Emma by Jane Austen(7)

know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their
being all sent away. She could not bear that her master
should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring.
He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure
not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would
be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were
sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so
Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I
would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it
for the world! He would be so very…. I wanted to keep it
from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
before I was aware.’
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and
her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular
narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her
desultory good-will.
‘Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the
turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a
dark staircase— rather darker and narrower than one could
wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am
quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith,

the step at the turning.’
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Chapter X
The appearance of the little sitting-room as they
entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her
usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire,
Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied
about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her
back to them, intent on her pianoforte.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able
to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
‘This is a pleasure,’ said he, in rather a low voice,
‘coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated.
You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I
shall succeed.’
‘What!’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘have not you finished it
yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a
working silversmith at this rate.’
‘I have not been working uninterruptedly,’ he replied,
‘I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her
instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an
unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been
wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to
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be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be
hurrying home.’
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was
sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple
for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his
work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the
pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,
Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she
had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to
touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the
power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such
feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve
never to expose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly
given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done
full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and
was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and
the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was
pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
‘Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,’ said
Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, ‘the person has
not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell’s
taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I
am sure is exactly what he and all that party would
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particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either
gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to
Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?’
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear.
Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same
moment.
‘It is not fair,’ said Emma, in a whisper; ‘mine was a
random guess. Do not distress her.’
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had
very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he
began again,
‘How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying
your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say
they often think of you, and wonder which will be the
day, the precise day of the instrument’s coming to hand.
Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to
be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to
be the consequence of an immediate commission from
him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an
order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies
and conveniences?’
He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid
answering,
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‘Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,’ said she,
in a voice of forced calmness, ‘I can imagine nothing with
any confidence. It must be all conjecture.’
‘Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right,
and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could
conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm.
What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at
work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose,
hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get
hold of a word—Miss Fairfax said something about
conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure,
madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,
healed for the present.’
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and
daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the
pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting
at it, to play something more.
‘If you are very kind,’ said he, ‘it will be one of the
waltzes we danced last night;—let me live them over
again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired
the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no
longer; but I would have given worlds— all the worlds
one ever has to give—for another half-hour.’
She played.
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‘What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made
one happy!— If I mistake not that was danced at
Weymouth.’
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply,
and played something else. He took some music from a
chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,
‘Here is something quite new to me. Do you know
it?—Cramer.— And here are a new set of Irish melodies.
That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all
sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel
Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have
no music here. I honour that part of the attention
particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from
the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True
affection only could have prompted it.’
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not
help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards
Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she
saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there
had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in
the amusement, and much less compunction with respect
to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was
apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
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He brought all the music to her, and they looked it
over together.— Emma took the opportunity of
whispering,
‘You speak too plain. She must understand you.’
‘I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I
am not in the least ashamed of my meaning.’
‘But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never
taken up the idea.’
‘I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it
to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways.
Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel
it.’
‘She is not entirely without it, I think.’
‘I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin
Adair at this moment—his favourite.’
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window,
descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
‘Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if
possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window
here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my
mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in
when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you
all meet so!—Our little room so honoured!’
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She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke,
and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr.
Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their
conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it
had passed within the same apartment.
‘How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank
you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We
were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come
in; do come in. You will find some friends here.’
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed
determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and
commandingly did he say,
‘How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire
after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss
Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she
to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.’
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer
before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners
were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of
particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.
‘So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for
the carriage,’ resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with,
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‘I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for you?’
‘Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying
the other day she wanted something from Kingston.’
‘Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for
you?’
‘No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think
is here?— Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to
call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at
the Crown, and come in.’
‘Well,’ said he, in a deliberating manner, ‘for five
minutes, perhaps.’
‘And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill
too!—Quite delightful; so many friends!’
‘No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two
minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.’
‘Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see
you.’
‘No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another
day, and hear the pianoforte.’
‘Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a
delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did
you ever see such dancing?— Was not it delightful?—Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any
thing equal to it.’
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‘Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I
suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are
hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still
more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be
mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and
Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player,
without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have
any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about
you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.’
‘Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of
consequence— so shocked!—Jane and I are both so
shocked about the apples!’
‘What is the matter now?’
‘To think of your sending us all your store apples. You
said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.
We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.
William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have
done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never
can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid
now, and it would have been a pity not to have
mentioned…. Well, (returning to the room,) I have not
been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is
going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any
thing….’
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‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘we heard his kind offers, we heard
every thing.’
‘Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you
know, the door was open, and the window was open, and
Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every
thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?’
said he; so I just mentioned…. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
must you be going?—You seem but just come—so very
obliging of you.’
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had
already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of
the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston
and her companion taking leave also, could allow
themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to
Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.
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Chapter XI
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely.
Instances have been known of young people passing
many, many months successively, without being at any
ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—
when the felicities of rapid motion have once been,
though slightly, felt—it must be a very heavy set that does
not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and
longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening
which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his
daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people
in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and
his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best
judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for
accommodation and appearance. But still she had
inclination enough for shewing people again how
delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to
compare herself with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple
dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity—
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to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to
see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the
dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of
discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of
their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun
at Mr. Cole’s should be finished there—that the same
party should be collected, and the same musician engaged,
met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered
into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could
wish to dance; and the interesting employment had
followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be,
and portioning out the indispensable division of space to
every couple.
‘You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three,
and the two Miss Coxes five,’ had been repeated many
times over. ‘And there will be the two Gilberts, young
Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes,
that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss
Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of
room.’
But soon it came to be on one side,
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‘But will there be good room for five couple?—I really
do not think there will.’
On another,
‘And after all, five couple are not enough to make it
worth while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when
one thinks seriously about it. It will not do to invite five
couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of the
moment.’
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her
brother’s, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody
else believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other
evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in for a
second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one
family of cousins who must be included, and another of
very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it
became a certainty that the five couple would be at least
ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible
manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each
other. ‘Might not they use both rooms, and dance across
the passage?’ It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not
so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma
said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress
about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it
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earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very
unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
‘Oh! no,’ said he; ‘it would be the extreme of
imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not
strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor
little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would
be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing.
Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking
lower) is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that
young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening
the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open
very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I
do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
quite the thing!’
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the
importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do
it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan
given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room
they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will
on Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter
of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for
five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite
enough for ten.
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‘We were too magnificent,’ said he. ‘We allowed
unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well.’
Emma demurred. ‘It would be a crowd—a sad crowd;
and what could be worse than dancing without space to
turn in?’
‘Very true,’ he gravely replied; ‘it was very bad.’ But
still he went on measuring, and still he ended with,
‘I think there will be very tolerable room for ten
couple.’
‘No, no,’ said she, ‘you are quite unreasonable. It
would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be
farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd—and
a crowd in a little room!’
‘There is no denying it,’ he replied. ‘I agree with you
exactly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you
have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite,
quite exquisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so far,
one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a
disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not
know that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might
stand here very well.’
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a
little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose
the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the
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compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever
to marry him, it might have been worth while to pause
and consider, and try to understand the value of his
preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the
purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable
enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield;
and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as
certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared
that he came to announce an improvement.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ he almost immediately
began, ‘your inclination for dancing has not been quite
frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father’s little
rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:—a thought
of my father’s, which waits only your approbation to be
acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for
the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given,
not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?’
‘The Crown!’
‘Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and
I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so
kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can
promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at
Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no
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objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we
all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in
either of the Randalls rooms, would have been
insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were the
whole time, but was too anxious for securing any thing to
like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent— I
hope you consent?’
‘It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if
Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as
far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy—It
seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you
not think it an excellent improvement?’
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was
fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther
representations were necessary to make it acceptable.
‘No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a
very bad plan— much worse than the other. A room at an
inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired,
or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better
dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the
Crown in his life—did not know the people who kept it
by sight.—Oh! no—a very bad plan. They would catch
worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.’
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‘I was going to observe, sir,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘that
one of the great recommendations of this change would
be the very little danger of any body’s catching cold— so
much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr.
Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but
nobody else could.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, ‘you are
very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that
sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when
any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at
the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.’
‘From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We
shall have no occasion to open the windows at all—not
once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of
opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated
bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.’
‘Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill,
nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls.
Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a
thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither
your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was)
would suffer it.’
‘Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will
sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a
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sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it
done myself.’
‘Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have
supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often
astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a
difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over—
but these sort of things require a good deal of
consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.
If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here
one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be
done.’
‘But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—‘
‘Oh!’ interrupted Emma, ‘there will be plenty of time
for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it
can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very
convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own
stable.’
‘So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that
James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses
when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being
thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I
doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.’
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‘I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because
it will be under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston
undertakes to direct the whole.’
‘There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own
dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you
remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I
had the measles? ‘If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss
Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often
have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!’
‘Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never
forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the
measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for
Perry’s great attention. He came four times a day for a
week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—
which was our great comfort; but the measles are a
dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella’s little
ones have the measles, she will send for Perry.’
‘My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this
moment,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘examining the capabilities
of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield,
impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be
persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I
was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest
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pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you
there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you.’
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council;
and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was
gone, the two young people set off together without delay
for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston;
delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very
busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some
little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.
‘Emma,’ said she, ‘this paper is worse than I expected.
Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the
wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I
could have imagined.’
‘My dear, you are too particular,’ said her husband.
‘What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by
candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight.
We never see any thing of it on our club-nights.’
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which
meant, ‘Men never know when things are dirty or not;’
and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself,
‘Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
cares.’
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen
did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of
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the ballroom’s being built, suppers had not been in
question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only
addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be
wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were
conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still
was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another
room of much better size might be secured for the
purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a
long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.
This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts
for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma
nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being
miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper;
merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that
was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance,
without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an
infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and
Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took
another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful
room, observed,
‘I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be
many, you know.’
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And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly
with long steps through the passage, was calling out,
‘You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my
dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least
draught from the stairs.’
‘I wish,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘one could know which
arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do
what would be most generally pleasing must be our
object—if one could but tell what that would be.’
‘Yes, very true,’ cried Frank, ‘very true. You want your
neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one
could ascertain what the chief of them—the Coles, for
instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or
Miss Bates? She is still nearer.— And I do not know
whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the
inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think
we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss
Bates to join us?’
‘Well—if you please,’ said Mrs. Weston rather
hesitating, ‘if you think she will be of any use.’
‘You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,’
said Emma. ‘She will be all delight and gratitude, but she
will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your
questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.’
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‘But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very
fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the
whole family, you know.’
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what
was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
‘Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us
end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am
sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us
how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are
growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how
to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.’
‘Both sir! Can the old lady?’ …
‘The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall
think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt
without the niece.’
‘Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately
recollect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to
persuade them both.’ And away he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat,
brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston,
like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had
examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much
less than she had supposed before— indeed very trifling;
and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in
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speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor
arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and
supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be
settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes.— Every body invited, was certainly to come;
Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying
a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly
be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree
that it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an
approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome.
Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and
incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour
they were all walking to and fro, between the different
rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy
enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up
without Emma’s being positively secured for the two first
dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her
overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, ‘He has
asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he would!’
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Chapter XII
One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of
the ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed
for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill’s stay
in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she
could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills
might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The
preparations must take their time, nothing could be
properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for
a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping
in uncertainty—at the risk— in her opinion, the great risk,
of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if
not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not
please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and
prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally
makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her
ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s
provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not
dance himself, or because the plan had been formed
without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it
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should not interest him, determined against its exciting
any present curiosity, or affording him any future
amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma
could get no more approving reply, than,
‘Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at
all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I
have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse
pleasures for me.— Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not
refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I
would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s
week’s account; much rather, I confess.— Pleasure in
seeing dancing!—not I, indeed—I never look at it— I do
not know who does.—Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue,
must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are
usually thinking of something very different.’
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite
angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however
that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not
guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she
enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It
made her animated—open hearted— she voluntarily
said;—
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‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to
prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do
look forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure.’
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he
would have preferred the society of William Larkins.
No!—she was more and more convinced that Mrs.
Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a
great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on
his side—but no love.
Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr.
Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately
followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter
arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant
return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell— far too unwell to do
without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said
her husband) when writing to her nephew two days
before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain,
and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not
mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must
entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.
The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in
a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was
inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though
without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his
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repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred
but for her own convenience.
Mrs. Weston added, ‘that he could only allow himself
time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave
of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel
any interest in him; and that he might be expected at
Hartfield very soon.’
This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast.
When once it had been read, there was no doing any
thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball—the
loss of the young man— and all that the young man might
be feeling!—It was too wretched!— Such a delightful
evening as it would have been!—Every body so happy!
and she and her partner the happiest!—‘I said it would be
so,’ was the only consolation.
Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought
principally of Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know
how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to
have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer
at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he
appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience,
his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did
come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost
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too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and
when rousing himself, it was only to say,
‘Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.’
‘But you will come again,’ said Emma. ‘This will not
be your only visit to Randalls.’
‘Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I
may be able to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It
will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if my
uncle and aunt go to town this spring—but I am afraid—
they did not stir last spring— I am afraid it is a custom
gone for ever.’
‘Our poor ball must be quite given up.’
‘Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why
not seize the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness
destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!—You told
us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you
always so right?’
‘Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I
would much rather have been merry than wise.’
‘If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My
father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.’
Emma looked graciously.
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‘Such a fortnight as it has been!’ he continued; ‘every
day more precious and more delightful than the day
before!—every day making me less fit to bear any other
place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!’
‘As you do us such ample justice now,’ said Emma,
laughing, ‘I will venture to ask, whether you did not come
a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your
expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not
much expect to like us. You would not have been so long
in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.’
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the
sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
‘And you must be off this very morning?’
‘Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back
together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid
that every moment will bring him.’
‘Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss
Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s
powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened
yours.’
‘Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it
better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three
minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent.
She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she
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came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must
laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was
better to pay my visit, then’—
He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
‘In short,’ said he, ‘perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think
you can hardly be quite without suspicion’—
He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts.
She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the
forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did
not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope
of putting it by, she calmly said,
‘You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay
your visit, then’—
He was silent. She believed he was looking at her;
probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to
understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural
for him to feel that he had cause to sigh. He could not
believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward
moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more
determined manner said,
‘It was something to feel that all the rest of my time
might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is
most warm’—
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He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite
embarrassed.— He was more in love with her than Emma
had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended,
if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse
soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him
composed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the
present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was
to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil
that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful,
said, ‘It was time to go;’ and the young man, though he
might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
‘I shall hear about you all,’ said he; that is my chief
consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on
among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond
with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the
blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In
her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again.’
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest
‘Good-bye,’ closed the speech, and the door had soon shut
out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice—short
their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to
part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from
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his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and
feeling it too much.
It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost
every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls
had given great spirit to the last two weeks—indescribable
spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every
morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his
liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight,
and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
course of Hartfield days. To complete every other
recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved
her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he
might be subject to, was another point; but at present she
could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,
a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion,
joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a
little in love with him, in spite of every previous
determination against it.
‘I certainly must,’ said she. ‘This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and
employ myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and
insipid about the house!— I must be in love; I should be
the oddest creature in the world if I were not—for a few
weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others.
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I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for
Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He
may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now
if he likes.’
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant
happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own
account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted
him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was
sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with
considerable kindness added,
‘You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of
dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out
of luck!’
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge
of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they
did meet, her composure was odious. She had been
particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a
degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it;
and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming
indifference to the languor of ill-health.
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Chapter XIII
Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in
love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first,
she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little.
She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked
of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing
Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how
he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what
was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be
unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed
for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful;
and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have
faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and,
as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand
amusing schemes for the progress and close of their
attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary
declaration on his side was that she refused him. Their
affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing
tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still
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they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it
struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in
spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit
her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly
must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in
her own feelings.
‘I do not find myself making any use of the word
sacrifice,’ said she.— ‘In not one of all my clever replies,
my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a
sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my
happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not
persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough
in love. I should be sorry to be more.’
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her
view of his feelings.
‘He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing
denotes it—very much in love indeed!—and when he
comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my
guard not to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable
to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not
that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him
hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his
feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he
have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language
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at parting would have been different.— Still, however, I
must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his
attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know
that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite
the sort of man— I do not altogether build upon his
steadiness or constancy.— His feelings are warm, but I can
imagine them rather changeable.— Every consideration of
the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness
is not more deeply involved.—I shall do very well again
after a little while—and then, it will be a good thing over;
for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I
shall have been let off easily.’
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the
perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and
admiration which made her at first shake her head over
her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their
strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the
particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all
the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and
honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local
that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision.
No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it
was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and
the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
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between the places in some of the first blessings of social
life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it
was felt, and how much more might have been said but
for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own
name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more
than once, and never without a something of pleasing
connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a
remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last
time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any
such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the
effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest
compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the
very lowest vacant corner were these words—‘I had not a
spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses
and adieus to her.’ This, Emma could not doubt, was all
for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being her
friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe
were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;
Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even
in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls
again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in
the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it
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was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had
not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do
without the writer, and that he must learn to do without
her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of
refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a
scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His
recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it,
the ‘beautiful little friend,’ suggested to her the idea of
Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it
impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his
inferior in understanding; but he had been very much
struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm
simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of
circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
‘I must not dwell upon it,’ said she.—‘I must not think
of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations.
But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to
care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of
confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship
which I can already look forward to with pleasure.’
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s
behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it
seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank
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Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement
in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had
entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank
Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were
assuming the most irresistible form.—His wedding-day
was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.
Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the
first letter from Enscombe before ‘Mr. Elton and his bride’
was in every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was
forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had
three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and
Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been
lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at
least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other
things; but it was now too evident that she had not
attained such a state of composure as could stand against
the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required
all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every
kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not
do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her
ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be
for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever
agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the
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same. Harriet listened submissively, and said ‘it was very
true— it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was
not worth while to think about them—and she would not
think about them any longer’ but no change of subject
could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and
restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked
her on another ground.
‘Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so
unhappy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the
strongest reproach you can make me. You could not give
me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all
my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.—
Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you— and
it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not
imagine me in danger of forgetting it.’
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few
words of eager exclamation. Emma continued,
‘I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake;
think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for
your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the
sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit
of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your
duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the
suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and
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restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I
have been pressing on you. They are very important—and
sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act
upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary
consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater
pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet
would not forget what was due—or rather what would be
kind by me.’
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.
The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss
Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her
wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was
comforted away, still remained powerful enough to
prompt to what was right and support her in it very
tolerably.
‘You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my
life— Want gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—
I care for nobody as I do for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
how ungrateful I have been!’
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing
that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she
had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection
so highly before.
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‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,’ said
she afterwards to herself. ‘There is nothing to be compared
to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an
affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of
head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is
tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so
generally beloved—which gives Isabella all her
popularity.— I have it not—but I know how to prize and
respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all
the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change
you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging
female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—
Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for a wife— a
sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention no names;
but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!’
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Chapter XIV
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though
devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be
satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the
visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle
whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather
pretty, or not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or
propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay
her respects; and she made a point of Harriet’s going with
her, that the worst of the business might be gone through
as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in
the same room to which she had with such vain artifice
retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without
recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be
recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only
rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and
there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind
to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely
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to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give
one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being
‘elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.’
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry
to find fault, but she suspected that there was no
elegance;—ease, but not elegance.— She was almost sure
that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too
much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not
unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor
manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would
turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no,
she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself
about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any
time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need
be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine
clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had
only his own good sense to depend on; and when she
considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in
being in the same room at once with the woman he had
just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the
woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must
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allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be
as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ said Harriet, when they had
quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend
to begin; ‘Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,)
what do you think of her?— Is not she very charming?’
There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
‘Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.’
‘I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.’
‘Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant
gown.’
‘I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in
love.’
‘Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A
pretty fortune; and she came in his way.’
‘I dare say,’ returned Harriet, sighing again, ‘I dare say
she was very much attached to him.’
‘Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to
marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins
perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she
was likely to have.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet earnestly, ‘and well she might,
nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy
with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not
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think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior
as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a
different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need
not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any
great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself
away, is such a comfort!— She does seem a charming
young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He
called her ‘Augusta.’ How delightful!’
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her
mind. She could then see more and judge better. From
Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father’s
being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an
hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could
composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite
convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman,
extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of
her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very
superior, but with manners which had been formed in a
bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were
drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that
if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would
certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or
refined herself, she would have connected him with those
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who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed
from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set.
The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of
him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple
Grove, ‘My brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;’—a comparison
of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield
were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most
favourably impressed by the size of the room, the
entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. ‘Very like
Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the
likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the
morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite
room.’— Mr. Elton was appealed to.—‘Was not it
astonishingly like?— She could really almost fancy herself
at Maple Grove.’
‘And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed
how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same
part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I
assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me,
to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as
Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!
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(with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place,
undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its
beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever
you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
understand how very delightful it is to meet with any
thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this
is quite one of the evils of matrimony.’
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was
fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be
talking herself.
‘So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely
the house— the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could
observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are
in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the
same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a
fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so
exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted
with this place. People who have extensive grounds
themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same
style.’
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a
great idea that people who had extensive grounds
themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of
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any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an
error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
‘When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid
you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full
of beauties.’
‘Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of
England, you know. Surry is the garden of England.’
‘Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that
distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden
of England, as well as Surry.’
‘No, I fancy not,’ replied Mrs. Elton, with a most
satisfied smile.’ I never heard any county but Surry called
so.’
Emma was silenced.
‘My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the
spring, or summer at farthest,’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘and
that will be our time for exploring. While they are with
us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have
their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four
perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of our
carriage, we should be able to explore the different
beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their
chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when
the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their
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bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much
preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of
this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally
wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling
is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King’s-
Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,
just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have
many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss
Woodhouse, every summer?’
‘No; not immediately here. We are rather out of
distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort
of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of
people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than
engage in schemes of pleasure.’
‘Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real
comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I
am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a
time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, ‘I
really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I
absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck
up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but
Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never
stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time has she said so;
and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on
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the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely
from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much
more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree,
without living in it either too much or too little. I
perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss
Woodhouse— (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your
father’s state of health must be a great drawback. Why
does not he try Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me
recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of
its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.’
‘My father tried it more than once, formerly; but
without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose
name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not
conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.’
‘Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite
wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen
such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it
could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits,
which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And
as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I need not take
much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to
the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a
charming introduction for you, who have lived so
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secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some
of the best society in the place. A line from me would
bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular
friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with
when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
attentions, and would be the very person for you to go
into public with.’
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being
impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for
what was called an introduction—of her going into public
under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably
some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a
boarder, just made a shift to live!— The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the
reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs.
Elton coolly; ‘but their going to Bath was quite out of the
question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the
place might suit her better than her father.’ And then, to
prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the
subject directly.
‘I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton.
Upon these occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes
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her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior
performer.’
‘Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A
superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you.
Consider from how partial a quarter your information
came. I am doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—
and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as
to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
mediocre to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well
know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the
greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear
what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot
do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and
having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most
serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when
he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his
fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and
the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had
been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly
without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that
way, I honestly said that the world I could give up—
parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement.
Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world
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was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a different thing;
but my resources made me quite independent. And as to
smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could
not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been
accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did
assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my
happiness, nor were spacious apartments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to
be quite honest, I do not think I can live without
something of a musical society. I condition for nothing
else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.’’
‘We cannot suppose,’ said Emma, smiling, ‘that Mr.
Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very
musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find
he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned,
in consideration of the motive.’
‘No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am
delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall
have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss
Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and
have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will
not it be a good plan? If we exert ourselves, I think we
shall not be long in want of allies. Something of that
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nature would be particularly desirable for me, as an
inducement to keep me in practice; for married women,
you know— there is a sad story against them, in general.
They are but too apt to give up music.’
‘But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can
be no danger, surely?’
‘I should hope not; but really when I look around
among my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely
given up music—never touches the instrument—though
she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two
Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of
more than I can enumerate. Upon my word it is enough
to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina;
but really I begin now to comprehend that a married
woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I
was half an hour this morning shut up with my
housekeeper.’
‘But every thing of that kind,’ said Emma, ‘will soon be
in so regular a train—‘
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Elton, laughing, ‘we shall see.’
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her
music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s
pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
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‘We have been calling at Randalls,’ said she, ‘and found
them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to
be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent
creature— quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I
assure you. And she appears so truly good—there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it
wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?’
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but
Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she
went on.
‘Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to
find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the
gentlewoman.’
‘Mrs. Weston’s manners,’ said Emma, ‘were always
particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and
elegance, would make them the safest model for any
young woman.’
‘And who do you think came in while we were there?’
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old
acquaintance— and how could she possibly guess?
‘Knightley!’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘Knightley
himself!—Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when
he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and
of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great
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curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I
must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not
be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman.
I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very
gentleman-like man.’
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off;
and Emma could breathe.
‘Insufferable woman!’ was her immediate exclamation.
‘Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable!
Knightley!—I could not have believed it. Knightley!—
never seen him in her life before, and call him
Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little
upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo,
and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and
underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley
is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the
compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not
have believed it! And to propose that she and I should
unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were
bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!— Astonished that the
person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman!
Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much
beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.
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Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were
here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah!
there I am— thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank
Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!’—
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the
time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the
Eltons’ departure, and was ready to speak, she was very
tolerably capable of attending.
‘Well, my dear,’ he deliberately began, ‘considering we
never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of
young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with
you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of
voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I
am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks
like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very
obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will
make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better
not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this
happy occasion; I said that I hoped I should in the course
of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to
wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad
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invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage
Lane.’
‘I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton
knows you.’
‘Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid
my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient.’
‘But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony;
and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your
respects to a bride? It ought to be no recommendation to
you. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so
much of them.’
‘No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry,
but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a
lady—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected.
More is avowedly due to her. A bride, you know, my
dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may.’
‘Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do
not know what is. And I should never have expected you
to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor
young ladies.’
‘My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter
of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has
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nothing to do with any encouragement to people to
marry.’
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and
could not understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs.
Elton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.
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Chapter XV
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery,
to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation
had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to
her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever
they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar,
ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little
accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought
herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to
enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and
conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in
society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at
all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy
with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating
himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as
not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater
part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or
not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss
Bates’s good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride
must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself,
were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed
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from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded
by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first
contribution and talked with a good grace of her being
‘very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.’
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she
had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards
Emma.—Offended, probably, by the little encouragement
which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back
in her turn and gradually became much more cold and
distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will
which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma’s
dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr. Elton’s, were
unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and
negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s
cure; but the sensations which could prompt such
behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was not to be
doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been an
offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the
story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the
most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given
also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.—
When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy
to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which
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they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a
broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from
the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one
young lady might be supposed to recommend the other,
but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with
expressing a natural and reasonable admiration— but
without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be
wanting to assist and befriend her.—Before Emma had
forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their
meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry on the
subject.—
‘Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss
Woodhouse.—I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet,
interesting creature. So mild and ladylike—and with such
talents!—I assure you I think she has very extraordinary
talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely
well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that
point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at
my warmth—but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but
Jane Fairfax.— And her situation is so calculated to affect
one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and
endeavour to do something for her. We must bring her
forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain
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unknown.—I dare say you have heard those charming
lines of the poet,
‘Full many a flower is born to blush
unseen,
‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane
Fairfax.’
‘I cannot think there is any danger of it,’ was Emma’s
calm answer— ‘and when you are better acquainted with
Miss Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has
been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea
that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.’
‘Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such
retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever
advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are
so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure
she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for
it. I must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a
great advocate for timidity—and I am sure one does not
often meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it
is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is
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a very delightful character, and interests me more than I
can express.’
‘You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware
how you or any of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of
those who have known her longer than yourself, can shew
her any other attention than’—
‘My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by
those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we
set the example, many will follow it as far as they can;
though all have not our situations. We have carriages to
fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which
could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time,
the least inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased
if Wright were to send us up such a dinner, as could make
me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake
of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely
that I should, considering what I have been used to. My
greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite
the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless
of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more
than it ought to be— for we do not at all affect to equal
my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my
resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.— I shall
certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce
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her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out
her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an
eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive,
that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her
shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly
to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure
they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little
acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off,
for there really is nothing in the manners of either but
what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often
indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall
sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in
some of our exploring parties.’
‘Poor Jane Fairfax!’—thought Emma.—‘You have not
deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to
Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can
have merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me
not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouseing
me!— But upon my honour, there seems no limits to
the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!’
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any
so exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly
decorated with a ‘dear Miss Woodhouse.’ The change on
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Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared, and she was
left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the
very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with
others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what
was meditated, what was done.
She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s
gratitude for Mrs. Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first
style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one
of her worthies— the most amiable, affable, delightful
woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs.
Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was
that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and
tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her
walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending
a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!—She could
not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of
Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as
the Vicarage had to offer.
‘She is a riddle, quite a riddle!’ said she.—‘To chuse to
remain here month after month, under privations of every
sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s
notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than
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return to the superior companions who have always loved
her with such real, generous affection.’
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three
months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three
months; but now the Campbells had promised their
daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there.
According to Miss Bates—it all came from her—Mrs.
Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go,
means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived—
no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!
‘She must have some motive, more powerful than
appears, for refusing this invitation,’ was Emma’s
conclusion. ‘She must be under some sort of penance,
inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great
fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.— She is
not to be with the Dixons. The decree is issued by
somebody. But why must she consent to be with the
Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.’
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of
the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs.
Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.
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‘We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at
the Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being
always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a
constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must
consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her
taste for what she goes to.’
‘You are right, Mrs. Weston,’ said Mr. Knightley
warmly, ‘Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming
a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with
whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But
(with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions
from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.’
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a
momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his
warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied,
‘Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have
imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should have imagined any thing
but inviting.’
‘I should not wonder,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if Miss
Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own
inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs.
Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely
have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
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appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would
have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little
change.’
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and
after a few minutes silence, he said,
‘Another thing must be taken into consideration too—
Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of
her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he
or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all
feel the influence of a something beyond common civility
in our personal intercourse with each other— a something
more early implanted. We cannot give any body the
disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the
hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the
operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure
that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both
of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton
treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to.
Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs.
Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent
her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in
action, if not in consciousness.’
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‘I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,’ said
Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of
alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘any body may know how highly I
think of her.’
‘And yet,’ said Emma, beginning hastily and with an
arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to
know the worst at once— she hurried on—‘And yet,
perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
is. The extent of your admiration may take you by
surprize some day or other.’
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower
buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion
of getting them together, or some other cause, brought
the colour into his face, as he answered,
‘Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably
behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.’
He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs.
Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a
moment he went on—
‘That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss
Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask
her—and I am very sure I shall never ask her.’
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Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and
was pleased enough to exclaim,
‘You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for
you.’
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and
in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon
afterwards said,
‘So you have been settling that I should marry Jane
Fairfax?’
‘No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much
for match-making, for me to presume to take such a
liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing.
One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea
of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not
the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane
any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this
comfortable way, if you were married.’
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his
reverie was, ‘No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my
admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never
had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.’ And soon
afterwards, ‘Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a
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fault. She has not the open temper which a man would
wish for in a wife.’
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a
fault. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I
suppose?’
‘Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he
was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole
does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.’
‘In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants
to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how
she speaks of the Coles— what she calls them! How can
she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar
vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for
Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane
Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.
Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can
much more readily enter into the temptation of getting
away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in
Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought,
word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond
her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine
that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with
praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will
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not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions,
from the procuring her a permanent situation to the
including her in those delightful exploring parties which
are to take place in the barouche-landau.’
‘Jane Fairfax has feeling,’ said Mr. Knightley—‘I do not
accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect,
are strong—and her temper excellent in its power of
forbearance, patience, self-controul; but it wants openness.
She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to
be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to
my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I
saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration
and pleasure always—but with no thought beyond.’
‘Well, Mrs. Weston,’ said Emma triumphantly when he
left them, ‘what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s
marrying Jane Fairfax?’
‘Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much
occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I
should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last.
Do not beat me.’
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Chapter XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever
visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on
his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were
made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast
that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.
‘I see how it is,’ said she. ‘I see what a life I am to lead
among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely
dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living
in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From
Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a
disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I
have, need not have been at a loss.’
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made
evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove
had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked
at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at
rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury cardparties.
Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others,
were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world,
but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to
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be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return
their civilities by one very superior party—in which her
card-tables should be set out with their separate candles
and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters
engaged for the evening than their own establishment
could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly
the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied
without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must
not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious
suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A
dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and
only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom
of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of
deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought.
Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr.
Knightley; so far it was all of course— and it was hardly
less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to
make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with
equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was
particularly pleased by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to
decline it. ‘She would rather not be in his company more
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than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him
and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be
displeased, she would rather stay at home.’ It was precisely
what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the
fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was
in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and
she could now invite the very person whom she really
wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.— Since her last
conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she
was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she
had often been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her.
He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs.
Elton which nobody else paid her.
‘This is very true,’ said she, ‘at least as far as relates to
me, which was all that was meant—and it is very
shameful.—Of the same age— and always knowing her—I
ought to have been more her friend.— She will never like
me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew
her greater attention than I have done.’
Every invitation was successful. They were all
disengaged and all happy.— The preparatory interest of
this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance
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rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys
were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of
some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed
bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield—
which one day would be the very day of this party.—His
professional engagements did not allow of his being put
off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its
happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at
dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—
and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that
it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being
able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours
without falling in with a dinner-party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort
herself, by representing that though he certainly would
make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the
increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it
in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his
grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse
than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was
unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on
the very day. He might be able to join them in the
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evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was
quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the
little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother
on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma’s
vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled,
and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to
the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his
brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he
was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace
and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence—
wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s
information—but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance
and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her
before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his
little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was
natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he
said,
‘I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this
morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We
scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly.’
‘I went only to the post-office,’ said she, ‘and reached
home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I
always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble,
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and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast
does me good.’
‘Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.’
‘No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.’
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
‘That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you
were not six yards from your own door when I had the
pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen
more drops than they could count long before. The postoffice
has a great charm at one period of our lives. When
you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters
are never worth going through the rain for.’
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
‘I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the
midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot
expect that simply growing older should make me
indifferent about letters.’
‘Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could
become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference;
they are generally a very positive curse.’
‘You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters
of friendship.’
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‘I have often thought them the worst of the two,’
replied he coolly. ‘Business, you know, may bring money,
but friendship hardly ever does.’
‘Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John
Knightley too well— I am very sure he understands the
value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe
that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but
it is not your being ten years older than myself which
makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have
every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably,
never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my
affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power
to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.’
‘When I talked of your being altered by time, by the
progress of years,’ said John Knightley, ‘I meant to imply
the change of situation which time usually brings. I
consider one as including the other. Time will generally
lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily
circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you.
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax,
that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated
objects as I have.’
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A
pleasant ‘thank you’ seemed meant to laugh it off, but a
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blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was
felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by
Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on
such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying
his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with
her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
‘I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out
this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of
themselves.— Young ladies are delicate plants. They
should take care of their health and their complexion. My
dear, did you change your stockings?’
‘Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by
your kind solicitude about me.’
‘My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be
cared for.— I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are
well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my
health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a
great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I
are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the
greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.’
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down
and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair
lady welcome and easy.
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Emma
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By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs.
Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
‘My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the postoffice
in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You
sad girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was
not there to take care of you.’
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught
any cold.
‘Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and
do not know how to take care of yourself.—To the postoffice
indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?
You and I must positively exert our authority.’
‘My advice,’ said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively,
‘I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must
not run such risks.— Liable as you have been to severe
colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful,
especially at this time of year. The spring I always think
requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or
two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk
of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel
that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable.
You look as if you would not do such a thing again.’
‘Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,’ eagerly
rejoined Mrs. Elton. ‘We will not allow her to do such a
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thing again:’— and nodding significantly—‘there must be
some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak
to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning
(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours
too and bring them to you. That will obviate all
difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear
Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an
accommodation.’
‘You are extremely kind,’ said Jane; ‘but I cannot give
up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much
as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an
object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad
morning before.’
‘My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is
determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can
presume to determine any thing without the concurrence
of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and
I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do
flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not
entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable
difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Jane earnestly, ‘I cannot by any means
consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome
to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it
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could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my
grandmama’s.’
‘Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it
is a kindness to employ our men.’
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but
instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr.
John Knightley.
‘The post-office is a wonderful establishment!’ said
she.— ‘The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of
all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really
astonishing!’
‘It is certainly very well regulated.’
‘So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So
seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are
constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried
wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost!
And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the
wonder.’
‘The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin
with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise
improves them. If you want any farther explanation,’
continued he, smiling, ‘they are paid for it. That is the key
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to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be
served well.’
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and
the usual observations made.
‘I have heard it asserted,’ said John Knightley, ‘that the
same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and
where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But
for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be
chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little
teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand
they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very
much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.’
‘Yes,’ said his brother hesitatingly, ‘there is a likeness. I
know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.’
‘Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse; ‘and always did. And so does poor Mrs.
Weston’—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
‘I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting’—Emma
began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on
perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one
else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, ‘Now, how
am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking
his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for
me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire
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friend— your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that would be
the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can
pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I
certainly get better and better.—Now for it.’
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—
‘Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s
hands I ever saw.’
‘I do not admire it,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘It is too
small— wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.’
This was not submitted to by either lady. They
vindicated him against the base aspersion. ‘No, it by no
means wanted strength— it was not a large hand, but very
clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter
about her to produce?’ No, she had heard from him very
lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
‘If we were in the other room,’ said Emma, ‘if I had
my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I
have a note of his.— Do not you remember, Mrs.
Weston, employing him to write for you one day?’
‘He chose to say he was employed’—
‘Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after
dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.’
‘Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank
Churchill,’ said Mr. Knightley dryly, ‘writes to a fair lady
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like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his
best.’
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be
spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had
reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her
into the dining-parlour, was saying—
‘Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading
the way.’
Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not
escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt
some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this
morning had produced any. She suspected that it had; that
it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in
full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and
that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air
of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of
complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the
expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at
her tongue’s end— but she abstained. She was quite
determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane
Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of
the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will
highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.
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Chapter XVII
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after
dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their
making two distinct parties;— with so much perseverance
in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane
Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were
obliged to be almost always either talking together or
silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane
repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and
though much that passed between them was in a halfwhisper,
especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no
avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The
post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and
friendship, were long under discussion; and to them
succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant
to Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any
situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s
meditated activity.
‘Here is April come!’ said she, ‘I get quite anxious
about you. June will soon be here.’
‘But I have never fixed on June or any other month—
merely looked forward to the summer in general.’
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‘But have you really heard of nothing?’
‘I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to
make any yet.’
‘Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not
aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable
thing.’
‘I not aware!’ said Jane, shaking her head; ‘dear Mrs.
Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?’
‘But you have not seen so much of the world as I have.
You do not know how many candidates there always are
for the first situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the
neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr.
Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications;
every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves
in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You
may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom
Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish to see you in.’
‘Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by
midsummer,’ said Jane. ‘I must spend some time with
them; I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may
probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not
wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at
present.’
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‘Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of
giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the
Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I
am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and
shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any
thing eligible.’
‘Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention
the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish
to be giving any body trouble.’
‘But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is
April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such
business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really
amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your
friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence,
is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we
must begin inquiring directly.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my
intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry
to have any made by my friends. When I am quite
determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being
long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where
inquiry would soon produce something—Offices for the
sale— not quite of human flesh—but of human intellect.’
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‘Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you
mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling
was always rather a friend to the abolition.’
‘I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,’
replied Jane; ‘governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I
had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of
those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the
victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to
say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying
to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting
with something that would do.’
‘Something that would do!’ repeated Mrs. Elton. ‘Aye,
that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know
what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your
friends to have you taking up with any thing that may
offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not
moving in a certain circle, or able to command the
elegancies of life.’
‘You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very
indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the
rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater;
I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s
family is all that I should condition for.’
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‘I know you, I know you; you would take up with any
thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the
good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your
superior talents, you have a right to move in the first
circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you
to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like,
and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that is—I
do not know— if you knew the harp, you might do all
that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I
really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate
for what you chose;—and you must and shall be
delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the
Campbells or I have any rest.’