and
sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are very
proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the
handsomest, Henry or John?"
"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor
little dears, how glad they will be to come. They are very fond of being at
Hartfield, Harriet."
"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not
know who is not."
"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his
mama. Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John,
the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe,
that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I
thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all
remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand
by my chair, and say, `Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?' and once
Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas.
I think their father is too rough with them very often."
"He appears
rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle yourself; but if you
could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his
boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word
now and then; but he is an affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is
an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him."
"And then
their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful
way!"
"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It
is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of
their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other."
"Well, I cannot understand it."
"That is the case with us
all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other."
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in
preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable
charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with
the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of
having made a push--of having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see
how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr.
Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he
should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing
else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about
his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he had promised him
conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his
disappointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He
re-urged --she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when
taking the paper from the table, she returned it--
"Oh! here is the
charade you were so obliging as to leave with us; thank you for the sight of it.
We admired it so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's
collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not
transcribed beyond the first eight lines."
Mr. Elton certainly did
not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused;
said something about "honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing
the book open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With
the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
"You
must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must not be
confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he
writes with such gallantry."
"I have no hesitation in saying,"
replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; "I have no
hesitation in saying--at least if my friend feels at all as I do--I have not the
smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as I see it,
(looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it
as the proudest moment of his life."
After this speech he was gone as
soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good and
agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very
apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving
the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.
CHAPTER X
Though
now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young
ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable
visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the
place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few
inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter of a mile
down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close
to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very
much smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be
no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and
observing eyes.--Emma's remark was--
"There it is. There go you and
your riddle-book one of these days."-- Harriet's was--
"Oh, what a
sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash
admires so much."
"I do not often walk this way now," said Emma, as
they proceeded, "but then there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get
intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this
part of Highbury."
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been
within side the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that,
considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of
love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.
"I wish we could
contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any tolerable pretence for going
in;--no servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from
my father."
She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual
silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again-- "I do so wonder, Miss
Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married! so charming
as you are!"--
Emma laughed, and replied,
"My being
charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other
people charming--one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be
married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all."
"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it."
"I must see
somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you
know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do not wish to see
any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the
better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it."
"Dear
me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"--
"I have none of the
usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be
a different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my
nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I should
be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment
I do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half
as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never
could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always
right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."
"But then, to be an
old maid at last, like Miss Bates!"
"That is as formidable an image
as you could present, Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss
Bates! so silly--so satisfied-- so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and
unfastidious-- and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I
would marry to-morrow. But between us, I am convinced there never can be any
likeness, except in being unmarried."
"But still, you will be an old
maid! and that's so dreadful!"
"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a
poor old maid; and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a
generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a
ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a
single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and
pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the
candour and common sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow
income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can
barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior,
society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss
Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general,
she is very much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor.
Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had only
a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it;
and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm."
"Dear me! but
what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you grow old?"
"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many
independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of
employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman's usual occupations of
hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now; or with no important
variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take
to carpet-work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections,
which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really
the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all
the children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be enough of
them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life
can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my
attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort
better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!--I shall often
have a niece with me."
"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I
know you must have seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"
"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury.
By the bye, that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven
forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the
Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very
name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her
compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she does but send
her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her
grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very
well; but she tires me to death."
They were now approaching the
cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and
the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention
and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood
their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no
romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had
done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave
her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance,
it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; and after
remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the
cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they
walked away,
"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How
trifling they make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of
nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say
how soon it may all vanish from my mind?"
"Very true," said Harriet.
"Poor creatures! one can think of nothing else."
"And really, I do
not think the impression will soon be over," said Emma, as she crossed the low
hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the
cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will,"
stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and
recall the still greater within.
"Oh! dear, no," said her companion.
They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was
passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma time
only to say farther,
"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of
our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that
if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all
that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can
for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves."
Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined them.
The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on
meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer; but
they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done.
Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.
"To fall in with each
other on such an errand as this," thought Emma; "to meet in a charitable scheme;
this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it
were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were
anywhere else."
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she
could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised
on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not
been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and
imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would both be soon
after her. This would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of having
some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in
complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk
on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by
the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the
comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the
cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from
Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk to and question her, was
the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had
she been acting just then without design; and by this means the others were
still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained
on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather
slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a
conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation,
Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child
on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both
looked around, and she was obliged to join them.
Mr. Elton was still
talking, still engaged in some interesting detail; and Emma experienced some
disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an
account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in
herself for the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery,
the beet-root, and all the dessert.
"This would soon have led to
something better, of course," was her consoling reflection; "any thing interests
between those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near
the heart. If I could but have kept longer away!"
They now walked on
together quietly, till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden
resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find
something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once
more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a
ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her
inability to put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable
comfort.
"Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how
I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I
hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your
house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing
just to keep my boot on."
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this
proposition; and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting
them into his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage.
The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking
forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door
between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive
her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door
ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It
was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper
in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his
own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but
herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished,
and make her appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of
the windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt
the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come
to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet
that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them; other little
gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.
"Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and will
hazard nothing till he believes himself secure."
Still, however,
though every thing had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could
not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment
to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.
CHAPTER XI
Mr. Elton
must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his
happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very
near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became
henceforth her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay
at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect-- that any
thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the
lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance
somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more
leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they
will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been
longer than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than
the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had
been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this
autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many
months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or
seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London,
even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and
apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.
He thought
much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of
his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the party the last half of
the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being happily
accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a
competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle
and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and
variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his
nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer
even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so
respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the
immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the
liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,
which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children
were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in
any restless attendance on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty,
elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably
amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating
mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these
higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a
fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any
quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of
his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her
children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr.
Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a
general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old
acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very
clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private
character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally
pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an
ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach;
but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a
worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should
not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all
the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act
an ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite
with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in
feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself.
Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to
Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend,
without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her
eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards
her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a
rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often
happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law,
and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for
Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently
to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every
visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so
short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been
long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head
and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since
she had been there last.
"Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss
Taylor--It is a grievous business."
"Oh yes, sir," cried she with
ready sympathy, "how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful
loss to you both!-- I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you
could possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is
pretty well, sir."
"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do
not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably."
Mr. John
Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of
Randalls.
"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better
in my life-- never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret."
"Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply.
"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone
which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so
often, my dear, as I could wish."
"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing
them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of
every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and
generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella,
most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is
really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will
be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss
Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves
anticipated--which is the exact truth."
"Just as it should be," said
Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of
shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and
social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I
had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you
apprehended; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."
"Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny
that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often-- but
then--she is always obliged to go away again."
"It would be very hard
upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.-- You quite forget poor Mr. Weston."
"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston
has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the
poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the
man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been
married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside
as much as she can."
"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and
understanding only in part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought
to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not
been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of
Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting
Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not
deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall
never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last
Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in
writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a
more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him,
it must be Miss Taylor."
"Where is the young man?" said John
Knightley. "Has he been here on this occasion--or has he not?"
"He
has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong expectation of his
coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard
him mentioned lately."
"But you should tell them of the letter, my
dear," said her father. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate
her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought
it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--"
"My dear
papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes."
"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it-- and he
was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly
indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty
letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was
written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th--and began, `My dear Madam,' but I
forget how it went on; and it was signed `F. C. Weston Churchill.'-- I remember
that perfectly."
"How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the
good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable
young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father!
There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents
and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him.
To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed
such a thing to any body else."
"Nobody ever did think well of the
Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not
imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John.
Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong
feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow
or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his
comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with
his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that
home affords."
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on
Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it
pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable
and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common
rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important.--It had a high
claim to forbearance.
CHAPTER
XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the
inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with
him in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it; and
besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular
pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley
and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they
might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making-up
indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never
own that he had. Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to
appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather
assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had
one of the children with her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight
months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to
be danced about in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with
grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the
usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness
of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help
saying, as he was admiring the baby,
"What a comfort it is, that we
think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are
sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never
disagree."
"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of
men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings
with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think
alike."
"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my
being in the wrong."
"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good. I was
sixteen years old when you were born."
"A material difference then,"
she replied--"and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period
of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our
understandings a good deal nearer?"
"Yes--a good deal nearer."
"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently."
"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen
years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child.
Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt,
little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old
grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."
"That's true," she cried--"very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than
your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley,
a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were
both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet
proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly
disappointed."
"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.
"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made
his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?" and "John, how are you?" succeeded in
the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but
indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if
requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.
The evening
was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake
of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two
natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr.
Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma
only occasionally joining in one or the other.
The brothers talked of
their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose
temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater
talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John
about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping
in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear
next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being
interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his
life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a
fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat,
turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by
John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever
left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of
eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse
was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his
daughter.
"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand,
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five
children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired
you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I
recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin
of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel."
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr.
Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins
only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some
wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to
say, with an air of grave reflection,
"It was an awkward business, my
dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had
much opinion of the sea air."
"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously
recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the
children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,-- both sea
air and bathing."
"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the
sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced,
though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to
any body. I am sure it almost killed me once."
"Come, come," cried
Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the
sea. It makes me envious and miserable;-- I who have never seen it! South End is
prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one
inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you."
"Oh! good Mr.
Perry--how is he, sir?"
"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor
Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he
has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted
all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere.
But then there is not so clever a man any where."
"And Mrs. Perry and
the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr.
Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little
ones."
"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or
two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he
comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."
"Oh! my
dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about
it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be
attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been
applying at times ever since August."
"It is not very likely, my
dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were
wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--
"You seem to me to
have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry
after them."
"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but
you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old
Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are
always so pleased to see my children.-- And that excellent Miss Bates!--such
thorough worthy people!-- How are they, sir?"
"Why, pretty well, my
dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago."
"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or
heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."
"That has been a
good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that
colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them
in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season."
"No,
I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except--
"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly
season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to
have you forced to live there! so far off!-- and the air so bad!"
"No, indeed--we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior
to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir.
The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the
rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other
part of the town;-- there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have
my children in: but we are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the
vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."
"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it-- but
after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures;
you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you
looking well at present."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I
assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I
am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the
children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were
a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming.
I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr.
Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether,
in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley
looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John
Knightley very far from looking well."
"What is the matter, sir?--Did
you speak to me?" cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
"I
am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I
hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as
you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home."
"My
dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern yourself about my
looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and
let me look as I chuse."
"I did not thoroughly understand what you
were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's
intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What
will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?"
And she
talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her
attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than
Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great
favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in
praising.
"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John
Knightley.-- "It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a
moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always regret
excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but now
their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able
to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma."
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
"Our little
friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person.
You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet."
"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."
This topic
was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed
away with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little return
of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said--much praise
and many comments-- undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every
constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was
never met with tolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the
daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in
her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been
able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not
too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to
get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.
"Ah!" said Mr.
Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern.--The
ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah! there is no end of the sad
consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of." And for a
little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination
might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an
interval of some minutes, however, he began with,
"I shall always be
very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here."
"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children
a great deal of good."
"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it
had better not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry
was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End."
"I know there is
such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir.--We all
had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from
the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place
unhealthy; and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands
the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there
repeatedly."
"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went
anywhere.-- Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of
all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by
what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea--a
quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry."
"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how
great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty."
"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to chuse
between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all, better stay in
London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just
what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure."
Emma's
attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had reached such a point
as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's breaking out.
"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would do as well
to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it any business of
his, to wonder at what I do?-- at my taking my family to one part of the coast
or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr.
Perry.-- I want his directions no more than his drugs." He paused-- and growing
cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell
me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty
miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I
should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself."
"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--
"very true. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling
you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right
that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty.
I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the
Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path. .
. . The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall
see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over,
and you shall give me your opinion."
Mr. Woodhouse was rather
agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact,
though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and
expressions;-- but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed
the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better
recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
CHAPTER XIII
There
could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in
this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old
acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every
evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that
the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;--perfect, in being
much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with
friends than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the
house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if
he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at
Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head; it
hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that
they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the only
persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as well as the
numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in every
thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great
event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been
spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a
cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma
could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day,
and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish
and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr.
Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the
authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could
not speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long
as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise
her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew
her state; and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence
of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.
She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by
Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly
together in conversation about the invalid-- of whom he, on the rumour of
considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report
of her to Hartfield-- they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from
the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing
faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick
despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They
joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of
her friend's complaint;-- "a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of
heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.
Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed
her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed,
"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as
well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry
see her?"
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself,
tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's
experience and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which
she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than
not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,
"It is
so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it
were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go
out to-day--and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made up his
mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as
I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon
my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear
to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and
what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common
prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night."
Mr.
Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make; which was
exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair
lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's, he had not really the least
inclination to give up the visit;-- but Emma, too eager and busy in her own
previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear
vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being
"very cold, certainly very cold," and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated
him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet
every hour of the evening.
"You do quite right," said she;--"we will
make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston."
But hardly had she so
spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage,
if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting
the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to
go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this
moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
he next looked at her.
"Well," said she to herself, "this is most
strange!--After I had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and
leave Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in
many men, especially single men, such an inclination-- such a passion for dining
out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their
employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing gives way to
it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing
young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he cannot
refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange
thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for
her."
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but
do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her
that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last
thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped
to be able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a
way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.
After a
few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with--
"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can
be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature
works."
"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but
where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a
great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have
the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper and
good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value."
"Yes," said Mr. John
Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems to have a great deal of
good-will towards you."
"Me!" she replied with a smile of
astonishment, "are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object?"
"Such
an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never occurred to you
before, you may as well take it into consideration now."
"Mr. Elton
in love with me!--What an idea!"
"I do not say it is so; but you will
do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour
accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma.
You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to
do."
"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton
and I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial
knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to
judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well pleased with her brother
for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that
in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from
it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own
carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the
others; too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to
afford at Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it.
The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in
motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the
appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a
very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her
companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in
such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were
disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he
anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and
the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his
discontent.
"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of
himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a
day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most
agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest
absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!-- The folly of not allowing people
to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying comfortably at
home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any
call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;--and here are we,
probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily,
without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man, in every
thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all
under shelter that he can;-- here are we setting forward to spend five dull
hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in
dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and four servants
taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder
rooms and worse company than they might have had at home."
Emma did
not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the
habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my love," which must have been
usually administered by his travelling companion; but she had resolution enough
to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not be complying, she
dreaded being quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him
to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening her
lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and
Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought
with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and
cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began
to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had
reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the
same-- not better." "My report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was
not so pleasant as I had hoped--`Not better' was my answer."
His face
lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered.
"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I
returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means
better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned-- I had flattered myself
that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew had been given her in the
morning."
Emma smiled and answered--"My visit was of use to the
nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore
throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you
probably heard."
"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--"
"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow morning will
bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel
uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!"
"Dreadful!--Exactly
so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment."
This was very proper;
the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable; but it should have lasted
longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to
speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for
carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold with such
precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's
carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that
not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of
no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know
nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see."
"Yes," said John
Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of it."
"Christmas
weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may
think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party,
which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have
ventured had there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no
consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas
every body invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the
worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing
could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that
very day se'nnight."
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not
comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly,
"I cannot wish to be
snowed up a week at Randalls."
At another time Emma might have been
amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other
feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in
the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;-- Mrs. Weston indeed
is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so
fond of society;-- it will be a small party, but where small parties are select,
they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not
accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under
such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree
with me, (turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your
approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties
of London, may not quite enter into our feelings."
"I know nothing of
the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with any body."
"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had been so
great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all
this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment."
"My
first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through the sweep-gate,
"will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again."
CHAPTER XIV
Some change of countenance was
necessary for each gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston's
drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley
disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more,
to fit them for the place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew
herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the
Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to
whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of
being always interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs,
arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could
tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and
half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on which
the daily happiness of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications
of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit
might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but
the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to
Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities,
or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the
history of it, besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of
Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his satisfaction
that James should come and see his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs.
Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able
to turn away and welcome her dear Emma.
Emma's project of forgetting
Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken
their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his
strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at
her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice,
and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him,
his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of "Can
it really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be
beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?--Absurd and
insufferable!"-- Yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would
be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at
last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge
as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to
preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for
Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even
positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense,
which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr.
Weston was giving some information about his son; she heard the words "my son,"
and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several times over; and, from a few other
half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from
his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely
past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there
was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always
interested her. She had frequently thought--especially since his father's
marriage with Miss Taylor--that if she were to marry, he was the very person to
suit her in age, character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between
the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match
that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think
of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by
him, or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed more replete
with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see
him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a
certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in
their friends' imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton's
civilities were dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very
polite, while feeling very cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit
could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or
the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;-- for when
happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made
use of the very first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first
leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to her,
"We want only two
more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here,--your
pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and then I should say we were
quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the others in the
drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I had a letter from him this morning,
and he will be with us within a fortnight."
Emma spoke with a very
proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank
Churchill and Miss Smith making their party quite complete.
"He has
been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since September: every
letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to
please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) are sometimes to be
pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him
here about the second week in January."
"What a very great pleasure
it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that
she must be almost as happy as yourself."
"Yes, she would be, but
that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his
coming so much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as I do. The
case, you see, is--(but this is quite between ourselves: I did not mention a
syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you
know)--The case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at
Enscombe in January; and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off.
If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a
family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular
dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or
three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point. I have not the
smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the
middle of January, as I am of being here myself: but your good friend there
(nodding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and
has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their
effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing."
"I am sorry
there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied Emma; "but am
disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think
so too; for you know Enscombe."
"Yes--I have some right to that
knowledge; though I have never been at the place in my life.--She is an odd
woman!--But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I
do believe her to be very fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of
being fond of any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in
her way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing to be
as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should
excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any body else, she
has no more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil of a temper."
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs.
Weston, very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--
yet observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.-- Mrs.
Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be secure of
undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of: "for I cannot
depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much
afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been telling
you exactly how the matter stands?"
"Yes--it seems to depend upon
nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most
certain thing in the world."
"My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling,
"what is the certainty of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been
attending before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no
means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in short, upon
her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on the truth. Mrs.
Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming
now, depends upon her being willing to spare him."
"Oh, Mrs.
Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella: "and I am sure I
never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be
constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful. It is what we
happily have never known any thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a
blessing, that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy
she would have made them!"
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs.
Weston. She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a
degree of unreserve which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really
believed, would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own imagination
had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was
nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the
drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement that he could
not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did
he move to those with whom he was always comfortable.
While he talked
to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of saying,
"And so
you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means certain. I am sorry
for it. The introduction must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the
sooner it could be over, the better."
"Yes; and every delay makes one
more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are
put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I
cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a
great wish on the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They
are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no
dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."
"He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days, he ought
to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to
do as much as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad hands, may be teazed,
and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with; but one cannot
comprehend a young man's being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend
a week with his father, if he likes it."
"One ought to be at
Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before one decides upon what he can
do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in
judging of the conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I
believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules: she is so very
unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her."
"But she is so fond
of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now, according to my idea of
Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice for
the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises
incessant caprice towards him, she should frequently be governed by the nephew,
to whom she owes nothing at all."
"My dearest Emma, do not pretend,
with your sweet temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it:
you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times,
considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him to know
beforehand when it will be."
Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I
shall not be satisfied, unless he comes."
"He may have a great deal
of influence on some points," continued Mrs. Weston, "and on others, very
little: and among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely,
may be this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us."
CHAPTER XV
Mr.
Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea he was quite
ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions could do, to
entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other
gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early
separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an
augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them
immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by
the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making
Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend-- her
fair, lovely, amiable friend. "Did she know?--had she heard any thing about her,
since their being at Randalls?-- he felt much anxiety--he must confess that the
nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably." And in this style he talked
on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer, but altogether
sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in
charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed
all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her
account, than on Harriet's--more anxious that she should escape the infection,
than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great
earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again, for
the present--to entreat her to promise him not to venture into such hazard till
he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it
off and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an
end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear--there was
no concealing it--exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead
of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and
she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore
her assistance, "Would not she give him her support?--would not she add her
persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it
were certain that Miss Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be
satisfied without a promise-- would not she give him her influence in procuring
it?"
"So scrupulous for others," he continued, "and yet so careless
for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and yet
will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat
herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?--Judge between us. Have not I some right to
complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid."
Emma saw Mrs.
Weston's surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an address which, in words
and manner, was assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as
for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to have the power of
directly saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look; but it
was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the
sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly
did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from
examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information of the ground
being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting
wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:
"This will prove
a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir. Something new for your
coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow."
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else had
something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized, and had some
question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried earnestly
to cheer him and turn his attention from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his
triumph rather unfeelingly.
"I admired your resolution very much,
sir," said he, "in venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there
would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired
your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's
snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is
blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at
hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight."
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known
it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr.
Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there
being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that
was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road
might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and
with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every
body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,
every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the
consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.
"What
is to be done, my dear Emma?--what is to be done?" was Mr. Woodhouse's first
exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for
comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of
the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them,
revived him a little.
His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his
own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at
Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just
passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was
eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls,
while she and her husband set forward instantly through all the possible
accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.
"You had better
order the carriage directly, my love," said she; "I dare say we shall be able to
get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I
can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the
way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the
sort of thing that gives me cold."
"Indeed!" replied he. "Then, my
dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in
general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!--you are prettily shod for
walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses."
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs. Weston
could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely
give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were still
discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately
after his brother's first report of the snow, came back again, and told them
that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there not being
the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either
now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep-- some way along the Highbury
road--the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep--in many places hardly enough
to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds
were parting, and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen
the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately
set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the
alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit of any comfort
for him while he continued at Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no
present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it
was safe to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,
Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus--
"Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?"
"I am ready, if
the others are."
"Shall I ring the bell?"
"Yes, do."
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes
more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own
house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness
when this visit of hardship were over.
The carriage came: and Mr.
Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to
his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either could say could
prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually
fallen, and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for.
"He was afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella
would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did
not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could;"
and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the
other carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley,
forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very
naturally; so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second
carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that
they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of
a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of
this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters
of a mile would have seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not
happened. She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston's good wine,
and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
To restrain
him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was immediately preparing to
speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the night; but
scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined the
other carriage, than she found her subject cut up--her hand seized--her
attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing
himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already
well known, hoping--fearing--adoring--ready to die if she refused him; but
flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled
passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved
on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without
scruple--without apology-- without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the
lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him; but
vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the
moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that
half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might
belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and
the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she
replied,
"I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me! you
forget yourself-- you take me for my friend--any message to Miss Smith I shall
be happy to deliver; but no more of this to me, if you please."
"Miss
Smith!--message to Miss Smith!--What could she possibly mean!"-- And he repeated
her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement,
that she could not help replying with quickness,
"Mr. Elton, this is
the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account for it only in one way; you
are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a
manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget
it."
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits,
not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and
having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly
touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,-- but acknowledging his
wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,--he resumed the subject of
his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
As she
thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy and
presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,
"It is
impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too clear. Mr.
Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express. After such
behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith--such
attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing--to be addressing me
in this manner--this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had not
supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being
the object of such professions."
"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Elton,
"what can be the meaning of this?-- Miss Smith!--I never thought of Miss Smith
in the whole course of my existence--never paid her any attentions, but as your
friend: never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she
has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very
sorry--extremely sorry--But, Miss Smith, indeed!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can
think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is
no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against
having paid the smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said
or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my
adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!--(in an
accent meant to be insinuating)--I am sure you have seen and understood me."
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this-- which
of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely
overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence being
ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her
hand again, as he joyously exclaimed--
"Charming Miss Woodhouse!
allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long
understood me."
"No, sir," cried Emma, "it confesses no such thing.
So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error
with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that
you should have been giving way to any feelings-- Nothing could be farther from
my wishes--your attachment to my friend Harriet--your pursuit of her, (pursuit,
it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you
success: but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I
should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits so frequent.
Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to
Miss Smith?--that you have never thought seriously of her?"
"Never,
madam," cried he, affronted in his turn: "never, I assure you. I think seriously
of Miss Smith!--Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to
see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are
men who might not object to--Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am
not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal
alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!-- No, madam, my visits to
Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement I received--"
"Encouragement!--I give you encouragement!--Sir, you have been
entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my
friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where
it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a
misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of
the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the
disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts
of matrimony at present."
He was too angry to say another word; her
manner too decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling
resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few
minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace.
If there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate
awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little
zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage
Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his
house; and he was out before another syllable passed.--Emma then felt it
indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly
and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then
conveyed to Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost
delight, by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary
drive from Vicarage Lane--turning a corner which he could never bear to think
of-- and in strange hands--a mere common coachman--no James; and there it seemed
as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John
Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention; and so
particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem--if not quite
ready to join him in a basin of gruel--perfectly sensible of its being
exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all
their little party, except herself.--But her mind had never been in such
perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and
cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet
reflection.
CHAPTER
XVI
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat
down to think and be miserable.--It was a wretched business indeed!--Such an
overthrow of every thing she had been wishing for!--Such a development of every
thing most unwelcome!--Such a blow for Harriet!--that was the worst of all.
Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but,
compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she would gladly have
submitted to feel yet more mistaken-- more in error--more disgraced by
mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been
confined to herself.
"If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the
man, I could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me--
but poor Harriet!"
How she could have been so deceived!--He protested
that he had never thought seriously of Harriet--never! She looked back as well
as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed,
and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked,
wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled.
The
picture!--How eager he had been about the picture!-- and the charade!--and an
hundred other circumstances;-- how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet.
To be sure, the charade, with its "ready wit"--but then the "soft eyes"-- in
fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have
seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
Certainly she had often,
especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it
had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as
one proof among others that he had not always lived in the best society, that
with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting;
but, till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean any
thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.
To Mr. John
Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first
start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had
penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr.
Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton
would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge
of his character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was
dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the
very reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited;
very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay
his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his
proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was
insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to
raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to
his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no
real affection either in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had been
given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy
any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to
pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily
obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with
twenty, or with ten.
But--that he should talk of encouragement,
should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in
short), to marry him!--should suppose himself her equal in connexion or
mind!--look down upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank
below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no
presumption in addressing her!-- It was most provoking.
Perhaps it
was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent,
and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his
perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was
greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for
several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient
family--and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield
certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey
estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from
other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey
itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a
high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first
entered not two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any alliances
but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and his
civility.-- But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must have
been his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of
gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop
and admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so
full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived) might
warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying
himself a very decided favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she
had little right to wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have
mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was
foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people
together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what
ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned
and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
"Here have I,"
said she, "actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this
man. She might never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never would
have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for
she is as modest and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been
satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite
right. That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the
rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her
the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have attempted
more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but
half a friend to her; and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very
much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all
desirable for her;--William Coxe--Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe-- a
pert young lawyer."
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse,
and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been,
and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to
Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of
future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the
acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat,
were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and
she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having
blundered most dreadfully.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like
Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly
fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in
happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant
enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of
softened pain and brighter hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more
disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of
the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.
It
was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or
so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him--that Harriet's
nature should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most acute
and retentive-- and that there could be no necessity for any body's knowing what
had passed except the three principals, and especially for her father's being
given a moment's uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering
thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further
service, for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three being
quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her;
though Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been
miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either
exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered
with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and thaw,
which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning
in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a
most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no
church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find
excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself.
It was weather which might
fairly confine every body at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be
really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her
father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to
stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep
entirely from them,--
"Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home
like poor Mr. Elton?"
These days of confinement would have been, but
for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly
suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his
companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at
Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his stay at
Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of
every body. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort
of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of
explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at
ease.
CHAPTER XVII
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at
Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and
Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind
with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and return to
his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella;--which poor Isabella,
passing her life with those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their
faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine
happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went brought a
note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say,
with Mr. Elton's best compliments, "that he was proposing to leave Highbury the
following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the pressing
entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much
regretted the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of weather
and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly
civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense-- and had Mr. Woodhouse any
commands, should be happy to attend to them."
Emma was most agreeably
surprized.--Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be
desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much
credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been
more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was so
pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments.--Her
name was not mentioned;-- and there was so striking a change in all this, and
such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as
she thought, at first, could not escape her father's suspicion.
It
did, however.--Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so sudden a
journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it,
and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it
supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of
their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in
spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now
resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her
nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as
much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the
gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's accordingly the very next day, to
undergo the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.-- She
had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding--to
appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred-- and acknowledge
herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all
her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six
weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame--and the
sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with
herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well--blaming
nobody-- and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and
lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that
moment to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and
modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching,
seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as
having any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would
have been too great a distinction.-- She never could have deserved him--and
nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it
possible.
Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly
artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--
and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and
understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior
creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare
and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was
rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but
she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and
discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty
now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort, and
endeavour to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making.
She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving
to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from
her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being
thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such
matters in general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr.
Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and
with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a
state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return, as to allow them all to
meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of
betraying sentiments or increasing them.
Harriet did think him all
perfection, and maintained the non-existence of any body equal to him in person
or goodness--and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma
had foreseen; but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive
against an inclination of that sort unrequited, that she could not comprehend
its continuing very long in equal force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return,
made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he
would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her
happiness in the sight or the recollection of him.
Their being fixed,
so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one
of them had the power of removal, or of effecting any material change of
society. They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's;
Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school;
and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him
spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been
given, there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she
saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
CHAPTER XVIII
Mr.
Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's
fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he
could not be spared, to his "very great mortification and regret; but still he
looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period."
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed--much more disappointed, in
fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been
so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting more good
than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression.
It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half an
hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to perceive that
Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan; better
time of year; better weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to
stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
These
feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive
disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after
all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more
herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care
really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at
Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather,
to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she
should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care to express as much
interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's
disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship.
She
was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite as much as
was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of
the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more
than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in
Surry; the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire,
which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the
Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr.
Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was taking the other
side of the question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston's
arguments against herself.
"The Churchills are very likely in fault,"
said Mr. Knightley, coolly; "but I dare say he might come if he would."
"I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;
but his uncle and aunt will not spare him."
"I cannot believe that he
has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for
me to believe it without proof."
"How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank
Churchill done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?"
"I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he may
have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very little for any thing
but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example
of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man,
brought up by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud,
luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he
would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age--what is
he?--three or four-and-twenty--cannot be without the means of doing as much as
that. It is impossible."
"That's easily said, and easily felt by you,
who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr.
Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have
tempers to manage."
"It is not to be conceived that a man of three or
four-and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He
cannot want money--he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has
so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the
kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or other. A little while
ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills."
"Yes, sometimes he can."
"And those times are whenever he
thinks it worth his while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure."
"It is very unfair to judge of any body's conduct, without an
intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior
of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may
be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill's temper,
before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be
able to do a great deal more than he can at others."
"There is one
thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not
by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank
Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by
his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man
who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill--
`Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your
convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be
hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I
shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.'-- If he would say so to her at once, in
the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his
going."
"No," said Emma, laughing; "but perhaps there might be some
made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent,
to use!--Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have
not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own.
Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt,
who have brought him up, and are to provide for him!--Standing up in the middle
of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!--How can you imagine
such conduct practicable?"
"Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man
would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the
declaration--made, of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper
manner-- would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger
with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients
can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they
could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do
rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world
must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly
exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of
him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every
body. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently,
regularly, their little minds would bend to his."
"I rather doubt
that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but where little minds belong
to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till
they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you
are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank
Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been
recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might
not have a word to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of early
obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be
so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their
claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of
what would be right, as you can have, without being so equal, under particular
circumstances, to act up to it."
"Then it would not be so strong a
sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal
conviction."
"Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you
would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in
directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his
life."
"Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be
the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the
will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of
following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears
of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he ought to have roused
himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to
have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had
he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now."
"We
shall never agree about him," cried Emma; "but that is nothing extraordinary. I
have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is
not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is
very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit
your notions of man's perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him
off from some advantages, it will secure him many others."
"Yes; all
the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of leading a life of
mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for
it. He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and
falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in
the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any
right to complain. His letters disgust me."
"Your feelings are
singular. They seem to satisfy every body else."
"I suspect they do
not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a woman of her good sense and
quick feelings: standing in a mother's place, but without a mother's affection
to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and
she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself,
he would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or
no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you
suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young
man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very `aimable,'
have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English
delicacy towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about
him."
"You seem determined to think ill of him."
"Me!--not
at all," replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; "I do not want to think ill
of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I
hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and
good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners."
"Well, if he have
nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not
often look upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and
ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley,
what a sensation his coming will produce? There will be but one subject
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest-- one object
of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of
nobody else."
"You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I
find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a
chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts."
"My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of every
body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To
you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every
body, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to
follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak
extremely well on each; that is my idea of him."
"And mine," said Mr.
Knightley warmly, "is, that if he turn out any thing like it, he will be the
most insufferable fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of
his company--the great man-- the practised politician, who is to read every
body's character, and make every body's talents conduce to the display of his
own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all
appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could
not endure such a puppy when it came to the point."
"I will say no
more about him," cried Emma, "you turn every thing to evil. We are both
prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is
really here."
"Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced."
"But I am
very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs.
Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour."
"He is a person I
never think of from one month's end to another," said Mr. Knightley, with a
degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though
she could not comprehend why he should be angry.
To take a dislike to
a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from
himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to
acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had
often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could
make him unjust to the merit of another.
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