CHAPTER I
A very little quiet reflection was
enough to satisfy Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of
Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was
feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment
had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;-- but if
he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the two, were to
be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it would
be very distressing. If a separation of two months should not have cooled him,
there were dangers and evils before her:--caution for him and for herself would
be necessary. She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and
it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She
wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration. That would be
so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could
not help rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the spring would
not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something to alter her present
composed and tranquil state.
It was not very long, though rather
longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some
opinion of Frank Churchill's feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town
quite so soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.
He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came
from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her quick
observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced, and how she must act.
They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great
pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for
her as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She
watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been.
Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this
very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as
ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former
visit, and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not in
his calmness that she read his comparative difference. He was not calm; his
spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he
was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her
belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying
away to make other calls in Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintance
in the street as he passed-- he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than
a word--but he had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not
call, and much as he wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off." She
had no doubt as to his being less in love--but neither his agitated spirits, nor
his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to
think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of
not trusting himself with her long.
This was the only visit from
Frank Churchill in the course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to
come--but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her.
Such was his own account at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really
tried to come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had
been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was
really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at
Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he looked back,
that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He
did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not
remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her;
but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say that her
complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not endure its
noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten
days' end, her nephew's letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. They
were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been
recommended to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a
fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged,
and much benefit expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank
wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed most fully to
appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near
neighbourhood to many dear friends-- for the house was taken for May and June.
She was told that now he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with
them, almost as often as he could even wish.
Emma saw how Mr. Weston
understood these joyous prospects. He was considering her as the source of all
the happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to
the proof.
Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite
delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would
be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young
man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over. The difference in that
respect of Richmond and London was enough to make the whole difference of seeing
him always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full
eighteen to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get
away, the day would be spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in
having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very
distance for easy intercourse. Better than nearer!
One good thing was
immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,-- the ball at the Crown. It
had not been forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt
to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was
resumed, and very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines
from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change, and
that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours at any
given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.
Mr.
Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood between the
young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned.
The time of year lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than
February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had
due notice, and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear
little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were
gone.
CHAPTER II
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached, the day
arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all
the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every thing
was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma.
The room at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a common
meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for
her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the purpose of
taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other
persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet
interval in the young man's company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove
to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did
not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening. They
all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and
within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma
could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize. "So unreasonably
early!" she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family
of old friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr.
Weston's judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another carriage of
cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing
earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might
soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston
depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so
many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in the scale
of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness
would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence, but not general
friendship, made a man what he ought to be.-- She could fancy such a man. The
whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having
nothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in
their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though May, a fire
in the evening was still very pleasant.
Emma found that it was not
Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They
had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage, but the
aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons.
Frank was standing
by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at
ease. He was looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the
sound of other carriages,-- impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near
her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said
he. "I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her. It
cannot be long, I think, before she comes."
A carriage was heard. He
was on the move immediately; but coming back, said,
"I am forgetting
that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I
have no business to put myself forward."
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared;
and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.
"But Miss Bates and
Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We thought you were to bring
them."
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them
now. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how
he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by
giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.-- "I will see
that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father: "Miss Bates must not
be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton
detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly did she
begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could
hardly be out of hearing.
"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston.
You know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say
that I am extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I
think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like
and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. You
must know I have a vast dislike to puppies-- quite a horror of them. They were
never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any
patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina,
who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better."
While she
talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but when she got to Maple
Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended
to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs.
Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our
coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster
than any body.-- What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!-- I
understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite
unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of them."
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into the
room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston's to
receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood by any one who
looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the
incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her
speech under many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire.
As the door opened she was heard,
"So very obliging of you!--No rain
at all. Nothing to signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And
Jane declares-- Well!--(as soon as she was within the door) Well! This is
brilliant indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word.
Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!-- Jane, Jane,
look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had
Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
I came in; she was standing in the entrance. `Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said I-- but I
had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.-- "Very well, I thank
you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you
might have a headach!-- seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much
trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so
obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did
not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.-- Oh! and I am sure our
thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly
sent Jane a note, or we should have been.-- But two such offers in one
day!--Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, `Upon my word, ma'am--.'
Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her
take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl-- Mrs.
Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at
Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says,
which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an
olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop
or two, but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely-- and
there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh!
Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in
fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your
good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--
Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?-- Very well I
thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!-- Such a
transformation!--Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most
complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do
look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.-- She did it all herself.
Quite wonderful how she does her hair!-- No hairdresser from London I think
could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare-- and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and
Mrs. Hughes for a moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank
you. This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?-- Oh! there he
is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do
you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through the town--Mrs.
Otway, I protest!-- and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such
a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do? How do you
all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.-- Don't I hear
another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my
word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble
fire!--I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A
little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes. Every
thing so good!"
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and
as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the
discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind
her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not
determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look,
compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to
be complimented herself-- and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like
my trimming?-- How has Wright done my hair?"--with many other relative
questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody
can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this,
when every body's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the
Westons--who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I
would not wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room
except mine.-- So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall
see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like
him very well."
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously,
that Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not
want to hear more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till
another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly forward.--Mr.
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
"Oh! you
have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?-- I was this moment
telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us."
"Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
displeasure.-- "That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I
suppose."
"How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper.
"Not at all."
"You are ungrateful."
"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to a smile--"No, do
not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.-- Where is my father?--When
are we to begin dancing?"
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed
in an odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again
with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity,
which must be laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs.
Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which
interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma heard
the sad truth with fortitude.
"And what are we to do for a proper
partner for her?" said Mr. Weston. "She will think Frank ought to ask her."
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and
boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect
approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance
with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him
into it, which was done pretty soon.-- Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way,
Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand
second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly
for her. It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had
undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for
though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the
change. Mr. Weston might be his son's superior.-- In spite of this little rub,
however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable
length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of
unusual festivity before her.-- She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley's not
dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among the standers-by, where he
ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not classing himself with the
husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending to feel an
interest in the dance till their rubbers were made up,--so young as he looked!--
He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he
had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and
stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every
body's eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole
row of young men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with
what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the
trouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general
he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom better, and could like
Frank Churchill better.-- He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter
herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her
behaviour, she did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between
her and her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.
That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed happy; and
the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a
ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the
existence of this. Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more
productive than such meetings usually are. There was one, however, which Emma
thought something of.--The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet
had no partner;--the only young lady sitting down;-- and so equal had been
hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was
the wonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton
sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be
avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him every moment to
escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came
to the part of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and
walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of
maintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.-- Emma saw it. She was not yet dancing;
she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look
around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all. When she was
half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she would no
longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every
syllable of a dialogue which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston;
and she perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not
only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The
kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, "Do not
you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his prompt reply was, "Most readily, Mrs.
Weston, if you will dance with me."
"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a
better partner than myself. I am no dancer."
"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes
to dance," said he, "I shall have great pleasure, I am sure--for, though
beginning to feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are
over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old
friend like Mrs. Gilbert."
"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but
there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss
Smith." "Miss Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging-- and
if I were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.
You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
command--but my dancing days are over."
Mrs. Weston said no more; and
Emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she must be returning to
her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.-- She
looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and
was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed
between him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in
a glow, and she feared her face might be as hot.
In another moment a
happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading Harriet to the set!--Never had
she been more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that instant. She was
all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be
thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as
soon as she could catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just
what she had believed it, extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost
too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for the
very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy
features announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,
flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted)
very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
growing very like her;--she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to
her partner,
"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss
Smith!--Very goodnatured, I declare."
Supper was announced. The move
began; and Miss Bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption,
till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane,
my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put
on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage,
though every thing has been done--One door nailed up--Quantities of matting--My
dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well
you put it on!--so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!-- Yes, my dear, I ran
home, as I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and
nobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal
of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and
wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws: and she inquired
a great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were your partners. `Oh!'
said I, `I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway;
she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was
Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.' My
dear sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am not
helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the
other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs.
Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps,
Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was
persuaded there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and
there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style--Candles
everywhere.--I was telling you of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little
disappointment.-- The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you
know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus
brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite
boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves
better than sweetbread and asparagus-- so she was rather disappointed, but we
agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to
dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!--Well, this is
brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!--Such elegance
and profusion!--I have seen nothing like it since-- Well, where shall we sit?
where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is
of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr.
Churchill-- only it seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct in
this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the
dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it
smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning."
Emma had no
opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper; but, when they were
all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and
be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been
unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of
censure.
"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he. "Emma,
why is it that they are your enemies?"
He looked with smiling
penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added, "She ought not to be angry with
you, I suspect, whatever he may be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of
course; but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet."
"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."
He shook his
head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said, "I shall
not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections."
"Can you trust
me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you
wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it."
"I do own myself to have
been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you
discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love
with Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!"
"And, in
return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say, that
you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself.--Harriet
Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An
unpretending, single-minded, artless girl-- infinitely to be preferred by any
man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more
conversable than I expected."
Emma was extremely gratified.--They
were interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin
dancing again.
"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what
are you all doing?-- Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is
lazy! Every body is asleep!"
"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am
wanted."
"Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask
me."
"Will you?" said he, offering his hand.
"Indeed I
will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much
brother and sister as to make it at all improper."
"Brother and
sister! no, indeed."
CHAPTER
III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma
considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball,
which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was extremely
glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons, and
that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much alike; and his praise
of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The
impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin the
rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions;
and she looked forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's
infatuation.-- From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they
quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were
suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior
creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour little
fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on
the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed
neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not
too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very
happy a summer must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill
this morning. He had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of
stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did
not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them
through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with
spirits freshened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their
grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom
she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill, with Harriet
leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment sufficed to convince her that
something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and
he was trying to cheer her.-- The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty
yards asunder;-- they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately
sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be
recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events
are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes
made Emma acquainted with the whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton,
another parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had
walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though
apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile
beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side,
it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had
advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance
before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. A
child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively
frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a
steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a
short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered
very much from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank
brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless-- and in this
state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How
the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more courageous, must
be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and
Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a stout woman and
a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in
word.--More and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking
out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use
her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away--but
her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was followed, or rather
surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank
Churchill had found her, she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent.
By a most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring
him to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning
had induced him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another
road, a mile or two beyond Highbury-- and happening to have borrowed a pair of
scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them,
he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was
therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole
party till almost close to them. The terror which the woman and boy had been
creating in Harriet was then their own portion. He had left them completely
frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had
just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome.
It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and of
Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.-- He dared not
stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not another
minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to Mrs.
Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to
Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter
for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,--a fine young
man and a lovely young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of
suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma
thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a
mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together,
and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at
work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?--How much more must an
imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially
with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever occurred before
to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of
the kind;--and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very hour,
when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly
was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind
of each at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better
of his attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences.
It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommending each
to the other.
In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had
with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her
terror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet's own account
had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abominable folly of Miss
Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was to take its natural course,
however, neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a
hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm in a
scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would
on no account proceed.
Emma's first resolution was to keep her father
from the knowledge of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would
occasion: but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an
hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who
talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in the place
were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost
in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had
foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go beyond
the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries after
himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired
after), as well as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he
had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--
which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet not much
otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state of health in
general for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was;
and if he did not invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a
message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they
took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked
again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon
into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:--in her
imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were still asking every
day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her
right if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.
CHAPTER IV
A very few
days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with
a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began:
"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I
should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it
will be over."
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to
speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as
much as her words, for something more than ordinary.
"It is my duty,
and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have no reserves with you on
this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it is
very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to
say more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have
done, and I dare say you understand me."
"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I
do."
"How I could so long a time be fancying myself! . . ." cried
Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary
in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the two I
had rather not see him-- and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid
him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her,
as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think her
very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget her look the other
night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them
be ever so happy together, it will not give me another moment's pang: and to
convince you that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I
ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept-- I know that
very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it all--and it
is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational I
am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious
look.
"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"
"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much."
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words
Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet
unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within abundance of
silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened: it
was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only
a small piece of court-plaister.
"Now," said Harriet, "you must
recollect."
"No, indeed I do not."
"Dear me! I should not
have thought it possible you could forget what passed in this very room about
court-plaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very
few days before I had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley
came-- I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger
with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?-- But, as you had
none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took mine
out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it
smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back
to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--
so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great
treat."
"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her
face, and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic--I
knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the finger, and my
recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about me!--Oh! my sins, my
sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!--One of my senseless
tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my
life.--Well--(sitting down again)-- go on--what else?"
"And had you
really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected it, you did it so
naturally."
"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by
for his sake!" said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord bless me!
when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of
court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I never was equal to
this."
"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is
something still more valuable, I mean that has been more valuable, because this
is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did."
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of
an old pencil,--the part without any lead.
"This was really his,"
said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But
one morning--I forget exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or
Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his
pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him
something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he
took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the table as
good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it
up, and never parted with it again from that moment."
"I do remember
it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.-- Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh!
yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming
resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley
was standing just here, was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here."
"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot
recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am
now."--
"Well, go on."
"Oh! that's all. I have nothing
more to shew you, or to say-- except that I am now going to throw them both
behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it."
"My poor dear
Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?"
"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish
I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know,
to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but had not
resolution enough to part with them."
"But, Harriet, is it necessary
to burn the court-plaister?--I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil,
but the court-plaister might be useful."
"I shall be happier to burn
it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every
thing.-- There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."
"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr.
Churchill?"
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the
beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she
had told no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight
after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly.
Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she
received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat,
"Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and
thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say in a
very serious tone, "I shall never marry."
Emma then looked up, and
immediately saw how it was; and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should
pass unnoticed or not, replied,
"Never marry!--This is a new
resolution."
"It is one that I shall never change, however."
After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from-- I
hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"
"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried
Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could just catch the words, "so
superior to Mr. Elton!"
She then took a longer time for
consideration. Should she proceed no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem
to suspect nothing?-- Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did;
or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking
her to hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been,
such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly
resolved.-- She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all
that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had
previously determined how far she would proceed, on any application of the sort;
and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain laid
down with speed.-- She was decided, and thus spoke--
"Harriet, I will
not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your
expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you
might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you.
Is not it so?"
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the
presumption to suppose-- Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to
admire him at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the
rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially."
"I am not at all surprized at you,
Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart."
"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!-- The very recollection
of it, and all that I felt at the time-- when I saw him coming--his noble
look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such a change!
From perfect misery to perfect happiness!"
"It is very natural. It is
natural, and it is honourable.-- Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and
so gratefully.-- But that it will be a fortunate preference is more that I can
promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means
engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not let them
carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him.
Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now,
because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against
all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever
pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your
superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious
nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have
been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have
you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your
thoughts to him, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know how to
value."
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her
friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind-- and it must be
saving her from the danger of degradation.
CHAPTER V
In this state of schemes, and hopes,
and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no
material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings,
and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still
at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again
delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to
remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat
Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a
delightful situation against her will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some
reason best known to himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank
Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some
double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared
indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints,
his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,
discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were
devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley
began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could
not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence between them--he
thought so at least-- symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once
observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning,
however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination. She was not
present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family,
and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at
Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of
place. When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering what he
had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and
his fire at twilight,
"Myself creating what I saw,"
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking,
of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He
had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening
at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on
returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged it
wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and
Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met.
They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly
the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go
in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and
after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she
also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on
horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
"By the bye," said Frank
Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, "what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting
up his carriage?"
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not
know that he ever had any such plan."
"Nay, I had it from you. You
wrote me word of it three months ago."
"Me! impossible!"
"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly
to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it.
It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did
him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now?"
"Upon my word I
never heard of it till this moment."
"Never! really, never!--Bless
me! how could it be?--Then I must have dreamt it--but I was completely
persuaded--Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to
find yourself at home."
"What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr.
Weston, "about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage,
Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"
"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it from nobody.--Very
odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her
letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars--but as she
declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a
dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--
and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr.
and Mrs. Perry."
"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you
should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very
likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage!
and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health-- just what will
happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. What an
air of probability sometimes runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of
absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in
your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?"
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to
prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr.
Weston's hint.
"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had
been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this
subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not mean
to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in
the world--but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was
such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and
the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret, known to
nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious
that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one
morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember
grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been
walking to-- very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs.
Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do not know who is
not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no objection to her
telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day to this,
I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not
positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do
sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am
rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should
not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed
the least thing in the world. Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember
Mrs. Perry's coming.-- Extraordinary dream, indeed!"
They were
entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at
Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed
or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind,
and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen
waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill
the determination of catching her eye-- he seemed watching her intently--in
vain, however, if it were so-- Jane passed between them into the hall, and
looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or
explanation. The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat
with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at
Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and
persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on which two of
his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and
nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank
Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat,
"have your nephews taken away their alphabets--their box of letters? It used to
stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to
be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those
letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again."
Emma was pleased
with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly scattered over
with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two
selves. They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for any body else who
would be puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for
Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which
Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in
lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the "poor little boys,"
or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how
beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before
Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to
it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley so placed
as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as
little apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile
pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from
sight, she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for
it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out
none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley,
and turned to him for help. The word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly
proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not
otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it
could all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of
his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some
decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at
every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a
child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great
alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short
word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that
Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertaining, though it was
something which she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said,
"Nonsense! for shame!" He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards
Jane, "I will give it to her--shall I?"--and as clearly heard Emma opposing it
with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed."
It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love
without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed
over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility
entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this
word might be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards
it, and it was not long before he saw it to be Dixon. Jane Fairfax's perception
seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the
covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged.
She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed
more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, "I did not know
that proper names were allowed," pushed away the letters with even an angry
spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be
offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned
towards her aunt.
"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though
Jane had not spoken a word--"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time
for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be
looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
night."
Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt
had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so
many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he
saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely
swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank
Churchill was looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion;
and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.
He remained at
Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so full,
that when the candles came to assist his observations, he must--yes, he
certainly must, as a friend-- an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her
some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without
trying to preserve her. It was his duty.
"Pray, Emma," said he, "may
I ask in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given
to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be
so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other."
Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the
true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she was
really ashamed of having ever imparted them.
"Oh!" she cried in
evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves."
"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you and Mr.
Churchill."
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She
would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in
doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference-- fruitless
interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare
her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk any thing
that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to
encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you think
you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and
lady we have been speaking of?"
"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.-- Why do you make a doubt of it?"
"Have
you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she
admired him?"
"Never, never!" she cried with a most open
eagerness--"Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to
me. And how could it possibly come into your head?"
"I have lately
imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them-- certain expressive
looks, which I did not believe meant to be public."
"Oh! you amuse me
excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let your
imagination wander--but it will not do-- very sorry to check you in your first
essay--but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do
assure you; and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some
peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature-- it is
impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of nonsense in it--but the
part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are
as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in
the world can be. That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer
for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference."
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction
which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged
the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look
described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance which highly
entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be
useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not
be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender
habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards
took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell
Abbey.
CHAPTER VI
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling,
the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they
could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could
enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news,
they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the
Sucklings' coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of
Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as much
increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the
approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the
delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and
recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked
of. So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced her that
every thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though
the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn.
It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a
party had been long generally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma
had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so well
worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and
drive thither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join
them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely
superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and
picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well
understood between them, that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a
little displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to
Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties
should unite, and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded
to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was
nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must
already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:--it could
not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife;
and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she
would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would probably
expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton's party!
Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission left a
heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable
goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.
"I am glad you approve of what I
have done," said he very comfortably. "But I thought you would. Such schemes as
these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large
party secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One
could not leave her out."
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to
none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather
fine; and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr.
Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every
thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on, and it
was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an
attack.
"Is not this most vexations, Knightley?" she cried.--"And
such weather for exploring!--These delays and disappointments are quite odious.
What are we to do?--The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party
from Maple Grove to Kings Weston."
"You had better explore to
Donwell," replied Mr. Knightley. "That may be done without horses. Come, and eat
my strawberries. They are ripening fast."
If Mr. Knightley did not
begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at
with delight; and the "Oh! I should like it of all things," was not plainer in
words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a
plea for the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been
enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised
him again and again to come--much oftener than he doubted--and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she
chose to consider it.
"You may depend upon me," said she. "I
certainly will come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring
Jane Fairfax?"
"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to
some others whom I would wish to meet you."
"Oh! leave all that to
me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my
party. I will bring friends with me."
"I hope you will bring Elton,"
said he: "but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations."
"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid of
delegating power to me. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you
know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will
invite your guests."
"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one
married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she
pleases to Donwell, and that one is--"
"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose,"
interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.
"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and
till she is in being, I will manage such matters myself."
"Ah! you
are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to
herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what you like. Quite a humourist.
Well, I shall bring Jane with me-- Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you.
I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I
know you are attached to them."
"You certainly will meet them if I
can prevail; and I shall call on Miss Bates in my way home."
"That's
quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like. It is to be a morning
scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet,
and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this
basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have
such another. There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are to
walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of
doors--a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple
as possible. Is not that your idea?" "Not quite. My idea of the simple and the
natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the
simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think
is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."
"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye, can I or
my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?-- Pray be sincere,
Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything--"
"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."
"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely
clever."
"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as
clever, and would spurn any body's assistance."
"I wish we had a
donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and
me--and my caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a
donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a
woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut
up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust, and in
winter there is dirt."
"You will not find either, between Donwell and
Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a
donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's. I would wish
every thing to be as much to your taste as possible."
"That I am sure
you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of
dry, blunt manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are
a thorough humourist.-- Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your
attention to me in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to
please me."
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in
the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the
party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat
would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious
pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted
away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors
were to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at
Donwell for two years. "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could
go very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls
walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the
middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and
should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his
neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma's, and
Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of
Mr. Knightley to invite them-- very kind and sensible--much cleverer than dining
out.--He was not fond of dining out."
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in
every body's most ready concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well
received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme
as a particular compliment to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank
over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could
have been dispensed with.-- Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should
be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare
no arguments to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse
recovered so fast, that the party to Box Hill was again under happy
consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the
next,--the weather appearing exactly right.
Under a bright mid-day
sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage,
with one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most
comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the
morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure
of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
to heat themselves.-- Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to
be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others were
invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.
It
was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she was satisfied
of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him, and look around her; eager
to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact
understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her
and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency
which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant,
as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable,
becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered-- its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the
old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in
rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The
house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of
ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome
rooms.--It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was--and Emma
felt an increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such true
gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John
Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given
them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were
pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary
to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party
were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from
Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet
and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking--strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken
of.--"The best fruit in England-- every body's favourite--always
wholesome.--These the finest beds and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for
one's self--the only way of really enjoying them.--Morning decidedly the best
time--never tired-- every sort good--hautboy infinitely superior--no
comparison-- the others hardly eatable--hautboys very scarce--Chili preferred--
white wood finest flavour of all--price of strawberries in London-- abundance
about Bristol--Maple Grove--cultivation--beds when to be renewed--gardeners
thinking exactly different--no general rule-- gardeners never to be put out of
their way--delicious fruit-- only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior to
cherries-- currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering strawberries
the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no longer-- must go and
sit in the shade."
Such, for half an hour, was the
conversation--interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her
solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come--and she was a
little uneasy.-- She had some fears of his horse.
Seats tolerably in
the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and
Jane Fairfax were talking of.-- A situation, a most desirable situation, was in
question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in
raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in
felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs.
Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove.
Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every
thing--and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.--On
her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she positively refused to
take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that she
would not at present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she
had been heard to urge before.-- Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised
to write an acquiescence by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all,
was astonishing to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and at
last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.-- "Should
not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens-- all the
gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent."--The pertinacity of her friend
seemed more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some
time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three
together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad
short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance
from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.-- It led to nothing;
nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which
seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the
house, which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of
such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed
it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the
Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a
mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed
with wood;-- and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered,
rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close
and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye
and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a
sun bright, without being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr.
Weston found all the others assembled; and towards this view she immediately
perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the
way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!--It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to
see it.--There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion,
and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see
Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it
not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty,
its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of
smoke ascending.--She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in
talking than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of
agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, "These are my
own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected
of introducing Robert Martin."--She did not suspect him. It was too old a
story.--Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet.--They took a few
turns together along the walk.--The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it
the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house;
they must all go in and eat;-- and they were all seated and busy, and still
Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father
would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be
cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed
himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. "His aunt was so much
better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them."--Mrs. Churchill's
state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden
variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence--and
Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some
attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.-- Emma looked at Harriet
while the point was under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no
emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once
more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as
far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate,
have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.--Mr. Woodhouse, who had
already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no
damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his
daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away
by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells,
and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his
old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered.
Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing
them all to him, and now he would shew them all to Emma;--fortunate in having no
other resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for
he was slow, constant, and methodical.--Before this second looking over was
begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free
observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house--and was hardly there,
when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look
of escape.-- Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start
at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say that I am gone
home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how
long we have been absent--but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined
to go directly.--I have said nothing about it to any body. It would only be
giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime
walk. Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you
have the goodness to say that I am gone?"
"Certainly, if you wish
it;--but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?"
"Yes--what
should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes."
"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father's
servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five
minutes."
"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather
walk.-- And for me to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have to
guard others!"
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very
feelingly replied, "That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now.
I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are fatigued
already."
"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the
sort of fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all know at
times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The
greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only
say that I am gone when it is necessary."
Emma had not another word
to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting
the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her
parting look was grateful--and her parting words, "Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the
comfort of being sometimes alone!"--seemed to burst from an overcharged heart,
and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even
towards some of those who loved her best.
"Such a home, indeed! such
an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again. "I do pity you. And
the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like
you."
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill
entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think
of him--but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The
black mare was blameless; they were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the
cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous
seizure, which had lasted some hours--and he had quite given up every thought of
coming, till very late;--and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how
late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come at
all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing like it--almost
wished he had staid at home--nothing killed him like heat--he could bear any
degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest
possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very
deplorable.
"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.
"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared--but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be going soon
I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met one as I came--Madness in such
weather!--absolute madness!"
Emma listened, and looked, and soon
perceived that Frank Churchill's state might be best defined by the expressive
phrase of being out of humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot.
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were
often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some
refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the dining-room--and she
humanely pointed out the door.
"No--he should not eat. He was not
hungry; it would only make him hotter." In two minutes, however, he relented in
his own favour; and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma
returned all her attention to her father, saying in secret--
"I am
glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man who is so soon
discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet easy temper will not mind it."
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners, like
himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was
not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made
himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in
Swisserland.
"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said
he. "I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have
my sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour to read--or my poem. I
shall do something to expose myself."
"That may be--but not by
sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt
will never allow you to leave England."
"They may be induced to go
too. A warm climate may be prescribed for her. I have more than half an
expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong
persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am
tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever
your penetrating eyes may fancy--I am sick of England-- and would leave it
to-morrow, if I could."
"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence.
Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"
"I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every
thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person."
"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and eat and
drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold meat,
another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the
rest of us."
"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my
best cure."
"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us.
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want
of a change. You will stay, and go with us?"
"No, certainly not; I
shall go home in the cool of the evening."
"But you may come again in
the cool of to-morrow morning."
"No--It will not be worth while. If I
come, I shall be cross."
"Then pray stay at Richmond."
"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all
there without me."
"These are difficulties which you must settle for
yourself. Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more."
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon
collected. With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and disturbance
on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was time for every body
to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for the next
day's scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill's little inclination to exclude
himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
"Well;--if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will."
She
smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take
him back before the following evening.
CHAPTER VII
They had a very fine day for Box
Hill; and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and
punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole,
officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in
good time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the
Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.
Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were
travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration
on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.
There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got
over. They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr.
Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to
Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better.
It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr.
and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as
they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there
seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any
fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing-- looked without
seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing what she said.
While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and
they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to
her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay,
making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid,
was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
cared for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay
and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be
gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of
their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though
in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as
no English word but flirtation could very well describe. "Mr. Frank Churchill
and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively." They were laying themselves
open to that very phrase--and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove
by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from
any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had
expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for
his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or
playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She
still intended him for her friend.
"How much I am obliged to you,"
said he, "for telling me to come to-day!-- If it had not been for you, I should
certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to
go away again."
"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what
about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder
friend than you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded
to come."
"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame
me."
"It is hotter to-day."
"Not to my feelings. I am
perfectly comfortable to-day."
"You are comfortable because you are
under command."
"Your command?--Yes."
"Perhaps I intended
you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had, somehow or other, broken
bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day you are got
back again--and as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your
temper under your own command rather than mine."
"It comes to the
same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me, whether
you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are always with me."
"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could
not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour before."
"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
first in February."
"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But
(lowering her voice)-- nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much
to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."
"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence. "I saw
you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my
accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw you
first in February." And then whispering-- "Our companions are excessively
stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall
talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she
is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?"
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding; Mr.
Knightley's answer was the most distinct.
"Is Miss Woodhouse sure
that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?"
"Oh! no,
no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could-- "Upon no account in the
world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me
hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite
all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose
thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing."
"It is a sort of thing,"
cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, "which I should not have thought myself
privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party-- I
never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--"
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in
reply,
"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite
unheard of-- but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every
body knows what is due to you."
"It will not do," whispered Frank to
Emma; "they are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address.
Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her
right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven
of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining
already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be
it prose or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever-- or
three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all."
"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
`Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I shall be
sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?
(looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's
assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"
Emma could not resist.
"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you will be
limited as to number--only three at once."
Miss Bates, deceived by
the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but,
when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it
could pain her.
"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means,
(turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself
very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."
"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my
best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?"
"Low, I
am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall be
indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."
"No, no," said
Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston's shall clear him and
his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it."
"I doubt its
being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston. "It is too much a matter of fact,
but here it is.--What two letters of the alphabet are there, that express
perfection?"
"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do
not know."
"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain,
will never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"
Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in
it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem to touch the rest of the
party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,
"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr.
Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon."
"Oh! for
myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton; "I really cannot
attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent
to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came
from. An abominable puppy!-- You know who I mean (nodding to her husband). These
kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire;
but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country
in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty
things at every body's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great
deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to
speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass
Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say-- not one of
us.
"Yes, yes, pray pass me," added her husband, with a sort of
sneering consciousness; "I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man-- quite good for nothing.
Shall we walk, Augusta?"
"With all my heart. I am really tired of
exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm."
Jane
declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. "Happy couple!" said
Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of hearing:--"How well they suit one
another!--Very lucky--marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in
a public place!--They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath!
Peculiarly lucky!-- for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that
Bath, or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be no
knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set,
just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it
is all guess and luck-- and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has
committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his
life!"
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her
own confederates, spoke now.
"Such things do occur,
undoubtedly."--She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to
listen.
"You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her
voice.
"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate
circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to
be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise-- but there is
generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean,
that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always
at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an
inconvenience, an oppression for ever."
He made no answer; merely
looked, and bowed in submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,
"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever
I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning to
Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I should like any body fixed on
by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his father). Find
some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her."
"And
make her like myself."
"By all means, if you can."
"Very
well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife."
"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall
go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return, I shall come to you for my
wife. Remember."
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a
commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very
creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that
he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could
say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
"Now, ma'am,"
said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"
"If you please, my
dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her,
but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no,
that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at
all like her.-- Well, I declare--"
They walked off, followed in half
a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only
remained; and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant.
Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself
rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone,
and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath
her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the
carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to
depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly
endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close the very
questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed
of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side.
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege
rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you
acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss
Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character,
age, and situation?-- Emma, I had not thought it possible."
Emma
recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
"Nay, how
could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very
bad. I dare say she did not understand me."
"I assure you she did.
She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have
heard how she talked of it-- with what candour and generosity. I wish you could
have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such
attentions, as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when
her society must be so irksome."
"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is
not a better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and
what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her."
"They are
blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much
for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman
of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would
not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in
situation-- but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is
poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old
age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It
was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had
seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in
thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her--and
before her niece, too--and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) would
be entirely guided by your treatment of her.--This is not pleasant to you,
Emma--and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,--I will tell
you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very
faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater
justice than you can do now."
While they talked, they were advancing
towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had
handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face
averted, and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against
herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,
on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome--then reproaching
herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent
sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but
it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She
continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed,
they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed
beyond what could have been expressed--almost beyond what she could conceal.
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her
life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was
no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so
cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in
any one she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of
gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose
her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel it more. She never had been
so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who
seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma
felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at
any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
CHAPTER VIII
The
wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all the evening. How
it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell. They, in
their different homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it
with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more completely misspent, more
totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in
recollection, than any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with
her father, was felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she
was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling
that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding
esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe reproach.
As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could
have said to her, "How could you be so unfeeling to your father?-- I must, I
will tell you truths while I can." Miss Bates should never again--no, never! If
attention, in future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She
had been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in
thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the
warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it
should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see
Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying
her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of
the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she
walked, but she saw him not.
"The ladies were all at home." She had
never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor
walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring
obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.
There
was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss
Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened
and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her
in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room.
Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door
had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear, I shall say you
are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough."
Poor
old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite
understand what was going on.
"I am afraid Jane is not very well,"
said she, "but I do not know; they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter
will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty
had not gone. I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where
you like? I am sure she will be here presently."
Emma seriously hoped
she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss
Bates soon came--"Very happy and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that
there was not the same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and
manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the
way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.
"Ah!
Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard-- and are come to
give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me--(twinkling away a
tear or two)--but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having
had her so long, and she has a dreadful headach just now, writing all the
morning:-- such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and
Mrs. Dixon. `My dear,' said I, `you will blind yourself'-- for tears were in her
eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change;
and though she is amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young
woman before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful, Miss
Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again dispersing her tears)--but,
poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great
pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as
low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she
is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you--she
is not able--she is gone into her own room-- I want her to lie down upon the
bed. `My dear,' said I, `I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:' but,
however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has
written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely
sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You
were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed-- but somehow there was a
little bustle--for it so happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you
were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming. `It is only Mrs. Cole,'
said I, `depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' `Well,' said she, `it
must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.' But then Patty
came in, and said it was you. `Oh!' said I, `it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you
will like to see her.'-- `I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would
go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry and
ashamed we were. `If you must go, my dear,' said I, `you must, and I will say
you are laid down upon the bed.'"
Emma was most sincerely interested.
Her heart had been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her
present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and
left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle
sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally
resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear
to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and
solicitude--sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from
Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's
advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all. She
had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return."
"So very kind! " replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind."
There
was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her dreadful gratitude,
Emma made the direct inquiry of--
"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax
going?"
"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have
the charge of her three little girls--delightful children. Impossible that any
situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs.
Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with
both, and in the very same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple
Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove."
"Mrs. Elton, I
suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--"
"Yes, our
good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would not take a
denial. She would not let Jane say, `No;' for when Jane first heard of it, (it
was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane
first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for
the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close
with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to
enter into any engagement at present--and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again--and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind!--but
that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It
is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and
refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she would not write
any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait--and, sure enough,
yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to
me! I had not the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once,
that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had
come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word of it till it was
all settled."
"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"
"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon the
hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. `You must all spend your
evening with us,' said she--`I positively must have you all come.'"
"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"
"No, not Mr. Knightley; he
declined it from the first; and though I thought he would come, because Mrs.
Elton declared she would not let him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane,
and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends,
you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body
seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is
fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed
it. However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely
obliged to the kind friends who included me in it."
"Miss Fairfax, I
suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole
day?"
"I dare say she had."
"Whenever the time may come,
it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends--but I hope her engagement will
have every alleviation that is possible--I mean, as to the character and manners
of the family."
"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there
is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings
and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and
elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful
woman!--A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove--and as to the children,
except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet
children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!-- It will
be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.--And her salary!-- I really cannot
venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to
great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person
like Jane."
"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all
like what I remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount
of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned."
"You are so noble in your ideas!"
"And when is
Miss Fairfax to leave you?"
"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the
worst of it. Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor
mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her
thoughts, and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."
"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their
return?"
"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such
a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so
astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and
when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was before
tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to
cards--and yet it was before tea, because I remember thinking--Oh! no, now I
recollect, now I have it; something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton
was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak with
him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor
father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very
poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints-- I must go and see him to-day; and
so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to
talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself,
you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but
still he cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came
back, he told us what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out
about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to
Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to
Mrs. Elton."
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how
perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible
that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's
going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What
Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the accumulation of
the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was,
that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party
from Box Hill-- which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected;
and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the
whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay
coming back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having
resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to
have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the
ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driving
very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or
interest, and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject
which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance
in the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was every thing, the other
nothing--and she sat musing on the difference of woman's destiny, and quite
unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates's saying,
"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to
become of that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.-- `You
must go,' said she. `You and I must part. You will have no business here.--Let
it stay, however,' said she; `give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes
back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out
of all my difficulties.'-- And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether
it was his present or his daughter's."
Now Emma was obliged to think
of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair
conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her
visit had been long enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could
venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.
CHAPTER IX
Emma's
pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted; but on entering
the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had
arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley
immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said,
"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few
days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the
`love,' which nobody carries?"
"Nothing at all. But is not this a
sudden scheme?"
"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little
time."
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike
himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be
friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going-- her father
began his inquiries.
"Well, my dear, and did you get there
safely?--And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say
they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to
call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always
so attentive to them!"
Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust
praise; and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at
Mr. Knightley.-- It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her
favour, as if his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that had passed of
good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.-- He looked at her with a
glow of regard. She was warmly gratified-- and in another moment still more so,
by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her
hand;-- whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--
she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand, pressed it,
and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips-- when, from some
fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel such a scruple, why
he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.--He
would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.--The intention,
however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general so
little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became
him more.-- It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.-- She
could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect
amity.--He left them immediately afterwards-- gone in a moment. He always moved
with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but
now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could
not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten
minutes earlier;--it would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane
Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.-- Neither would she regret that he
should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be
enjoyed--but it might have happened at a better time--and to have had longer
notice of it, would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends,
however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his
unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she had fully
recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them half an hour, she
found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
In the hope
of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's
going to London; and going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew
would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her
dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--
interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane
Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr.
Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow.
"I am very
glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton
is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just
what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be
taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss
Taylor's always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new
lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one
respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long."
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing
else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death
of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back
on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A
sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by her general
state, had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was
no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a
degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for
the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she
would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she
has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is
equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being
disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate
allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted
before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and
all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no
doubt she had been suffering a great deal: more than any body had ever
supposed--and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event--a great
shock--with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr.
Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over
it."-- Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, "Ah! poor
woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his mourning should be as
handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad
hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect
Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early
speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her
husband--her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then
rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how
benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an
attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill,
independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be
persuaded into any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that
the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause,
Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.
Harriet
behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. What ever she
might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to
observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any
allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs.
Churchill's death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank
were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of
their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and
their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to
the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been
promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done
for Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on
Emma's side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane
Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose
engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew
her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a
stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she had been so
many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished
every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted
to shew a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration. She
resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to
urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was
not well enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same
morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,
though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under
severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the
possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health
seemed for the moment completely deranged-- appetite quite gone--and though
there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary
complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was
uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and
that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed
overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a
nervous disorder:-- confined always to one room;--he could have wished it
otherwise-- and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge
to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and
attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very
much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma
listened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked
around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an
hour or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet
rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the
following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could
command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would
name-- mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour of such
exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note:
"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise."
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract
this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore,
she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would
be induced to join her-- but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage
door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing
might be of the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was
tried-- but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane
was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but,
almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had
promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth
was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all-- Mrs.
Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made such a point--and
Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them, Jane would really see nobody."
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs.
Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself-- she submitted, therefore, and only
questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she
longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy,
and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:-- Mr. Perry recommended
nourishing food; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such
good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the
housekeeper directly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of
very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly
note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back;
it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover, she insisted on her saying,
that she was not at all in want of any thing."
When Emma afterwards
heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some
distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under
the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out
with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing
together-- that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was
sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more
pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit
for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had the
consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say
to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of
assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on
this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.
CHAPTER X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs.
Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not
stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her."-- He met her at
the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his
voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
"Can you
come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston
wants to see you. She must see you."
"Is she unwell?"
"No,
no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and
come to you, but she must see you alone, and that you know--(nodding towards her
father)--Humph!--Can you come?"
"Certainly. This moment, if you
please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be
the matter?-- Is she really not ill?"
"Depend upon me--but ask no
more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business!
But hush, hush!"
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even
for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her
friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her
father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of
the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.
"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,-- "now Mr.
Weston, do let me know what has happened."
"No, no,"--he gravely
replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will
break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come
out too soon."
"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with
terror.-- "Good God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in
Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what
it is."
"No, indeed you are mistaken."--
"Mr. Weston do
not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in
Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?-- I charge you by all that is sacred, not
to attempt concealment."
"Upon my word, Emma."--
"Your
word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing
to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be broke to me, that does
not relate to one of that family?"
"Upon my honour," said he very
seriously, "it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any
human being of the name of Knightley."
Emma's courage returned, and
she walked on.
"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being
broke to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not
concern you-- it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my
dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is
not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast,
we shall soon be at Randalls."
Emma found that she must wait; and now
it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely
employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its
being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature
in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children,
perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!-- This, though very undesirable, would be no
matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.
"Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--
speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other
view.
"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not
Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this
time."
"Has your son been with you, then?"
"Oh! yes--did
not you know?--Well, well, never mind."
For a moment he was silent;
and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure,
"Yes, Frank
came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."
They hurried on,
and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the
room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave
you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want
me."-- And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the
room,--"I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that
Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,
"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all
this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue
longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be."
"Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?"
"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."
"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here
this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express
our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an
attachment--"
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself,
and then of Harriet.
"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs.
Weston; "an engagement-- a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what
will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"
Emma even jumped
with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,
"Jane Fairfax!--Good
God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?"
"You may well be
amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with
eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But
it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since
October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature
knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.-- It
is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.-- I thought I knew him."
Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two
ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor
Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation,
repeated confirmation.
"Well," said she at last, trying to recover
herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day,
before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter-- before
either of them came to Highbury?"
"Engaged since October,--secretly
engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some
part of his conduct we cannot excuse."
Emma pondered a moment, and
then replied, "I will not pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the
relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions
to me, as you are apprehensive of."
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to
believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words.
"That you
may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect
indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period
in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much
disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is
perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some
time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may
believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth."
Mrs. Weston
kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her,
that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world
could do.
"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,"
said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine
what we have been feeling on your account."
"I have escaped; and that
I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this
does not acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to
blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and
with manners so very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he
certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as
he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what
mischief he might be doing?-- How could he tell that he might not be making me
in love with him?-- very wrong, very wrong indeed."
"From something
that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--"
"And how could she
bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated
attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent
it.--That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither comprehend nor respect."
"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so
expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a
quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use
even of the time he could stay-- but that there had been misunderstandings he
decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and
those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his
conduct."
"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure.
Much, much beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk
him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!-- None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick
and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life."
"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been
wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having
many, very many, good qualities; and--"
"Good God!" cried Emma, not
attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as
governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to
engage herself-- to suffer her even to think of such a measure!"
"He
knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a
private resolution of hers, not communicated to him--or at least not
communicated in a way to carry conviction.-- Till yesterday, I know he said he
was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how, but by
some letter or message-- and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this
very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it all
to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the
miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long."
Emma began to listen better.
"I am to hear from him soon," continued
Mrs. Weston. "He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in
a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given
now. Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It
may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be
understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him.
Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point,
the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and
ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal under such
a system of secresy and concealment."
"His sufferings," replied Emma
dryly, "do not appear to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr.
Churchill take it?"
"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent
with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that
family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a
hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely are her remains at rest in the
family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she
would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not
survive the grave!-- He gave his consent with very little persuasion."
"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."
"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time--and then
came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is
just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us
but a quarter of an hour.-- He was very much agitated--very much, indeed--to a
degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever
seen him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of
finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of-- and
there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."
"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect
secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?"
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being
in the world but their two selves."
"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we
shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I
shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but
a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?-- To come among us
with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to
judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped,
fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people
in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in
judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.--They
must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
perfectly agreeable!"
"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs.
Weston. "I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other,
which both might not have heard."
"You are in luck.--Your only
blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in
love with the lady."
"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly
good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill
of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,
evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and,
while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say
and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be
satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every
thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if
Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate
circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to
a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given
her credit for-- and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this
one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said in
her situation for even that error!"
"Much, indeed!" cried Emma
feelingly. "If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is
in a situation like Jane Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that `the
world is not their's, nor the world's law.'"
She met Mr. Weston on
his entrance, with a smiling countenance, exclaiming,
"A very pretty
trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a device, I suppose, to
sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really
frightened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at least. And here,
instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of
congratulation.--I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the
prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in
England for your daughter."
A glance or two between him and his wife,
convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy
effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual
briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the
subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion to
think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could
palliate imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it
all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in their walk
back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking
it the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.
CHAPTER XI
"Harriet,
poor Harriet!"--Those were the words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which
Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the business
to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself--very ill in many
ways,--but it was not so much his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry
with him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account,
that gave the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second time the
dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophetically,
when he once said, "Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith."--She was
afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.--It was true that she had not to
charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and
original author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might
otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged
her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a
hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what
she might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and increase
of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very
conscious that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been
risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would
have directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think of
him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for
her.--"But, with common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to
do."
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been
angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.-- As for Jane
Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on
her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy
about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same
origin, must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil were
over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.-- Emma could now
imagine why her own attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many
smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she
had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or
regard be repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the
rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She
understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the
injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax
would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet
was such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be spared for any
body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be more
severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it
ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet's mind,
producing reserve and self-command, it would.-- She must communicate the painful
truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among
Mr. Weston's parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be
completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it, as a token of respect
to the wife he had so very recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no
more than due decorum."-- Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted.
It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not
help feeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same
distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had
just gone through by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously
announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart
beat quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had poor
Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the
disclosure bear an equal resemblance!-- But of that, unfortunately, there could
be no chance.
"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly
into the room-- "is not this the oddest news that ever was?"
"What
news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or voice, whether
Harriet could indeed have received any hint.
"About Jane Fairfax. Did
you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to
me, for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to
be a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any
body but you, but he said you knew it."
"What did Mr. Weston tell
you?"--said Emma, still perplexed.
"Oh! he told me all about it; that
Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been
privately engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!"
It
was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd, that Emma did not
know how to understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed
to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the
discovery. Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
"Had you any
idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You
(blushing as she spoke) who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--"
"Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such
talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to
another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly-- encouraging
you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had the slightest suspicion, till
within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill's having the least regard for Jane
Fairfax. You may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you
accordingly."
"Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why
should you caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."
"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject," replied
Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there was a time--and not very
distant either--when you gave me reason to understand that you did care about
him?"
"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so
mistake me?" turning away distressed.
"Harriet!" cried Emma, after a
moment's pause--"What do you mean?-- Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake
you!--Am I to suppose then?--"
She could not speak another word.--Her
voice was lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should
answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face
turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it
was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.
"I should not have
thought it possible," she began, "that you could have misunderstood me! I know
we agreed never to name him-- but considering how infinitely superior he is to
every body else, I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed
to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would
ever look at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than
to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you
should have been so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you
entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I should have
considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think of him.
At first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that
there had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);-- I
should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought it possible--But
if you, who had been always acquainted with him--"
"Harriet!" cried
Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us understand each other now, without
the possibility of farther mistake. Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"
"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else-- and
so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."
"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that you
then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could almost assert
that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank
Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of."
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!"
"My dear Harriet,
I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on the occasion. I told you
that I did not wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he had
rendered you, it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing
yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning even what
your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.--The
impression of it is strong on my memory."
"Oh, dear," cried Harriet,
"now I recollect what you mean; but I was thinking of something very different
at the time. It was not the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I
meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious
circumstance-- of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton
would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room.
That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that
was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to every other
being upon earth."
"Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most
unfortunate-- most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?"
"You
would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At least, however,
I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the other had been the person;
and now--it is possible--"
She paused a few moments. Emma could not
speak.
"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you
should feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You
must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But I
hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if-- strange as it may appear--. But
you know they were your own words, that more wonderful things had happened,
matches of greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill
and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have
occurred before-- and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to-- if
Mr. Knightley should really--if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear
Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put
difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure."
Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look at her in
consternation, and hastily said,
"Have you any idea of Mr.
Knightley's returning your affection?"
"Yes," replied Harriet
modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say that I have."
Emma's eyes
were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude,
for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with
her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress.
She touched-- she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much
worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank
Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet's having some
hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr.
Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as
her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a
clearness which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting
by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had
been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her
with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world.
Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--
some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice by
Harriet--(there would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed herself
loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required that she should not be made unhappy
by any coldness now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with
calmness, with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit
that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet
had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so
voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve to be slighted by the person,
whose counsels had never led her right.-- Rousing from reflection, therefore,
and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting
accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first
introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and
lost.-- Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad to be
called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend
as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history of her hopes
with great, though trembling delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as
she listened, were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less. Her
voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a
development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of
sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.-- She listened with much inward
suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or
well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be; but it
contained, when separated from all the feebleness and tautology of the
narration, a substance to sink her spirit-- especially with the corroborating
circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most
improved opinion of Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a
difference in his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.--Emma knew
that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to his expectation. From
that evening, or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her to
think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more
than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different manner
towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and
more aware of it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often come
and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be
acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case. She had often
observed the change, to almost the same extent.-- Harriet repeated expressions
of approbation and praise from him-- and Emma felt them to be in the closest
agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for
being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
feelings.-- She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt
on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory, many little
particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal
from one chair to another, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been
unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half
an hour's relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them,
had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences
to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not without some
degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first, was his walking with her apart
from the others, in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walking some
time before Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her
from the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more
particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way
indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost
asking her, whether her affections were engaged.-- But as soon as she (Miss
Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began
talking about farming:-- The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly
half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his
being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not
stay five minutes--and his having told her, during their conversation, that
though he must go to London, it was very much against his inclination that he
left home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to
her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article
marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two
circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venture the following
question. "Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you
thought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--
he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion
with spirit.
"Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr.
Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be
suspected of it."
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed
to her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she,
"but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be the
rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and
that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful."
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter
feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side, to enable her to
say on reply,
"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr.
Knightley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman
the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does."
Harriet
seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was
only saved from raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have been
dreadful penance, by the sound of her father's footsteps. He was coming through
the hall. Harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. "She could not compose
herself-- Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through another
door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma's
feelings: "Oh God! that I had never seen her!"
The rest of the day,
the following night, were hardly enough for her thoughts.--She was bewildered
amidst the confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours.
Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of
humiliation to her.--How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions
she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the
blindness of her own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about, she tried
her own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every posture, she
perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others
in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself in a degree
yet more mortifying; that she was wretched, and should probably find this day
but the beginning of wretchedness.
To understand, thoroughly
understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. To that point went every
leisure moment which her father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of
involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear
to her, as every feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, such
influence begun?-- When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which
Frank Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back; she
compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in her estimation,
from the time of the latter's becoming known to her-- and as they must at any
time have been compared by her, had it-- oh! had it, by any blessed felicity,
occurred to her, to institute the comparison.--She saw that there never had been
a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or
when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in
persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been
entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart--and, in short,
that she had never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!
This was
the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the knowledge of
herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she reached; and without being
long in reaching it.-- She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every
sensation but the one revealed to her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.-- Every
other part of her mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had
she believed herself in the secret of every body's feelings; with unpardonable
arrogance proposed to arrange every body's destiny. She was proved to have been
universally mistaken; and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done
mischief. She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared,
on Mr. Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on
her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his
attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
Harriet's;--and even were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet
at all but for her folly.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a
union to distance every wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill
and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison,
exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
thought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an elevation on her side! Such
a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in
the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would
prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the
thousand inconveniences to himself.--Could it be?--No; it was impossible. And
yet it was far, very far, from impossible.--Was it a new circumstance for a man
of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for
one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek
him?--Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent,
incongruous--or for chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the
human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left
her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not, with a
folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable
young man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to
which she ought to belong-- all would have been safe; none of this dreadful
sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the
presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy
herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!-- But Harriet was
less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.-- Her inferiority, whether of
mind or situation, seemed little felt.-- She had seemed more sensible of Mr.
Elton's being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley's.-- Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to
give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but herself had
taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and that her claims
were great to a high worldly establishment?-- If Harriet, from being humble,
were grown vain, it was her doing too.
CHAPTER XII
Till now that she was threatened with
its loss, Emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first
with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so,
and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had been.--Long,
very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no female connexions of his
own, there had been only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and
she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had
herself been first with him for many years past. She had not deserved it; she
had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully
opposing him, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he
would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still,
from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved
her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to improve her, and an
anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature had at all shared. In spite
of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?--
When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presented
themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think
herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr.
Knightley. She could not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of
blindness in his attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of its
impartiality.-- How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How
directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too
strongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling
softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.-- She had no hope,
nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection
for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight
one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be
overrating his regard for her.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the
consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life. Could she
be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all, she believed she should
be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and
her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield
lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her
peace would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would
be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for
him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not marry, even if
she were asked by Mr. Knightley. It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might
be disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she
might at least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should
see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how to
admit that she could be blinded here.-- He was expected back every day. The
power of observation would be soon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her
thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing
Harriet.-- It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good, to
be talking of it farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she
could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet's confidence. To talk
would be only to irritate.--She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively,
to beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be
her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one topic had better
be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met
again, except in the company of others--she objected only to a tete-a-tete--they
might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversation of
yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved, and was grateful.
This
point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's thoughts a little
from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last
twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-law
elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in
pleasure to herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an
interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone
through his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having
then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with much
more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour
spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkward feelings,
could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the
most of it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in
a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at
all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to
defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill
could be reconciled to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every
thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--
but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew his
approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not conceive that any
suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any
consequence; for "such things," he observed, "always got about." Emma smiled,
and felt that Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in
short--and very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady.
She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn
how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter--who
proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almost an
affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so
disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every
body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for
them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to
invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on being
pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by
gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to
converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious
silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude
she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the
cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the
present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced
that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up
within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased
with all that she had said on the subject.
"On the misery of what she
had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston,
"she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, that since
I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say,
that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'-- and the quivering
lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart."
"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?"
"Wrong! No one, I believe, can
blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. `The consequence,' said
she, `has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after
all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to
all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and
the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to
be.' `Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, `that I was taught wrong. Do not
let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought
me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the
excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making
the story known to Colonel Campbell.'"
"Poor girl!" said Emma again.
"She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment
only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have
overpowered her judgment."
"Yes, I have no doubt of her being
extremely attached to him."
"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing,
"that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy."
"On your
side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of
that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given
us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself
in," she said, "was that of making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having
done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and
irritable to a degree that must have been-- that had been--hard for him to bear.
`I did not make the allowances,' said she, `which I ought to have done, for his
temper and spirits-- his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playfulness
of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have
been as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.' She then began to
speak of you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness;
and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever
I had an opportunity, to thank you--I could not thank you too much--for every
wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never
received any proper acknowledgment from herself."
"If I did not know
her to be happy now," said Emma, seriously, "which, in spite of every little
drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear these
thanks;--for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and
the good I have done Miss Fairfax!--Well (checking herself, and trying to be
more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these
interesting particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she
is very good-- I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should
be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers."
Such a
conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought well of Frank
in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her
defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of reason, and at
least equal affection-- but she had too much to urge for Emma's attention; it
was soon gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to
listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, "We have not yet had the letter we are
so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come," she was obliged to
pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she
could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
"Are you well, my Emma?" was Mrs. Weston's parting question.
"Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me
intelligence of the letter as soon as possible."
Mrs. Weston's
communications furnished Emma with more food for unpleasant reflection, by
increasing her esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice towards
Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance
with her, and blushed for the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some
measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley's known wishes, in paying
that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to
know her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to
find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all probability,
have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.--Birth, abilities,
and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to be
received with gratitude; and the other--what was she?--Supposing even that they
had never become intimate friends; that she had never been admitted into Miss
Fairfax's confidence on this important matter-- which was most probable--still,
in knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from
the abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had
not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so unpardonably
imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a subject of material
distress to the delicacy of Jane's feelings, by the levity or carelessness of
Frank Churchill's. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the former, since her
coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.
She must have been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three
together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax's peace in a thousand
instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would
bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy,
at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set
in, and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was
despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the
longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only
be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's
side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded
her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston's
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and
dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's
attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture
which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter, had proved
erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.--But her
present forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction. The
prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely
dispelled-- that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that
might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be
comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits only
of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie
there even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston's heart and time would be
occupied by it. They should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her
husband also.--Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury.
They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All that were
good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be
added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within their reach?
Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!-- No longer
walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for
their's!--How was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for
Harriet's sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet's
society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the
dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the best blessings of
existence; what could be increasing Emma's wretchedness but the reflection never
far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it
came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or a
heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds--and the only
source whence any thing like consolation or composure could be drawn, was in the
resolution of her own better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in
spirit and gaiety might be the following and every future winter of her life to
the past, it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and
leave her less to regret when it were gone.
CHAPTER XIII
The weather continued much the same
all the following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy,
seemed to reign at Hartfield--but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed
into a softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was
summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma
resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight,
smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been
more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually
introduce; and on Mr. Perry's coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged
hour to give her father, she lost no time ill hurrying into the
shrubbery.--There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she
had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden
door, and coming towards her.--It was the first intimation of his being returned
from London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as unquestionably
sixteen miles distant.--There was time only for the quickest arrangement of
mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The
"How d'ye do's" were quiet and constrained on each side. She asked after their
mutual friends; they were all well.--When had he left them?--Only that morning.
He must have had a wet ride.--Yes.--He meant to walk with her, she found. "He
had just looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
being out of doors."--She thought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and
the first possible cause for it, suggested by her fears, was, that he had
perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by the
manner in which they had been received.
They walked together. He was
silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of
her face than it suited her to give. And this belief produced another dread.
Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be
watching for encouragement to begin.--She did not, could not, feel equal to lead
the way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear
this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She considered--resolved--and,
trying to smile, began--
"You have some news to hear, now you are
come back, that will rather surprize you."
"Have I?" said he quietly,
and looking at her; "of what nature?"
"Oh! the best nature in the
world--a wedding."
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she
intended to say no more, he replied,
"If you mean Miss Fairfax and
Frank Churchill, I have heard that already."
"How is it possible?"
cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it
occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.
"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning,
and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more
composure,
"You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for
you have had your suspicions.--I have not forgotten that you once tried to give
me a caution.--I wish I had attended to it--but--(with a sinking voice and a
heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."
For a moment or
two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular
interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his
heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,
"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.--Your own excellent
sense--your exertions for your father's sake--I know you will not allow
yourself--." Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and
subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest friendship--Indignation--Abominable
scoundrel!"-- And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon
be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a
better fate."
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover
from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
"You are very kind--but you are mistaken--and I must set you right.--
I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on,
led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very
foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to
unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in
the secret earlier."
"Emma!" cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are
you, indeed?"-- but checking himself--"No, no, I understand you--forgive me--I
am pleased that you can say even so much.--He is no object of regret, indeed!
and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of
more than your reason.--Fortunate that your affections were not farther
entangled!--I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the
degree of what you felt-- I could only be certain that there was a
preference--and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.--He is a
disgrace to the name of man.--And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young
woman?-- Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature."
"Mr.
Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused-- "I am in a
very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet,
perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be
ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we
are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing
exactly the reverse.-- But I never have."
He listened in perfect
silence. She wished him to speak, but he would not. She supposed she must say
more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be
obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on, however.
"I have very little to say for my own conduct.--I was tempted by his attentions,
and allowed myself to appear pleased.-- An old story, probably--a common
case--and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may
not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many
circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston--he was
continually here--I always found him very pleasant--and, in short, for (with a
sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this
at last--my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly,
however--for some time, indeed-- I have had no idea of their meaning any
thing.--I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on
my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been
attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never
wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with
another.--It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could
be more effectually blinded than myself--except that I was not blinded--that it
was my good fortune--that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him."
She had hoped for an answer here--for a few words to say that her
conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could
judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
"I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.--I can suppose,
however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has been but
trifling.--And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out
well.--With such a woman he has a chance.--I have no motive for wishing him
ill--and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character
and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well."
"I have no doubt of
their being happy together," said Emma; "I believe them to be very mutually and
very sincerely attached."
"He is a most fortunate man!" returned Mr.
Knightley, with energy. "So early in life--at three-and-twenty--a period when,
if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have
drawn such a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation,
has before him!--Assured of the love of such a woman--the disinterested love,
for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in
his favour,-- equality of situation--I mean, as far as regards society, and all
the habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one-- and
that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must
increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she
wants.--A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he
takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard,
must, I think, be the happiest of mortals.--Frank Churchill is, indeed, the
favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.--He meets with a young
woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by
negligent treatment--and had he and all his family sought round the world for a
perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.--His aunt is in
the way.--His aunt dies.--He has only to speak.--His friends are eager to
promote his happiness.-- He had used every body ill--and they are all delighted
to forgive him.-- He is a fortunate man indeed!"
"You speak as if you
envied him."
"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the
object of my envy."
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within
half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject,
if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally
different--the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to
begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
"You will not ask
me what is the point of envy.--You are determined, I see, to have no
curiosity.--You are wise--but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you
will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment."
"Oh!
then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little time,
consider, do not commit yourself."
"Thank you," said he, in an accent
of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.
Emma could
not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her-- perhaps to consult
her;--cost her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution,
or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by
representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of
indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind
as his.--They had reached the house.
"You are going in, I suppose?"
said he.
"No,"--replied Emma--quite confirmed by the depressed manner
in which he still spoke--"I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not
gone." And, after proceeding a few steps, she added-- "I stopped you
ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.--But if
you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any
thing that you may have in contemplation--as a friend, indeed, you may command
me.--I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."
"As a friend!"--repeated Mr. Knightley.--"Emma, that I fear is a
word--No, I have no wish--Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?-- I have gone too
far already for concealment.--Emma, I accept your offer-- Extraordinary as it
may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.--Tell me, then, have
I no chance of ever succeeding?"
He stopped in his earnestness to
look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.
"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event
of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma--tell me at once. Say
`No,' if it is to be said."-- She could really say nothing.--"You are silent,"
he cried, with great animation; "absolutely silent! at present I ask no more."
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The
dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent
feeling.
"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a
tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
convincing.--"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But
you know what I am.--You hear nothing but truth from me.--I have blamed you, and
lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have
borne it.-- Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as
you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend
them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.-- But you understand
me.--Yes, you see, you understand my feelings-- and will return them if you can.
At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."
While he
spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of
thought, had been able--and yet without losing a word-- to catch and comprehend
the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's hopes had been entirely
groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her
own--that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she
had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her
own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her
discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself.--And not
only was there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant
happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped
her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.--It was all the service
she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment
which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer his affection from
herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two-- or even the more
simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without
vouchsafing any motive, because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not.
She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity
run mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain.
She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but
her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been
before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading.
Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.--She spoke then, on being so
entreated.-- What did she say?--Just what she ought, of course. A lady always
does.-- She said enough to shew there need not be despair--and to invite him to
say more himself. He had despaired at one period; he had received such an
injunction to caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;--she had
begun by refusing to hear him.--The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;--her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation
which she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!--She felt its
inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek
no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth
belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a
little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the
conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.-- Mr.
Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or
a heart more disposed to accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly
unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with
no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank
Churchill's engagement, with no selfish view, no view at all, but of
endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.--The
rest had been the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on
his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth
to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;--but it had
been no present hope--he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over
judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach
her.--The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more
enchanting.-- The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create,
if he could, was already his!--Within half an hour, he had passed from a
thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness,
that it could bear no other name.
Her change was equal.--This one
half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had
cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.--On his
side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the
expectation, of Frank Churchill.--He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of
Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably
enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had
taken him from the country.--The Box Hill party had decided him on going away.
He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged
attentions.--He had gone to learn to be indifferent.-- But he had gone to a
wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman
wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma--differing only
in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy
before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.--He had
stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day--till this very morning's post had
conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.--Then, with the gladness which must be
felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank
Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so
much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home
through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this
sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore
the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low.--Frank Churchill
was a villain.-- He heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank
Churchill's character was not desperate.--She was his own Emma, by hand and
word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank
Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.
CHAPTER XIV
What
totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from what she had
brought out!--she had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of
suffering;--she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such happiness
moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have
passed away.
They sat down to tea--the same party round the same
table-- how often it had been collected!--and how often had her eyes fallen on
the same shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the
western sun!--But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it;
and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her usual self to be
the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor
Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in the breast of
that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not
have taken cold from his ride.--Could he have seen the heart, he would have
cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the
impending evil, without the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in
the looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the
articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much
self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him in
return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma's fever
continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and
subdued--and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an
evening, she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her
feel, that even her happiness must have some alloy. Her father--and Harriet. She
could not be alone without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and
how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect
to her father, it was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr.
Knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the
most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.--She even wept over the
idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement;
but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away,
it might become an increase of comfort to him.-- How to do her best by Harriet,
was of more difficult decision;-- how to spare her from any unnecessary pain;
how to make her any possible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?-- On
these subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great-- and her mind had
to pass again and again through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that
had ever surrounded it.-- She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter; that
it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time from
Highbury, and--indulging in one scheme more-- nearly resolve, that it might be
practicable to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square.--Isabella had been
pleased with Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her some
amusement.-- She did not think it in Harriet's nature to escape being benefited
by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.-- At any
rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every
thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when
they must all be together again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter
to Harriet; an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that
Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all
too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again
with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a
proper share of the happiness of the evening before.
He had not left
her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclination for
thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls--a very
thick letter;--she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of
reading it.-- She was now in perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no
explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself-- and as for
understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.--It must
be waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;--a note
from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the
enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt
of its happy effect.--I think we shall never materially disagree about the
writer again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.--We are quite well.--
This letter has been the cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling
lately.--I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial
morning; and though you will never own being affected by weather, I think every
body feels a north-east wind.-- I felt for your dear father very much in the
storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing
last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill. Yours ever, A. W.
[To Mrs. Weston.] WINDSOR-JULY. MY DEAR MADAM,
"If
I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expected
or not, I know it will be read with candour and indulgence.-- You are all
goodness, and I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow
for some parts of my past conduct.-- But I have been forgiven by one who had
still more to resent. My courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for
the prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such success in two
applications for pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of
yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.--You
must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I first
arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which was to be
kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself in a situation
requiring such concealment, is another question. I shall not discuss it here.
For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house,
sashed windows below, and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her
openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to
require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at
Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in
charity to a secret engagement.-- Had she refused, I should have gone mad.--But
you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?--What did you look
forward to?-- To any thing, every thing--to time, chance, circumstance, slow
effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every
possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in
obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther
explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband's son, and
the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance
of houses or lands can ever equal the value of.--See me, then, under these
circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;--and here I am conscious
of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back and see
that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you were the
person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father's
compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from his house,
so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour, during the very happy
fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension,
excepting on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part
of my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires
very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest
friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I ought to
add, with the deepest humiliation.-- A few words which dropped from him
yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge myself liable
to.--My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.--
In order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more
than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately
thrown.--I cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object--but I am
sure you will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her
indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.--
Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a
young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any
tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.--She
received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which
exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From our relative
situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to be so.--Whether Miss
Woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight,
I cannot say;--when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within
a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without
suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some
degree.-- She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must have
penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject
becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by
surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember her telling me at the
ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.-- I
hope this history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my
father as great extenuation of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as
having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either.
Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good
wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly
affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as myself.--
Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key
to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as
often as might be, and with the least suspicion. If you remember any
queernesses, set them all to the right account.-- Of the pianoforte so much
talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was
absolutely unknown to Miss F--, who would never have allowed me to send it, had
any choice been given her.-- The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole
engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will
soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.-- No description can
describe her. She must tell you herself what she is-- yet not by word, for never
was there a human creature who would so designedly suppress her own
merit.--Since I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have
heard from her.-- She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never
complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks. I know
you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is
paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand
particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered,
how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from
happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have met with, of
her excellence and patience, and my uncle's generosity, I am mad with joy: but
when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve
to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again!--But I must
not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to encroach.--I must still
add to this long letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could
not give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light,
the unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for
though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to
me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early measures,
but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not an hour to lose. I
should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt every
scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement.-- But I had no choice.
The hasty engagement she had entered into with that woman--Here, my dear madam,
I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.--I have
been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make the
rest of my letter what it ought to be.--It is, in fact, a most mortifying
retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that my manners
to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She
disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.--My plea of concealing the
truth she did not think sufficient.--She was displeased; I thought unreasonably
so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and
cautious: I thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed
her judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I
should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.--We
quarrelled.-- Do you remember the morning spent at Donwell?--There every little
dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her
walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer
it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable.
Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree of
discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one hour
with objectionable particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting the
next to a proposal which might have made every previous caution useless?--Had we
been met walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been
suspected.-- I was mad enough, however, to resent.--I doubted her affection. I
doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my
side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to Miss
W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke
her resentment in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.-- In short, my
dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I
returned the same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with you till
the next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even
then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was
the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined that she
should make the first advances.--I shall always congratulate myself that you
were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I can
hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her
appears in the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was
really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs.
Elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled
me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance
which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should
loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has known.-- "Jane,"
indeed!--You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by
that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in hearing it
bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and
all the insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon
have done.-- She closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely,
and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.-- She felt
the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved
it.--This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt's death. I
answered it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the
multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent
with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk;
and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy
her, remained without any uneasiness.--I was rather disappointed that I did not
hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy,
and--may I add?-- too cheerful in my views to be captious.--We removed to
Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters
all returned!--and a few lines at the same time by the post, stating her extreme
surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as
silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally
desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as
possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested,
that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury within
a week, I would forward them after that period to her at--: in short, the full
direction to Mr. Smallridge's, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been doing.
It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which I knew her to
possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former
letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not
she have seemed to threaten me.--Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had
actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.-- What
was to be done?--One thing only.--I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction
I could not hope to be listened to again.-- I spoke; circumstances were in my
favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I
could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last,
poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the
marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be of a different
sort.--Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the
cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I
reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her
wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge
of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her
alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the
object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I
had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer,
than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my
dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and
a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand
for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a
way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me
the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune
is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself, Your obliged and
affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
CHAPTER XV
This letter must make its way to
Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the
contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she
came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was
interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the
subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard
for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must
have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the
whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he
had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very
sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss
Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could
he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as
ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came
again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to
be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to
blame in his conduct.
"I shall be very glad to look it over," said
he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night."
But
that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it
by him.
"I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however,
almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's
letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been
taken with such indifference."
He proceeded a little farther, reading
to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary
opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's.
We will not be severe."
"It will be natural for me," he added shortly
afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that
I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--"
"Not at all. I should wish it."
Mr. Knightley returned to
his reading with greater alacrity.
"He trifles here," said he, "as to
the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to
urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--`His father's
disposition:'-- he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine
temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr.
Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very
true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."
"And I have not
forgotten," said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he
would. You pass it over very handsomely-- but you were perfectly right."
"I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--
had you not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him."
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it
aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a
word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject
required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus--
"Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous
game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.-- No judge of his own
manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of
little besides his own convenience.-- Fancying you to have fathomed his secret.
Natural enough!-- his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in
others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not
every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in
all our dealings with each other?"
Emma agreed to it, and with a
blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere
explanation of.
"You had better go on," said she.
He did
so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a
very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it
might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot
comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows
she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented
the instrument's coming if she could."
After this, he made some
progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved
shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
"I perfectly agree with you, sir,"--was then his remark. "You did
behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through
what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting
to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller
pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his
sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have
been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must
have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he
could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;
but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that
she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she
should have been in such a state of punishment."
Emma knew that he
was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour
had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his
next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the
smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly
withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to
exist.
"There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends,
the Eltons," was his next observation.--"His feelings are natural.-- What!
actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a
source of repentance and misery to each-- she dissolved it.--What a view this
gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--"
"Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers."
"I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the
letter. "`Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?"
"She
had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children-- a dear friend of
Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs.
Elton bears the disappointment?"
"Say nothing, my dear Emma, while
you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon
have done. What a letter the man writes!"
"I wish you would read it
with a kinder spirit towards him."
"Well, there is feeling here.--He
does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt
of his being fond of her. `Dearer, much dearer than ever.' I hope he may long
continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal
thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--`Happier than I deserve.'
Come, he knows himself there. `Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good
fortune.'--Those were Miss Woodhouse's words, were they?-- And a fine
ending--and there is the letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name
for him, was it?"
"You do not appear so well satisfied with his
letter as I am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the better
of him for it. I hope it does him some service with you."
"Yes,
certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of inconsideration and
thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion in thinking him likely to be
happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached to
Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of being
constantly with her, I am very ready to believe his character will improve, and
acquire from hers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And
now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at
present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.
Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one
subject."
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected,
gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in
love with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the
happiness of her father. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "While her
dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her. She could
never quit him." Part only of this answer, however, was admitted. The
impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as
herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He
had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to
induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it
feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive
himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation
would be a risk of her father's comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must
not be hazarded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!--No, he felt that it ought
not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he
trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was,
that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father's happiness
in other words his life--required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be
his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had
her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it;
but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all
the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be
sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living
constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much,
very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to
think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his
wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very
long and calm consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the
whole morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
"Ah! there is one
difficulty unprovided for," cried Emma. "I am sure William Larkins will not like
it. You must get his consent before you ask mine."
She promised,
however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it,
with the intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is
remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in which she was
now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of
injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had formerly been so
tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the possible difference to the poor
little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and
found amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr.
Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at Hartfield-- the
more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to
lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every
drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and
cheerlessness before her!-- Such a partner in all those duties and cares to
which time must be giving increase of melancholy!
She would have been
too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve
and advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded from
Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor
Harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would
be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any
deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a
dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a
peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of
unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be
forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very
early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;-- not
like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate
for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it
really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love with more
than three men in one year.
CHAPTER
XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as
desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by
letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet
expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or
apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of
resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the
desirableness of their being separate.-- It might be only her own consciousness;
but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under
such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella's
invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it,
without resorting to invention.--There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,
and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her--and
though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to
have Harriet under her care.--When it was thus settled on her sister's side,
Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.-- Harriet was to
go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr.
Woodhouse's carriage.--It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet
was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr.
Knightley's visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true
happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something most
painful, which had haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was
near her, how much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring
by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of
Harriet at Mrs. Goddard's, or in London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference
in Emma's sensations; but she could not think of her in London without objects
of curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her
out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed
directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a
communication before her, one which she only could be competent to make-- the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing to do
with it at present.--She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston
were safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period
among those she loved-- and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation
before the appointed time.--A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind,
to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of
this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.-- She ought to go--and she
was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing
every other motive of goodwill. It would be a secret satisfaction; but the
consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest
with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She
went--she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not been into the
house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress
as had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her sufferings had
been unsuspected.-- The fear of being still unwelcome, determined her, though
assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.--
She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates
had before made so happily intelligible.--No; she heard nothing but the instant
reply of, "Beg her to walk up;"--and a moment afterwards she was met on the
stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other reception of her
were felt sufficient.-- Emma had never seen her look so well, so lovely, so
engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing
which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.-- She came forward with
an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,
"This is
most kind, indeed!--Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express--I hope
you will believe--Excuse me for being so entirely without words."
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of
Mrs. Elton's voice from the sitting-room had not checked her, and made it
expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations
into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs.
Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which accounted for the previous
tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a
humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual
graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon
believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton's thoughts, and understand why she was,
like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax's confidence, and
fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people. Emma
saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face; and while paying
her own compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old
lady's replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a
letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return
it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,
"We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not
want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. I
only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not
offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You
would have doated on her, had you gone.--But not a word more. Let us be
discreet-- quite on our good behaviour.--Hush!--You remember those lines-- I
forget the poem at this moment:
"For when a lady's in the case, "You
know all other things give place."
Now I say, my dear, in our case,
for lady, read----mum! a word to the wise.--I am in a fine flow of spirits, an't
I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.--My representation, you
see, has quite appeased her."
And again, on Emma's merely turning her
head to look at Mrs. Bates's knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
"I mentioned no names, you will observe.--Oh! no; cautious as a minister of
state. I managed it extremely well."
Emma could not doubt. It was a
palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all talked
a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself
abruptly addressed with,
"Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy
little friend here is charmingly recovered?--Do not you think her cure does
Perry the highest credit?--(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.)
Upon my word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!-- Oh! if you had
seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!"-- And when Mrs. Bates was saying
something to Emma, whispered farther, "We do not say a word of any assistance
that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from
Windsor.--Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit."
"I have scarce
had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse," she shortly afterwards began,
"since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was
something wanting. Things did not seem--that is, there seemed a little cloud
upon the spirits of some.--So it appeared to me at least, but I might be
mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What
say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again,
while the fine weather lasts?-- It must be the same party, you know, quite the
same party, not one exception."
Soon after this Miss Bates came in,
and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to
herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and
impatience to say every thing.
"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you
are all kindness.--It is impossible to say--Yes, indeed, I quite
understand--dearest Jane's prospects-- that is, I do not mean.--But she is
charmingly recovered.-- How is Mr. Woodhouse?--I am so glad.--Quite out of my
power.-- Such a happy little circle as you find us here.--Yes, indeed.--
Charming young man!--that is--so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!-- such
attention to Jane!"--And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight
towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little
show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now
graciously overcome.-- After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a
guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,
"Yes, here I am, my good
friend; and here I have been so long, that anywhere else I should think it
necessary to apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord and
master. He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you."
"What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?-- That will be a
favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton's
time is so engaged."
"Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.--He really is
engaged from morning to night.--There is no end of people's coming to him, on
some pretence or other.--The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are
always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without
him.--`Upon my word, Mr. E.,' I often say, `rather you than I.-- I do not know
what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many
applicants.'--Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an
unpardonable degree.--I believe I have not played a bar this
fortnight.--However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait
on you all." And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma--"A
congratulatory visit, you know.--Oh! yes, quite indispensable."
Miss
Bates looked about her, so happily!--
"He promised to come to me as
soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut
up together in deep consultation.--Mr. E. is Knightley's right hand."
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, "Is Mr. Elton gone on
foot to Donwell?--He will have a hot walk."
"Oh! no, it is a meeting
at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is
apt to speak only of those who lead.--I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every
thing their own way."
"Have not you mistaken the day?" said Emma. "I
am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.--Mr.
Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday."
"Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day," was the abrupt answer,
which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton's side.-- "I do
believe," she continued, "this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We
never heard of such things at Maple Grove."
"Your parish there was
small," said Jane.
"Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never
heard the subject talked of."
"But it is proved by the smallness of
the school, which I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your
sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty
children."
"Ah! you clever creature, that's very true. What a
thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should
make, if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would
produce perfection.--Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that some people
may not think you perfection already.--But hush!-- not a word, if you please."
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,
not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of
distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it
could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance.
His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity.
"Very
pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my
friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!-- But you knew what a dutiful
creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and
master appeared.-- Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these young ladies
a sample of true conjugal obedience--for who can say, you know, how soon it may
be wanted?"
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed
thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent
object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he
had had for nothing.
"When I got to Donwell," said he, "Knightley
could not be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this
morning, and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till
one."
"Donwell!" cried his wife.--"My dear Mr. E., you have not been
to Donwell!--You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown."
"No, no, that's to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley
to-day on that very account.--Such a dreadful broiling morning!-- I went over
the fields too--(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much
the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am not at all
pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper declared she
knew nothing of my being expected.-- Very extraordinary!--And nobody knew at all
which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps
into his woods.-- Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!--Can
you explain it?"
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very
extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
ought to do,) "I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all
people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten!--My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure he
must.--Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;-- and his servants forgot
it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the
Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and
remiss.--I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our
sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very
cheap indeed.--She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it."
"I
met William Larkins," continued Mr. Elton, "as I got near the house, and he told
me I should not find his master at home, but I did not believe him.--William
seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was come to his master lately,
he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do
with William's wants, but it really is of very great importance that I should
see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious
inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose."
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all probability
she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved
from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William
Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax
determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it
gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,
"It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you not been
surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject,
to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.--I
feel that I should certainly have been impertinent."
"Oh!" cried
Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming
to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure--"there would have been
no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have
gratified me more than by expressing an interest--. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse,
(speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct,
very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of
my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to
such a degree as to--I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long
to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due.
But, unfortunately--in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend--"
"Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are," cried Emma warmly, and
taking her hand. "You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be
supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even--"
"You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.-- So cold and
artificial!--I had always a part to act.--It was a life of deceit!--I know that
I must have disgusted you."
"Pray say no more. I feel that all the
apologies should be on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do
whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time
there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?"
"Very."
"And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you--
just as I begin to know you."
"Oh! as to all that, of course nothing
can be thought of yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."
"Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps," replied Emma,
smiling--"but, excuse me, it must be thought of."
The smile was
returned as Jane answered,
"You are very right; it has been thought
of. And I will own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our
living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three
months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will
be nothing more to wait for."
"Thank you, thank you.--This is just
what I wanted to be assured of.-- Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing
that is decided and open!-- Good-bye, good-bye."
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Weston's friends were all made
happy by her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be
increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She
had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it
was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of
Isabella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father
and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older--
and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to have his fireside
enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child
never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston-- no one could doubt that a daughter
would be most to her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew
how to teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
"She
has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she continued--"like La
Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and
Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more
perfect plan."
"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge
her even more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at
all. It will be the only difference."
"Poor child!" cried Emma; "at
that rate, what will become of her?"
"Nothing very bad.--The fate of
thousands. She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows
older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma.
I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in
me to be severe on them?"
Emma laughed, and replied: "But I had the
assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people.
I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it."
"Do
you?--I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:-- Miss Taylor gave you
principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do
harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture
me?-- and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a
disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to
myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not
think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of
fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen
at least."
"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very
often influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I am very
sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will
be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me,
except falling in love with her when she is thirteen."
"How often,
when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks--`Mr.
Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor's
leave'--something which, you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my
interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one."
"What
an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches in such
affectionate remembrance."
"`Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me,
`Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it
is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what."
"I remember once calling you `George,' in one of my amiable fits,
about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you
made no objection, I never did it again."
"And cannot you call me
`George' now?"
"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but `Mr.
Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs.
Elton, by calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing
and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not
say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in which N. takes M.
for better, for worse."
Emma grieved that she could not be more
openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered
her, to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly
follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
subject.--She could not enter on it.-- Harriet was very seldom mentioned between
them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but
Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some
appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that,
parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded
more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly
did, on Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to the
pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an
account of her visitor as could be expected; on her first arrival she had
thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a
dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not
appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.-- Isabella,
to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to
playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and
hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer; her
fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to
come down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her
back.
"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley.
"Here is his answer, if you like to see it."
It was the answer to the
communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand,
with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all
checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.
"John enters like
a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no
complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly
affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young
woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your
seeing what he writes."
"He writes like a sensible man," replied
Emma, when she had read the letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain
that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that
he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as
you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I
should not have believed him."
"My Emma, he means no such thing. He
only means--"
"He and I should differ very little in our estimation
of the two," interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps,
than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject."
"Emma, my dear Emma--"
"Oh!" she cried with more
thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait
till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he
will be much farther from doing you justice. He will think all the happiness,
all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I
may not sink into `poor Emma' with him at once.-- His tender compassion towards
oppressed worth can go no farther."
"Ah!" he cried, "I wish your
father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every
right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part
of John's letter-- did you notice it?--where he says, that my information did
not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing
something of the kind."
"If I understand your brother, he only means
so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems
perfectly unprepared for that."
"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he
should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not
conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him
at this time for my marrying any more than at another.-- But it was so, I
suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the
other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I
remember one evening the poor boys saying, `Uncle seems always tired now.'"
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that her
gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it
at home, and then at Randalls.-- But how to break it to her father at last!--She
had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley's absence, or when
it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it
off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning
she was to make.--She was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must
not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone
herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she
could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few
words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be obtained--which, she
trusted, would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote
the happiness of all-- she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means
Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person's company whom she
knew he loved, next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of having
always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal
better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss
Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled,
and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs.
Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a
melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always
there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for
the better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for
having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the
idea.--Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?-- He would not deny that he did,
she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so
glad to assist him?-- Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?--Would
not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That was all very true. Mr.
Knightley could not be there too often; he should be glad to see him every
day;--but they did see him every day as it was.--Why could not they go on as
they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the
worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do
the rest.-- To Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose
fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon used
to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.-- They had all the assistance
which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs.
Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most
serviceable light--first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one-- well
aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr.
Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom
he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and
having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that
some time or other-- in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very
bad if the marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part,
feigning no feelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.--She
had been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma first opened the
affair to her; but she saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no
scruple in urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley,
as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so
proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one point
of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that
now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other
creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having
thought of it, and wished it long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of
life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who
but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an
arrangement desirable!-- The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had
been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for a marriage between
Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a
continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself--but even
he had never been able to finish the subject better than by saying--"Those
matters will take care of themselves; the young people will find a way." But
here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It
was all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It
was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real,
rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby
on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of the happiest
women in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was perceiving
that the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.
The
news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston had his five
minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his
quickness of mind.-- He saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them
with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing;
and by the end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had always
foreseen it.
"It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These
matters are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them.
Only let me be told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any
suspicion."
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied
himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his
eldest daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of
course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was
no more than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time
of its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were
thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with
great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some
might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might
recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John
Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but
yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one
habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any
satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only
hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had
always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and, on the point of living at
Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!"-- But Mrs. Elton was very
much discomposed indeed.--"Poor Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for
him.--She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand
good qualities.-- How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in
love-- not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all pleasant
intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever
they asked him! But that would be all over now.-- Poor fellow!--No more
exploring parties to Donwell made for her. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs.
Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she
was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other
day.--Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near
Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the
first quarter.
CHAPTER
XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from
London would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it
one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr.
Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After the first chat of
pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone, began with,
"I
have something to tell you, Emma; some news."
"Good or bad?" said
she, quickly, looking up in his face.
"I do not know which it ought
to be called."
"Oh! good I am sure.--I see it in your countenance.
You are trying not to smile."
"I am afraid," said he, composing his
features, "I am very much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you
hear it."
"Indeed! but why so?--I can hardly imagine that any thing
which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too."
"There is one subject," he replied, "I hope but one, on which we do not think
alike." He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face.
"Does nothing occur to you?-- Do not you recollect?--Harriet Smith."
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she
knew not what.
"Have you heard from her yourself this morning?" cried
he. "You have, I believe, and know the whole."
"No, I have not; I
know nothing; pray tell me."
"You are prepared for the worst, I
see--and very bad it is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin."
Emma
gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared-- and her eyes, in eager
gaze, said, "No, this is impossible!" but her lips were closed.
"It
is so, indeed," continued Mr. Knightley; "I have it from Robert Martin himself.
He left me not half an hour ago."
She was still looking at him with
the most speaking amazement.
"You like it, my Emma, as little as I
feared.--I wish our opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may
be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and, in the
meanwhile, we need not talk much on the subject."
"You mistake me,
you quite mistake me," she replied, exerting herself. "It is not that such a
circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an
impossibility!--You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert
Martin. You cannot mean that he has even proposed to her again--yet. You only
mean, that he intends it."
"I mean that he has done it," answered Mr.
Knightley, with smiling but determined decision, "and been accepted."
"Good God!" she cried.--"Well!"--Then having recourse to her workbasket, in
excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of
delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she added,
"Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. How, where,
when?--Let me know it all. I never was more surprized--but it does not make me
unhappy, I assure you.--How--how has it been possible?"
"It is a very
simple story. He went to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take
charge of some papers which I was wanting to send to John.--He delivered these
papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to join their party the
same evening to Astley's. They were going to take the two eldest boys to
Astley's. The party was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John--and Miss
Smith. My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were
all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next
day--which he did--and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an
opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.--She
made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is deserving. He came down by
yesterday's coach, and was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to
report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all
that I can relate of the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a
much longer history when you see her.-- She will give you all the minute
particulars, which only woman's language can make interesting.--In our
communications we deal only in the great.--However, I must say, that Robert
Martin's heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and that he did
mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box at
Astley's, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he
followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time they were in such a
crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy."
He stopped.--Emma dared
not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a
most unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think
her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he
added,
"Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now
make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His
situation is an evil--but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend;
and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him
more. His good sense and good principles would delight you.--As far as the man
is concerned, you could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in
society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure you,
Emma.--You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare
Robert Martin."
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now
brought herself not to smile too broadly--she did--cheerfully answering,
"You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
Harriet is doing extremely well. Her connexions may be worse than his. In
respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been
silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how suddenly
it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!--for I had reason to believe
her very lately more determined against him, much more, than she was before."
"You ought to know your friend best," replied Mr. Knightley; "but I
should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very,
very determined against any young man who told her he loved her."
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, "Upon my word, I believe you know
her quite as well as I do.--But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she
has absolutely and downright accepted him. I could suppose she might in
time--but can she already?-- Did not you misunderstand him?--You were both
talking of other things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills--and might
not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?--It was not
Harriet's hand that he was certain of--it was the dimensions of some famous ox."
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and
Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma's feelings, and so strong
was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet's side, so
fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, "No, I hope I know
better than to think of Robert Martin," that she was really expecting the
intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It could not be otherwise.
"Do you dare say this?" cried Mr. Knightley. "Do you dare to suppose
me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?-- What do you
deserve?"
"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never
put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer.
Are you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet
now are?"
"I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly,
"that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing
doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must
be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but
Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends.
Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I
assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in
the course of this day."
"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma,
with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy."
"You
are materially changed since we talked on this subject before."
"I
hope so--for at that time I was a fool."
"And I am changed also; for
I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken
some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had
reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her.
I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor
Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am
convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very
seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and
utility of domestic life.-- Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you
for."
"Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.--"Ah! poor Harriet!"
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards
closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone.
Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her
to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she
had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be
fit for nothing rational.
Her father's business was to announce
James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily
drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may
be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.--What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him,
whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but
that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection
in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in
her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very
midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful
disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart--such a Harriet!
Now
there would be pleasure in her returning--Every thing would be a pleasure. It
would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of
her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity
of concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise,
equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. She
could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her
disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and
happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but
always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at
the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or
poor Mrs. Weston would be disappointed.
They arrived.--Mrs. Weston
was alone in the drawing-room:-- but hardly had they been told of the baby, and
Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse
was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.
"It is Frank and Miss Fairfax," said Mrs. Weston. "I was just going to tell you
of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till
to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.--They
are coming in, I hope."
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma
was extremely glad to see him--but there was a degree of confusion--a number of
embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with
a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat
down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began
to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank
Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of
pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was
fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation-- or of courage and
opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,
"I have to
thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs.
Weston's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope
you do not retract what you then said."
"No, indeed," cried Emma,
most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake
hands with you--and to give you joy in person."
He thanked her with
all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his
gratitude and happiness.
"Is not she looking well?" said he, turning
his eyes towards Jane. "Better than she ever used to do?--You see how my father
and Mrs. Weston doat upon her."
But his spirits were soon rising
again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the
Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.--Emma blushed, and forbade its being
pronounced in her hearing.
"I can never think of it," she cried,
"without extreme shame."
"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or
ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?--I mean of late.
Early, I know, you had none."
"I never had the smallest, I assure
you."
"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near--and I wish
I had-- it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things,
they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.-- It would have
been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you
every thing."
"It is not now worth a regret," said Emma.
"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at
Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we
shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her
northward.--But now, I am at such a distance from her--is not it hard, Miss
Woodhouse?-- Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of
reconciliation. Do not you pity me?"
Emma spoke her pity so very
kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,
"Ah!
by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment--"I hope
Mr. Knightley is well?" He paused.--She coloured and laughed.--"I know you saw
my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. Let me return your
congratulations.-- I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest
interest and satisfaction.--He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style;
but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and
his next words were,
"Did you ever see such a skin?--such smoothness!
such delicacy!-- and yet without being actually fair.--One cannot call her fair.
It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair-- a most
distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.-- Just colour enough
for beauty."
"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma,
archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being
so pale?-- When we first began to talk of her.--Have you quite forgotten?"
"Oh! no--what an impudent dog I was!--How could I dare--"
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying,
"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time,
you had very great amusement in tricking us all.--I am sure you had.-- I am sure
it was a consolation to you."
"Oh! no, no, no--how can you suspect me
of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!"
"Not quite so
miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a source of high
entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.--Perhaps I am the
readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been
some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think there is a little
likeness between us."
He bowed.
"If not in our
dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, "there is a
likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two
characters so much superior to our own."
"True, true," he answered,
warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on
mine.--She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every
gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up
at my father.-- You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering
seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be
new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be
beautiful in her dark hair?"
"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma;
and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
"How delighted
I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!--I would not have
missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield,
had you failed to come."
The others had been talking of the child,
Mrs. Weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening
before, from the infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been
foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of
sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been
almost as uneasy as herself.--In ten minutes, however, the child had been
perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it was
to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry,
and only regretted that she had not done it. "She should always send for Perry,
if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a
moment. She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was
a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed
well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had
seen it."
Frank Churchill caught the name.
"Perry!" said
he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss Fairfax's eye. "My friend Mr.
Perry! What are they saying about Mr. Perry?--Has he been here this
morning?--And how does he travel now?--Has he set up his carriage?"
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh, it
was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really hearing him, though
trying to seem deaf.
"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!" he cried.
"I can never think of it without laughing.--She hears us, she hears us, Miss
Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at
her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
which sent me the report, is passing under her eye-- that the whole blunder is
spread before her--that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to
listen to the others?"
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a
moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a
conscious, low, yet steady voice,
"How you can bear such
recollections, is astonishing to me!-- They will sometimes obtrude--but how you
can court them!"
He had a great deal to say in return, and very
entertainingly; but Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and
on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she
felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding
him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr.
Knightley's high superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy day,
received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this
comparison produced.
CHAPTER
XIX
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for
Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of
her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from
unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence
of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party from London, and she
had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than she
became perfectly satisfied--unaccountable as it was!-- that Robert Martin had
thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now forming all her views of
happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed--did look a little foolish
at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and
self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words,
and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation in
the present and future; for, as to her friend's approbation, Emma had instantly
removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified
congratulations.-- Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the
evening at Astley's, and the dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with
the utmost delight. But what did such particulars explain?-- The fact was, as
Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and
that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.--Beyond this, it must
ever be unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful;
and every day was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.--Harriet's parentage
became known. She proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to
afford her the comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent
enough to have always wished for concealment.--Such was the blood of gentility
which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!-- It was likely to be as
untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had
she been preparing for Mr. Knightley--or for the Churchills--or even for Mr.
Elton!-- The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have
been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father's side;
the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma
became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she
fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid
fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet's happiness with any
good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he offered, there would be the
hope of more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed in
the midst of those who loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired
enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led
into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable and
happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world, to have
created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;--or, if not quite
the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn
away by her engagements with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which
was not to be regretted.-- The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their
friendship must change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what
ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual,
natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to
church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a
satisfaction, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood
before them, could impair.--Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr.
Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on
herself.--Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of the
three, were the first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted
Highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the
Campbells.--The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and they were only waiting for
November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they
dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.--They had determined that their marriage ought
to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them
the fortnight's absence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.--John and
Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr.
Woodhouse--how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to consent?--he, who had never
yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.
When first
sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.--A
second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.-- He began to think it was to be, and
that he could not prevent it-- a very promising step of the mind on its way to
resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much
otherwise, that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him
suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding
almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once
the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated--she
could not proceed.
In this state of suspense they were befriended,
not by any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse's mind, or any wonderful change
of his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another way.--
Mrs. Weston's poultry-house was robbed one night of all her turkeys-- evidently
by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also
suffered.--Pilfering was housebreaking to Mr. Woodhouse's fears.--He was very
uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law's protection, would have been
under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and
presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While
either of them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.-- But Mr. John
Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.
The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,
cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the moment,
she was able to fix her wedding-day--and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month
from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join the hands of Mr.
Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other
weddings, where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton,
from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby,
and very inferior to her own.--"Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a
most pitiful business!--Selina would stare when she heard of it."--But, in spite
of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of
the small band of true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully answered
in the perfect happiness of the union.
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