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 confidin | |
