Emma by Jane Austen(6)

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if they had understanding, should convince them that it
was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take
her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she
drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to
allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of
what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.
She could think of nothing better: and though there
was something in it which her own heart could not
approve—something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—
it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?
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Chapter V
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour
before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil
stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a
trunk, directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart,
Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted
into the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where
the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting
that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm,
and she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat
gravel walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the
front door, the sight of every thing which had given her
so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma
observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful
curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to
exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on
herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who
was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the
white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons,
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was with her without delay, and unattended by any
alarming young man. She came solitarily down the gravel
walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and
parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible
account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma
collected from her enough to understand the sort of
meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen
only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her
doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest
commonplace had been talked almost all the time— till
just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that
she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a
more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that
very room she had been measured last September, with
her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and
memorandums on the wainscot by the window. He had
done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,
the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness,
the same regrets—to be ready to return to the same good
understanding; and they were just growing again like
themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as
the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the
carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit,
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and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had
thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma
could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might
resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad
business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a
great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life.
They were so deserving, that a little higher should have
been enough: but as it was, how could she have done
otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They
must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the
process— so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt
the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going
home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was
quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment
of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they
heard that neither ‘master nor mistress was at home;’ they
had both been out some time; the man believed they were
gone to Hartfield.
‘This is too bad,’ cried Emma, as they turned away.
‘And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do
not know when I have been so disappointed.’ And she
leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to
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reason them away; probably a little of both— such being
the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.
Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by
Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her.
There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still
greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr. Weston
immediately accosted her with,
‘How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting
with your father— glad to see him so well. Frank comes
to-morrow—I had a letter this morning—we see him tomorrow
by dinner-time to a certainty— he is at Oxford
to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it
would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not
have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at
Christmas; now we are going to have just the right
weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy
him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we
could wish.’
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of
avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr.
Weston’s, confirmed as it all was by the words and the
countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to
the purpose. To know that she thought his coming certain
was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely
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did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful
reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was
sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the
rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped Mr. Elton
would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at
Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an
entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and
the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled,
and congratulated.
‘I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,’ said he, at the
conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this
speech, from his wife.
‘We had better move on, Mr. Weston,’ said she, ‘we
are detaining the girls.’
‘Well, well, I am ready;’—and turning again to Emma,
‘but you must not be expecting such a very fine young
man; you have only had my account you know; I dare say
he is really nothing extraordinary:’— though his own
sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very
different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent,
and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
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‘Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four
o’clock,’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken
with some anxiety, and meant only for her.
‘Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by
three,’ was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended
a most satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted
quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air;
James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before.
When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at
least must soon be coming out; and when she turned
round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring,
a tender smile even there.
‘Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as
Oxford?’— was a question, however, which did not augur
much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all
at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that
they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs.
Weston’s faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or
eleven, or twelve o’clock, that she was to think of her at
four.
‘My dear, dear anxious friend,’—said she, in mental
soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room,
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‘always overcareful for every body’s comfort but your
own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again
and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.’ The
clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. ‘‘Tis
twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence;
and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I
may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I
am sure they will bring him soon.’
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen
sitting with her father—Mr. Weston and his son. They
had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had
scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day
before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his
very civil welcome and congratulations, when she
appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and
pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in
interest, was actually before her—he was presented to her,
and she did not think too much had been said in his
praise; he was a very good looking young man; height, air,
address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance
had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father’s;
he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she
should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner,
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and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came
intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted
they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was
pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him
alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he
might gain half a day.
‘I told you yesterday,’ cried Mr. Weston with
exultation, ‘I told you all that he would be here before the
time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One
cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on
faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
upon one’s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a
great deal more than any little exertion it needs.’
‘It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,’ said
the young man, ‘though there are not many houses that I
should presume on so far; but in coming home I felt I
might do any thing.’
The word home made his father look on him with
fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew
how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was
strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged
house, would hardly allow it even to be very small,
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admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury
itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have
always felt the sort of interest in the country which none
but one’s own country gives, and the greatest curiosity to
visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so
amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through
Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a
pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no
air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak
as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an
opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—
‘Was she a horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?— Pleasant
walks?—Had they a large neighbourhood?—Highbury,
perhaps, afforded society enough?—There were several
very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they
balls?—Was it a musical society?’
But when satisfied on all these points, and their
acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to
find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged
with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and
speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much
warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she
secured to his father, and her very kind reception of
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himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to
please— and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try
to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond
what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.
Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of
the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he
could be sure of little else. ‘His father’s marriage,’ he said,
‘had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in
it; and the family from whom he had received such a
blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the
highest obligation on him.’
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss
Taylor’s merits, without seeming quite to forget that in
the common course of things it was to be rather supposed
that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s character,
than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if
resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling
round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment
at the youth and beauty of her person.
‘Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,’ said
he; ‘but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not
expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman
of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty
young woman in Mrs. Weston.’
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‘You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston
for my feelings,’ said Emma; ‘were you to guess her to be
eighteen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be
ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let
her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young
woman.’
‘I hope I should know better,’ he replied; ‘no, depend
upon it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs.
Weston I should understand whom I might praise without
any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms.’
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what
might be expected from their knowing each other, which
had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed
his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as
marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see
more of him to understand his ways; at present she only
felt they were agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often
thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again
glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even,
when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.
Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought
of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of
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penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable
circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving
matrimony than from foreseeing it.— Though always
objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never
suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it
seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons’
understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it
were proved against them. She blessed the favouring
blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a
single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any
possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural
kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank
Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the
sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express
very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had
certainly escaped catching cold—which, however, he
could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—
‘He must be going. He had business at the Crown about
his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at
Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.’ His son, too
well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
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‘As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the
opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some
day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I
have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of
yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no
difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax,
I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather say
Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?’
‘To be sure we do,’ cried his father; ‘Mrs. Bates—we
passed her house— I saw Miss Bates at the window. True,
true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember
you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call
upon her, by all means.’
‘There is no necessity for my calling this morning,’ said
the young man; ‘another day would do as well; but there
was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—‘
‘Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is
right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I
must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her
here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the
Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she
mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother,
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who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early
it will be a slight.’
The son looked convinced.
‘I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,’ said
Emma; ‘she is a very elegant young woman.’
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a ‘Yes,’ as inclined
her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there
must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable
world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily
gifted with it.
‘If you were never particularly struck by her manners
before,’ said she, ‘I think you will to-day. You will see her
to advantage; see her and hear her—no, I am afraid you
will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never
holds her tongue.’
‘You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are
you?’ said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his
way in conversation; ‘then give me leave to assure you
that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is
staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will
be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my
servants shall go with you to shew you the way.’
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‘My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father
can direct me.’
‘But your father is not going so far; he is only going to
the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there
are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss,
and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the
footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had
best cross the street.’
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious
as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by
calling out, ‘My good friend, this is quite unnecessary;
Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to
Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
step, and jump.’
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial
nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two
gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased
with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now
engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the
day, with full confidence in their comfort.
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Chapter VI
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again.
He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury
he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with
her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her
usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their
walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—‘He did not
doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction,
but if left to him, he should always chuse the same.
Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,
would be his constant attraction.’— Highbury, with Mrs.
Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing
the same construction with him. They walked thither
directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston,
who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that
his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans;
and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to
perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to
see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his
behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If
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he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for
it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly
satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical
compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more
proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—nothing
could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her
as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time
enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their
visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all
three walking about together for an hour or two— first
round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in
Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired
Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when
their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to
be made acquainted with the whole village, and found
matter of commendation and interest much oftener than
Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable
feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his
father had lived in so long, and which had been the home
of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an old
woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in
quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the
other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation
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there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a
good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be
very like a merit to those he was with.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as
were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he
had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had
not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere
professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done
him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an
inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort,
where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for
the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run
on the road; and his companions had not expected to be
detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it
they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it
had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while
the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous,
dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but
such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the
highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to
accommodate a whist club established among the
gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was
immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught
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him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes
at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to
look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its
original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in
the room, he would acknowledge none which they
suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough,
handsome enough. It would hold the very number for
comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every
fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss
Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the
room?—She who could do any thing in Highbury! The
want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
that none beyond the place and its immediate environs
could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was
not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many
good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not
furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even
when particulars were given and families described, he was
still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a
mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the
smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into their
proper place the next morning. He argued like a young
man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather
surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so
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decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed
to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social
inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or
reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,
perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of
rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He
could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding
cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of
the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where
the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit
the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
‘Yes, oh! yes’—he replied; ‘I was just going to mention
it. A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and
felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If
the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must
have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed
into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would
have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was
proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at
home before him—but there was no getting away, no
pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he
(finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I
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quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the
possibility of escape before.’
‘And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?’
‘Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be
allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible,
Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And,
seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always
to give the appearance of ill health.— A most deplorable
want of complexion.’
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm
defence of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. ‘It was certainly
never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly
hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her
skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her
face.’ He listened with all due deference; acknowledged
that he had heard many people say the same—but yet he
must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for
the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were
indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and
where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he
need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘there is no disputing about taste.—
At least you admire her except her complexion.’
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He shook his head and laughed.—‘I cannot separate
Miss Fairfax and her complexion.’
‘Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often
in the same society?’
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he
hastily exclaimed, ‘Ha! this must be the very shop that
every body attends every day of their lives, as my father
informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six
days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If
it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may
prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of
Highbury. I must buy something at Ford’s. It will be
taking out my freedom.— I dare say they sell gloves.’
‘Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your
patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were
very popular before you came, because you were Mr.
Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and
your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.’
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of
‘Men’s Beavers’ and ‘York Tan’ were bringing down and
displaying on the counter, he said—‘But I beg your
pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you
were saying something at the very moment of this burst of
my amor patriae. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the
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utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends
for the loss of any happiness in private life.’
‘I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss
Fairfax and her party at Weymouth.’
‘And now that I understand your question, I must
pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady’s
right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax
must already have given her account.— I shall not commit
myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.’
‘Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could
do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much
to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to
give the least information about any body, that I really
think you may say what you like of your acquaintance
with her.’
‘May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and
nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at
Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town;
and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs.
Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them
all.’
‘You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude;
what she is destined to be?’
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‘Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.’
‘You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,’ said Mrs.
Weston smiling; ‘remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank
Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of
Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a little farther
off.’
‘I certainly do forget to think of her,’ said Emma, ‘as
having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest
friend.’
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such
a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted
the shop again, ‘Did you ever hear the young lady we
were speaking of, play?’ said Frank Churchill.
‘Ever hear her!’ repeated Emma. ‘You forget how
much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every
year of our lives since we both began. She plays
charmingly.’
‘You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some
one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play
well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing
of the matter myself.— I am excessively fond of music,
but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any
body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s
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admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought
to play well:—a man, a very musical man, and in love
with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of
marriage— would yet never ask that other woman to sit
down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit
down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he
could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known
musical talent, was some proof.’
‘Proof indeed!’ said Emma, highly amused.—‘Mr.
Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about
them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax
would have vouchsafed in half a year.’
‘Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons;
and I thought it a very strong proof.’
‘Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a
great deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell,
would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse
a man’s having more music than love—more ear than
eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my
feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?’
‘It was her very particular friend, you know.’
‘Poor comfort!’ said Emma, laughing. ‘One would
rather have a stranger preferred than one’s very particular
friend—with a stranger it might not recur again—but the
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misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to
do every thing better than one does oneself!— Poor Mrs.
Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.’
‘You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss
Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it.’
‘So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not
know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in
her—quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling—there
was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss
Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction.’
‘As to that—I do not—‘
‘Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss
Fairfax’s sensations from you, or from any body else. They
are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if
she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr.
Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.’
‘There appeared such a perfectly good understanding
among them all—’ he began rather quickly, but checking
himself, added, ‘however, it is impossible for me to say on
what terms they really were— how it might all be behind
the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness
outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a
child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how
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she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I
can be.’
‘I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have
been children and women together; and it is natural to
suppose that we should be intimate,—that we should have
taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But
we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little,
perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was
prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried
up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all
their set. And then, her reserve—I never could attach
myself to any one so completely reserved.’
‘It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,’ said he.
‘Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never
pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One
cannot love a reserved person.’
‘Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then
the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in
want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have
yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body’s
reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and
me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think
ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and
perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread
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of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest
suspicions of there being something to conceal.’
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking
together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt
herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly
believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not
exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the
world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of
fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas
seemed more moderate— his feelings warmer. She was
particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.
Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would go
and look at, and would not join them in finding much
fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not
such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it
were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not
think any man to be pitied for having that house. There
must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man
must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what
he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself,
and without ever thinking how many advantages and
accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no
judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.
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But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did
know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a
very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to
marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of
the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no
housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no
doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make
him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he
would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an
early establishment.
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Chapter VII
Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a
little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was
gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden
freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had
sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner,
but with no more important view that appeared than
having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his
travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but
there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she
could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality
of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish
warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern
in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
restlessness of temper, which must be doing something,
good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father
and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might
appear in general; he became liable to all these charges.
His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a
very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was
clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible,
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and making no other comment than that ‘all young people
would have their little whims.’
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that
his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of
him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and
pleasant a companion he made himself—how much she
saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to
have a very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and
lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his
notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle
with warm regard, was fond of talking of him—said he
would be the best man in the world if he were left to
himself; and though there was no being attached to the
aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and
seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This
was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate
fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote
him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her
imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being
really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and
saved only by her own indifference— (for still her
resolution held of never marrying)—the honour, in short,
of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.
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Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account
which must have some weight. He gave her to understand
that Frank admired her extremely—thought her very
beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said
for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, ‘all young people
would have their little whims.’
There was one person among his new acquaintance in
Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged,
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with
great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little
excesses of such a handsome young man— one who
smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one
spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of
censure, by bows or smiles—Mr. Knightley. The
circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,
he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately
afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his
hand, ‘Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.’
She had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation
convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his
own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
let it pass.
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Although in one instance the bearers of not good
tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in
another respect particularly opportune. Something
occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma
want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she
wanted exactly the advice they gave.
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled
some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of
people—friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the
other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only
moderately genteel. On their first coming into the
country, they had lived in proportion to their income,
quietly, keeping little company, and that little
unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them
a considerable increase of means— the house in town had
yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled
on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their
want of a larger house, their inclination for more
company. They added to their house, to their number of
servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time
were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the
family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new
dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping
dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the
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single men, had already taken place. The regular and best
families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume
to invite— neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls.
Nothing should tempt her to go, if they did; and she
regretted that her father’s known habits would be giving
her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles
were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be
taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on
which the superior families would visit them. This lesson,
she very much feared, they would receive only from
herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr.
Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this
presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when
the insult came at last, it found her very differently
affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their
invitation, and none had come for her father and herself;
and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it with ‘I suppose they
will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not
dine out,’ was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should
like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as
the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting
precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,
occurred again and again, she did not know that she might
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not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there
in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking
of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and
Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a
question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther
irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary
grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a
compliment, was but poor comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the
Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so
acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was
that ‘of course it must be declined,’ she so very soon
proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that
their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not
absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles
expressed themselves so properly—there was so much real
attention in the manner of it— so much consideration for
her father. ‘They would have solicited the honour earlier,
but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from
London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse
from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the
more readily to give them the honour of his company.
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‘Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being
briefly settled among themselves how it might be done
without neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs.
Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for
bearing him company— Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked
into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner
on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole
evening away from him. As for his going, Emma did not
wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late,
and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well
resigned.
‘I am not fond of dinner-visiting,’ said he—‘I never
was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I
am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it
would be much better if they would come in one
afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take
us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our
hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being
out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer
evening are what I would not expose any body to.
However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma
dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr.
Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to
prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither
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damp, nor cold, nor windy.’ Then turning to Mrs.
Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—‘Ah! Miss
Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at
home with me.’
‘Well, sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘as I took Miss Taylor
away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can;
and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish
it.’
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was
increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The
ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be
quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon
composed enough for talking as usual. ‘He should be
happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs.
Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an
answer written to Mrs. Cole.’
‘You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as
possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no
where, and therefore must decline their obliging
invitation; beginning with my compliments, of course.
But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what
is to be done. We must remember to let James know that
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the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no
fears for you with him. We have never been there above
once since the new approach was made; but still I have no
doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you
get there, you must tell him at what time you would have
him come for you again; and you had better name an early
hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very
tired when tea is over.’
‘But you would not wish me to come away before I am
tired, papa?’
‘Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There
will be a great many people talking at once. You will not
like the noise.’
‘But, my dear sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘if Emma comes
away early, it will be breaking up the party.’
‘And no great harm if it does,’ said Mr. Woodhouse.
‘The sooner every party breaks up, the better.’
‘But you do not consider how it may appear to the
Coles. Emma’s going away directly after tea might be
giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think
little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any
body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss
Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than any
other person’s in the room. You would not wish to
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disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly,
good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your
neighbours these ten years.’
‘No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am
much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be
extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what
worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole
never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look
at him, but he is bilious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I
would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear
Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run
the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a
little longer than you might wish. You will not regard
being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among
your friends.’
‘Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I
should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston,
but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up
for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly
comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you
know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be
sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual
time—and the idea of that would entirely destroy my
comfort. You must promise me not to sit up.’
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He did, on the condition of some promises on her side:
such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to
warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take
something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her;
and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing
were safe in the house, as usual.
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Chapter VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his
father’s dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for
Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite
with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which
could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at
himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really
at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to
wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no
reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.
He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
‘I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly
silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible
people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always
wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon
the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
not a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have
done this differently. He would either have gloried in the
achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have
been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions
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of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No, I am
perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.’
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing
him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging
of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning
of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it
might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might
be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being
laid at Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that
among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his
favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity
to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as
well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last
pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her
respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and
while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power,
by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of
wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their
constitution might have obliged them to practise during
the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner for them;
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she wished she could know that they had been allowed to
eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and
was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr.
Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money
and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was
too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and
not use his carriage so often as became the owner of
Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking
her approbation while warm from her heart, for he
stopped to hand her out.
‘This is coming as you should do,’ said she; ‘like a
gentleman.— I am quite glad to see you.’
He thanked her, observing, ‘How lucky that we should
arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the
drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have
discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—
You might not have distinguished how I came, by my
look or manner.’
‘Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a
look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a
way which they know to be beneath them. You think you
carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of
bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it
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whenever I meet you under those circumstances. Now
you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being
supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than
any body else. Now I shall really be very happy to walk
into the same room with you.’
‘Nonsensical girl!’ was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest
of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with
a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all
the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons
arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the
son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which
marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found
him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed, not
without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other
family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom
the Coles had the advantage of naming among their
acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the
lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to
come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and
Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too
numerous for any subject of conversation to be general;
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and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma
could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness
of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt
herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was
expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it
well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her
fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling
that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she
entered the room had been struck by the sight of a
pianoforte—a very elegant looking instrument—not a
grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the
substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which
ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her
side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this
pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before,
to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely
unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane
herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who
could possibly have ordered it— but now, they were both
perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—
of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
‘One can suppose nothing else,’ added Mrs. Cole, ‘and
I was only surprized that there could ever have been a
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doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very
lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their
ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any
reason for their not meaning to make the present. They
might chuse to surprize her.’
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body
who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it
must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced
that such a present had been made; and there were enough
ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and
still listen to Mrs. Cole.
‘I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing
that has given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite
hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should
not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame,
especially considering how many houses there are where
fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like
giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday
I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our
new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do
not know one note from another, and our little girls, who
are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing
of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of
music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument,
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not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse
herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday,
and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly
fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in
the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours
might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use
than we can; and that really is the reason why the
instrument was bought— or else I am sure we ought to be
ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss
Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening.’
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and
finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any
communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill.
‘Why do you smile?’ said she.
‘Nay, why do you?’
‘Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel
Campbell’s being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome
present.’
‘Very.’
‘I rather wonder that it was never made before.’
‘Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so
long before.’
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‘Or that he did not give her the use of their own
instrument— which must now be shut up in London,
untouched by any body.’
‘That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too
large for Mrs. Bates’s house.’
‘You may say what you chuse—but your countenance
testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much
like mine.’
‘I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me
more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because
you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you
suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to
question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can
be?’
‘What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?’
‘Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of
Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how
acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode
of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young
woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I
dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide
mine.’
‘If so, you must extend your suspicions and
comprehend Mr. Dixon in them.’
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‘Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive
that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.
We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being
so warm an admirer of her performance.’
‘Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an
idea which I had entertained before.—I do not mean to
reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or
Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after
making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune
to fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a
little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty
things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure
there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to
Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland.
Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance;
there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the
pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a
mere excuse.—In the summer it might have passed; but
what can any body’s native air do for them in the months
of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages
would be much more to the purpose in most cases of
delicate health, and I dare say in her’s. I do not require
you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble
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a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they
are.’
‘And, upon my word, they have an air of great
probability. Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her
friend’s, I can answer for being very decided.’
‘And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of
that?— A water party; and by some accident she was
falling overboard. He caught her.’
‘He did. I was there—one of the party.’
‘Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing
of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had
been there, I think I should have made some discoveries.’
‘I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but
the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the
vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.—It was the work of
a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm
was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe
it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable
again— yet that was too general a sensation for any thing
of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say,
however, that you might not have made discoveries.’
The conversation was here interrupted. They were
called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long
interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal
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and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again
safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly
right, and occupation and ease were generally restored,
Emma said,
‘The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I
wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite
enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a
present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.’
‘And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all
knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the
Campbells.’
‘No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss
Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would
have been guessed at first. She would not have been
puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced
myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.’
‘Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced.
Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them
entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that
Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal
kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the
world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how
much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm
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female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light
than as an offering of love.’
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The
conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said
no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the
dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children
came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual
rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few
downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither
the one nor the other—nothing worse than everyday
remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room,
before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived.
Emma watched the entree of her own particular little
friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace,
she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the
artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that
light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed
her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the
pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who
would have guessed how many tears she had been lately
shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and
seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look
pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of
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the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior;
but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change
feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the
mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even
Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous
pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her
friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma
should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the
pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think
the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore
purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject
was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush
of consciousness with which congratulations were
received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name
of ‘my excellent friend Colonel Campbell.’
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was
particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma
could not help being amused at her perseverance in
dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to
say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of
that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she
plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.
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They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and
the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he
walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his
compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made
his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where
sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body
present must be thinking. She was his object, and every
body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend,
Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard
what each thought of the other. ‘He had never seen so
lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete.’ And
she, ‘Only to be sure it was paying him too great a
compliment, but she did think there were some looks a
little like Mr. Elton.’ Emma restrained her indignation,
and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the
gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it
was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had
been impatient to leave the dining-room— hated sitting
long—was always the first to move when he could— that
his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were
left very busy over parish business—that as long as he had
staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had
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found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible
men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether—
thought it so abundant in agreeable families— that Emma
began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather
too much. She questioned him as to the society in
Yorkshire— the extent of the neighbourhood about
Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his
answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was
very little going on, that their visitings were among a
range of great families, none very near; and that even
when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an
even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and
spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements,
it was not without difficulty, without considerable address
at times, that he could get away, or introduce an
acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that
Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a
young man who had more retirement at home than he
liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He
did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had
persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and
on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he
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believed (excepting one or two points) he could with time
persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which
his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted
very much to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to
be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This
had happened the year before. Now, he said, he was
beginning to have no longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention,
Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.
‘I have made a most wretched discovery,’ said he, after
a short pause.— ‘I have been here a week to-morrow—
half my time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week tomorrow!—
And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But
just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!— I
hate the recollection.’
‘Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent
one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut.’
‘No,’ said he, smiling, ‘that is no subject of regret at all.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can
believe myself fit to be seen.’
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room,
Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few
minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had
moved away, and her attention could be restored as
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before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the
room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
‘What is the matter?’ said she.
He started. ‘Thank you for rousing me,’ he replied. ‘I
believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has
done her hair in so odd a way—so very odd a way—that I
cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so
outree!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I
see nobody else looking like her!— I must go and ask her
whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?— Yes, I will—I
declare I will—and you shall see how she takes it;—
whether she colours.’
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him
standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to
its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently
placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of
Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by
Mrs. Weston.
‘This is the luxury of a large party,’ said she:—‘one can
get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma,
I am longing to talk to you. I have been making
discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must
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tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss
Bates and her niece came here?’
‘How?—They were invited, were not they?’
‘Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the
manner of their coming?’
‘They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?’
‘Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me
how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking
home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now.
And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to
more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor
girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr.
Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I
spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how
readily he came into my wishes; and having his
approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to
assure her that the carriage would be at her service before
it took us home; for I thought it would be making her
comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate
as herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no
occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had
brought, and was to take them home again.’ I was quite
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surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an
attention!— the sort of thing that so few men would think
of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very
much inclined to think that it was for their
accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect
he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and
that it was only as an excuse for assisting them.’
‘Very likely,’ said Emma—‘nothing more likely. I
know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the
sort of thing—to do any thing really good-natured, useful,
considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he
is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s
ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and
for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody
whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I
know he had horses to-day—for we arrived together; and
I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that
could betray.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘you give him credit
for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance
than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion
darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it
out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it
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appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.
Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of
keeping you company!—What do you say to it?’
‘Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a
thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not
marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from
Donwell?— Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I
cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I
am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should
think of such a thing.’
‘My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think
of it. I do not want the match—I do not want to injure
dear little Henry— but the idea has been given me by
circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to
marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s
account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the
matter?’
‘Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry
supplanted.— Mr. Knightley marry!—No, I have never
had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane
Fairfax, too, of all women!’
‘Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as
you very well know.’
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‘But the imprudence of such a match!’
‘I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its
probability.’
‘I see no probability in it, unless you have any better
foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his
humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account
for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you
know, independent of Jane Fairfax— and is always glad to
shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take
to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress
of the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For
his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.’
‘Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting
inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I
can see nothing unsuitable.’
‘But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure
he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head.
Why should he marry?— He is as happy as possible by
himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and
all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his
brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to
fill up his time or his heart.’
‘My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if
he really loves Jane Fairfax—‘
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‘Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the
way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any
good to her, or her family; but—‘
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, laughing, ‘perhaps the
greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane
such a respectable home.’
‘If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil
to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion.
How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to
him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—
‘So very kind and obliging!—But he always had been such
a very kind neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a
sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat. ‘Not that it was
such a very old petticoat either—for still it would last a
great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that
their petticoats were all very strong.’’
‘For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me
against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not
think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss
Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on;
and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only
talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not,
whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but
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whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard
him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax!
The interest he takes in her— his anxiety about her
health—his concern that she should have no happier
prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on
those points!—Such an admirer of her performance on the
pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he
could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost
forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte
that has been sent here by somebody— though we have
all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the
Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot
help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it,
even without being in love.’
‘Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in
love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to
do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously.’
‘I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument
repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a
circumstance would, in the common course of things,
occur to him.’
‘Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he
would have told her so.’
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‘There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I
have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am
sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it
at dinner.’
‘You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with
it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I
see no sign of attachment— I believe nothing of the
pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that Mr.
Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.’
They combated the point some time longer in the same
way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her
friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to
yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea
was over, and the instrument in preparation;— and at the
same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss
Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank
Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation
with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except
that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.
Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every
respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very
proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well
to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she
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wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are
generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice
well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably
by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by
Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close
of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was
accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect
knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that
he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all,
roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and
Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose
performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could
attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to
her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little
distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen.
Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once
or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr.
Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half
Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the
subject of Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet
sounds of the united voices gave only momentary
interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying
did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil
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in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John
Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the
children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to
them all;—a very great deduction from her father’s daily
comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the
idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley
for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must
never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of
Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat
down by her. They talked at first only of the performance.
His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought,
but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a
sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his
kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his
answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she
believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on
any kindness of his own.
‘I often feel concern,’ said she, ‘that I dare not make
our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I
am without the wish; but you know how impossible my
father would deem it that James should put-to for such a
purpose.’
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‘Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,’
he replied;— ‘but you must often wish it, I am sure.’ And
he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction,
that she must proceed another step.
‘This present from the Campbells,’ said she—‘this
pianoforte is very kindly given.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.— ‘But they would have done better had
they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things.
The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is
often considerable. I should have expected better
judgment in Colonel Campbell.’
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath
that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the
instrument. But whether he were entirely free from
peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual
preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards
the end of Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.
‘That will do,’ said he, when it was finished, thinking
aloud— ‘you have sung quite enough for one evening—
now be quiet.’
Another song, however, was soon begged for. ‘One
more;—they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any
account, and would only ask for one more.’ And Frank
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Churchill was heard to say, ‘I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength
of the song falls on the second.’
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
‘That fellow,’ said he, indignantly, ‘thinks of nothing
but shewing off his own voice. This must not be.’ And
touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near—
‘Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself
hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no
mercy on her.’
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly
stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put
an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part
of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax
were the only young lady performers; but soon (within
five minutes) the proposal of dancing— originating
nobody exactly knew where—was so effectually promoted
by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly
clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital
in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an
irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with
most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand,
and led her up to the top.
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While waiting till the other young people could pair
themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the
compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste,
to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he
were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it
might augur something. There was no immediate
appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole— he was
looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody
else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest
was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit
and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be
mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it
very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
partner. They were a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be
allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became
anxious to get home, on her mother’s account. After some
attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they
were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and
have done.
‘Perhaps it is as well,’ said Frank Churchill, as he
attended Emma to her carriage. ‘I must have asked Miss
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Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed
with me, after your’s.’
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Chapter IX
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to
the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant
recollections the next day; and all that she might be
supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion,
must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She
must have delighted the Coles—worthy people, who
deserved to be made happy!—And left a name behind her
that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common;
and there were two points on which she was not quite
easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the
duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly
right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would
escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a
compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for
her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her
tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane
Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly
and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own
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playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the
idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if
Harriet’s praise could have satisfied her, she might soon
have been comforted.
‘Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!’
‘Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no
more like her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.’
‘Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think
you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much
rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you
played.’
‘Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt
the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just
good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much
beyond it.’
‘Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as
she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would
ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had;
and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your
taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.’
‘Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.’
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‘Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not
know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I
hate Italian singing.— There is no understanding a word
of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is
no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have
to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether
she would get into any great family. How did you think
the Coxes looked?’
‘Just as they always do—very vulgar.’
‘They told me something,’ said Harriet rather
hesitatingly;’ but it is nothing of any consequence.’
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her,
though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
‘They told me—-that Mr. Martin dined with them last
Saturday.’
‘Oh!’
‘He came to their father upon some business, and he
asked him to stay to dinner.’
‘Oh!’
‘They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne
Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I
thought I should go and stay there again next summer.’
‘She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an
Anne Cox should be.’
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‘She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there.
He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the
Coxes would be very glad to marry him.’
‘Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the
most vulgar girls in Highbury.’
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most
prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with
the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would
be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a
word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she
was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind,
Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of
Highbury;— Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William
Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s
carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letterboy
on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on
the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling
homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs
quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling
children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the
gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and
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was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the
door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing
nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road. The scene
enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her sonin-
law; they were walking into Highbury;—to Hartfield of
course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at
Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than
Ford’s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
eye.—Immediately they crossed the road and came
forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday’s
engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present
meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to
call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
‘For my companion tells me,’ said she, ‘that I absolutely
promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this
morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that
I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.’
‘And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be
allowed, I hope,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘to join your party
and wait for her at Hartfield— if you are going home.’
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
‘I thought you meant to go with me. They would be
very much pleased.’
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‘Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may
be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if
she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when
she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss
Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
What am I to do?’
‘I am here on no business of my own,’ said Emma; ‘I
am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have
soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had
better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.’
‘Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel
Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it
should prove to have an indifferent tone—what shall I say?
I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very
well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable
through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the
world at a civil falsehood.’
‘I do not believe any such thing,’ replied Emma.—‘I
am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your
neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to
suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise
indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.’
‘Do come with me,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if it be not
very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We
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will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to
Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt
so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.’
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield
to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s
door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at
the interesting counter,—trying, with all the force of her
own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin
it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon,
be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow
pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of
the parcel.
‘Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?’ asked
Mrs. Ford.— ‘Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my
pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to
Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want
to see it.—And I could take the pattern gown home any
day. But I shall want the ribbon directly— so it had better
go to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it
into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?’
‘It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the
trouble of two parcels.’
‘No more it is.’
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‘No trouble in the world, ma’am,’ said the obliging
Mrs. Ford.
‘Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in
one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs.
Goddard’s— I do not know—No, I think, Miss
Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,
and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?’
‘That you do not give another half-second to the
subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.’
‘Aye, that will be much best,’ said Harriet, quite
satisfied, ‘I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs.
Goddard’s.’
Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and
two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the
door.
‘My dear Miss Woodhouse,’ said the latter, ‘I am just
run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit
down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of
our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you
do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged
Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of
succeeding.’
‘I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—‘
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‘Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is
delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How
is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good
account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.— Oh!
then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse
will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come
in; my mother will be so very happy to see her—and now
we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.—‘Aye, pray
do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s opinion
of the instrument will be worth having.’— But, said I, I
shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with
me.—‘Oh,’ said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished
my job;’—For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse,
there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world,
fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The
rivet came out, you know, this morning.— So very
obliging!—For my mother had no use of her spectacles—
could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body
ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed.
Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders
the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me
all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no
saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she
thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said
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I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is
the rivet of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked
apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they
are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises,
always—I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can
be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never
known any thing but the greatest attention from them.
And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for
what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three
of us.— besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats
nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be
quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother
know how little she eats—so I say one thing and then I
say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the
day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well
as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,
for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr.
Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I
had any doubt before— I have so often heard Mr.
Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the
only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly
wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very
often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well,
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Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies
will oblige us.’
Emma would be ‘very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates,
&c.,’ and they did at last move out of the shop, with no
farther delay from Miss Bates than,
‘How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did
not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection
of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted
yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little
too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.’
‘What was I talking of?’ said she, beginning again when
they were all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would
fix.
‘I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—
Oh! my mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr.
Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the
rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.’—Which you
know shewed him to be so very…. Indeed I must say that,
much as I had heard of him before and much as I had
expected, he very far exceeds any thing…. I do
congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems
every thing the fondest parent could…. ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I
can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.’ I
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never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the
baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would
be so very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly,
‘there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these
are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my
life.’ That, you know, was so very…. And I am sure, by
his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very
delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—
only we do not have them baked more than twice, and
Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done
three times— but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not
to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest
sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some
of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a sack
every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping
apple anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two
of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous
in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the
other day— for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and
Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them
and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked
whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am
sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another
supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use.
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William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual
this year. I will send you some more, before they get good
for nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to
ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a
great many left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they
should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that
he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been
already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone,
she almost quarrelled with me—No, I should not say
quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she
was quite distressed that I had owned the apples were so
nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a
great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I
could. However, the very same evening William Larkins
came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of
apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and
went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every
thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old
acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I
found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all
the apples of that sort his master had; he had brought them
all—and now his master had not one left to bake or boil.
William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased
to think his master had sold so many; for William, you
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