Emma by Jane Austen(8)

‘You may well class the delight, the honour, and the
comfort of such a situation together,’ said Jane, ‘they are
pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not
wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to
any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in
wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or
three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I
am.’
‘And I am quite serious too, I assure you,’ replied Mrs.
Elton gaily, ‘in resolving to be always on the watch, and
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employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really
unexceptionable may pass us.’
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by
any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her
vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her
saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,

‘Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—
Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the
other men!—what a dear creature he is;—I assure you I
like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned
politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr.
Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to
me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro
sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a
favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like
it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not
know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest
dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed—quite a horror
of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it
is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a
bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple
style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am
quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value
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simplicity of dress,—show and finery are every thing. I
have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my
white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?’
The whole party were but just reassembled in the
drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance
among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and
walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been
too much expected by the best judges, for surprize— but
there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to
see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him
before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.—
That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at
home after a day of business in London, should set off
again, and walk half a mile to another man’s house, for the
sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing
his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers,
was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had
been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and
might now have been still, who had been long talking,
and might have been silent, who had been in more than
one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to
quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside,
and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out
again into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger
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have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been
a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather
than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him
with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, ‘I
could not have believed it even of him.’
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the
indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual,
and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day
spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself
agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries
of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten,
and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was
proceeding to a family communication, which, though
principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the
smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to
herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the
liberty of opening it.
‘Read it, read it,’ said he, ‘it will give you pleasure;
only a few lines—will not take you long; read it to
Emma.’
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The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat
smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a
little subdued, but very audible to every body.
‘Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well,
what do you say to it?—I always told you he would be
here again soon, did not I?—Anne, my dear, did not I
always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In
town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she
is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to
be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or
Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is
an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near
as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what
I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you
finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we
will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will
not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to
the others in a common way.’
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the
occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain
them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew
she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm
and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. She was
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a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying
to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather
thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant,
too communicative to want others to talk, was very well
satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to
make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have
overheard already.
It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted,
or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or
Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first
entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made
happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss
Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John
Knightley, that it would have been too positive an
interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and
her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the
subject with her.
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Chapter XVIII
‘I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my
son to you,’ said Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular
compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most
graciously.
‘You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I
presume,’ he continued— ‘and know him to be my son,
though he does not bear my name.’
‘Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.
I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him;
and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the
Vicarage.’
‘You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely
happy, I am sure.— He is to be in town next week, if not
sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the
letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son’s hand,
presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—
it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent,
I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter.’
‘And so you absolutely opened what was directed to
her! Oh! Mr. Weston— (laughing affectedly) I must
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protest against that.—A most dangerous precedent
indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours follow
your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to
expect, we married women must begin to exert
ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it
of you!’
‘Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of
yourself, Mrs. Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short
letter—written in a hurry, merely to give us notice—it
tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on
Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the
whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her— so
they are all to move southward without loss of time.’
‘Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in
Yorkshire?’
‘Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles
from London. a considerable journey.’
‘Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five
miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what
is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You
would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling,
sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me— but
twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London
and back again with four horses.’
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‘The evil of the distance from Enscombe,’ said Mr.
Weston, ‘is, that Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not
been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s
last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to
get into her conservatory without having both his arm and
his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that
she means to sleep only two nights on the road.—So
Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very
extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant
me that.’
‘No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take
the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—
You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I
always stand up for women— and I assure you, if you
knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn,
you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making
incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite
horror to her—and I believe I have caught a little of her
nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an
excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?’
‘Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that
any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be
second to any lady in the land for’—
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Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
‘Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine
lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea.’
‘Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill,
who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.’
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in
disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to
have it believed that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps
there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and she was
considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
Weston went on.
‘Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you
may suspect— but this is quite between ourselves. She is
very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of
her. Besides, she is out of health now; but that indeed, by
her own account, she has always been. I would not say so
to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in
Mrs. Churchill’s illness.’
‘If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—
To Bath, or to Clifton?’ ‘She has taken it into her head
that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose,
that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer
time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she
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begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place,
but very retired.’
‘Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand
more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an
immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from
every thing—in the most complete retirement.— And
Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like
Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may
not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a
country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many
resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many
myself as to be quite independent of society.’
‘Frank was here in February for a fortnight.’
‘So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition
to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if
I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he
may never have heard of there being such a creature in the
world.’
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed
by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately
exclaimed,
‘My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine
such a thing possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs.
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Weston’s letters lately have been full of very little else than
Mrs. Elton.’
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
‘When Frank left us,’ continued he, ‘it was quite
uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this
day’s news doubly welcome. It has been completely
unexpected. That is, I always had a strong persuasion he
would be here again soon, I was sure something
favourable would turn up—but nobody believed me. He
and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. ‘How
could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed
that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so
forth—I always felt that something would happen in our
favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton,
in the course of my life, that if things are going
untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.’
‘Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I
used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days
of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right,
did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his
feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he
was sure at this rate it would be May before Hymen’s
saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have
been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him
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cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments
about the carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came
to me quite in despair.’
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr.
Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.
‘You were mentioning May. May is the very month
which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to
spend in some warmer place than Enscombe—in short, to
spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect
of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring— precisely
the season of the year which one should have chosen for
it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant,
always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise.
When he was here before, we made the best of it; but
there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather;
there always is in February, you know, and we could not
do half that we intended. Now will be the time. This will
be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton,
whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of
constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day
or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly
to happiness than having him actually in the house. I think
it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most
spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son;
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but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally
thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.
Mrs. Weston’s partiality for him is very great, and, as you
may suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody
equal to him.’
‘And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt
that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have
heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the
same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who
always judge for themselves, and are by no means
implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find
your son, so I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.’
Mr. Weston was musing.
‘I hope,’ said he presently, ‘I have not been severe
upon poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to
do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character
which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the
forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs.
Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the
treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the
whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the
instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been slighted
as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his
pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent,
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gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and
only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her
pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one
less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.
She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter
of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a
Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high and
mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an
upstart.’
‘Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I
have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me
a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a
family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance
to my brother and sister from the airs they give
themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me
think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman,
very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low
connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and
expecting to be on a footing with the old established
families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can
have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune
nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is
not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.
One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say
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there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more
is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many
things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners
they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother,
Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest
neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has
been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose
father had it before him—I believe, at least—I am almost
sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase
before his death.’
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and
Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the
opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat
down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five
were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their
getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little
disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice,
which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself
in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer
being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his
brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he
soon began with—
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‘Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more
to say about the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and
every thing is down at full length there we may be sure.
My charge would be much more concise than her’s, and
probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and
do not physic them.’
‘I rather hope to satisfy you both,’ said Emma, ‘for I
shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will
be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false
indulgence and physic.’
‘And if you find them troublesome, you must send
them home again.’
‘That is very likely. You think so, do not you?’
‘I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your
father— or even may be some encumbrance to you, if
your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as
they have done lately.’
‘Increase!’
‘Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year
has made a great difference in your way of life.’
‘Difference! No indeed I am not.’
‘There can be no doubt of your being much more
engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this
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very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and
you are engaged with a dinner-party!— When did it
happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood
is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago,
every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties;
dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls at the Crown. The
difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your
goings-on, is very great.’
‘Yes,’ said his brother quickly, ‘it is Randalls that does
it all.’
‘Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to
have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a
possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be
sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to
send them home.’
‘No,’ cried Mr. Knightley, ‘that need not be the
consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall
certainly be at leisure.’
‘Upon my word,’ exclaimed Emma, ‘you amuse me! I
should like to know how many of all my numerous
engagements take place without your being of the party;
and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure
to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of
mine— what have they been? Dining once with the
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Coles—and having a ball talked of, which never took
place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John
Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many
of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass
unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who
know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from
Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of
dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear
little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for
them, I do not think they would fare much better with
Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five
hours where she is absent one— and who, when he is at
home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.’
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and
succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning
to talk to him.
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Volume III
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Chapter I
A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy
Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this
news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it
was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or
embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had
really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth
thinking of;— but if he, who had undoubtedly been
always so much the most in love of the two, were to be
returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he
had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a
separation of two months should not have cooled him,
there were dangers and evils before her:—caution for him
and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to
have her own affections entangled again, and it would be
incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an
absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a
conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she
could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She
felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a
crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed
and tranquil state.
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It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr.
Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of
forming some opinion of Frank Churchill’s feelings. The
Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had
been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon
afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could
not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls
immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her
quick observation, and speedily determine how he was
influenced, and how she must act. They met with the
utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great
pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt
of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same
tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It
was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been.
Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference,
had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as
ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit,
and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation.
It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative
difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently
fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he
was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but
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what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying
only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make
other calls in Highbury. ‘He had seen a group of old
acquaintance in the street as he passed— he had not
stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he
had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he
did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at
Hartfield, he must hurry off.’ She had no doubt as to his
being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits, nor his
hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was
rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning
power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself
with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the
course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to
come—but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear
to have him leave her. Such was his own account at
Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to
come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal
to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous
part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very
certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at
Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not
doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker
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state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did
not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and
medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not
have many years of existence before her; but he could not
be prevailed on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her
complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as
strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her.
She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under
continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end,
her nephew’s letter to Randalls communicated a change of
plan. They were going to remove immediately to
Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the
medical skill of an eminent person there, and had
otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house
in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit
expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of
this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the
blessing of having two months before him of such near
neighbourhood to many dear friends— for the house was
taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote
with the greatest confidence of being often with them,
almost as often as he could even wish.
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Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous
prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the
happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two
months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was
quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could
have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in
their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young
man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over.
The difference in that respect of Richmond and London
was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him
always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles—nay,
eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—
was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the
day would be spent in coming and returning. There was
no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be
at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for
easy intercourse. Better than nearer!
One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty
by this removal,— the ball at the Crown. It had not been
forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain
to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely
to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after
the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines
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from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better
for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to
join them for twenty-four hours at any given time,
induced them to name as early a day as possible.
Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few
to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury
and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year
lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing
than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the
evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he
sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear
little John would have any thing the matter with them,
while dear Emma were gone.
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Chapter II
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The
day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of
some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the
certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner,
and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him
and Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;—
but it would be better than a common meeting in a
crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after
themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the
propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other
persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must
therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s
company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to
the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just
sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch;
and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he
meant to have a delightful evening. They all walked about
together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and
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within a few minutes were joined by the contents of
another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound
of at first, without great surprize. ‘So unreasonably early!’
she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it
was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself,
by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston’s judgment; and
they were so very closely followed by another carriage of
cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the
same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it
seemed as if half the company might soon be collected
together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste
on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the
favourite and intimate of a man who had so many
intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction
in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a
little less of open-heartedness would have made him a
higher character.—General benevolence, but not general
friendship, made a man what he ought to be.— She could
fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and
looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to
do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe
in their various modes, till other subjects were started,
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that, though May, a fire in the evening was still very
pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the
number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had
stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to offer the use of their
carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the
Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a
restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was
looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching
for the sound of other carriages,— impatient to begin, or
afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. ‘I think she must be here
soon,’ said he. ‘I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I
have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think,
before she comes.’
A carriage was heard. He was on the move
immediately; but coming back, said,
‘I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I
have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no
business to put myself forward.’
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the
proprieties passed.
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‘But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!’ said Mr. Weston,
looking about. ‘We thought you were to bring them.’
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for
them now. Emma longed to know what Frank’s first
opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by
the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to
form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after
the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody
talked of rain.— ‘I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,’
said Frank to his father: ‘Miss Bates must not be forgotten:’
and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs.
Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his
son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man
himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly
be out of hearing.
‘A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You
know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion;
and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with
him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think
him a very handsome young man, and his manners are
precisely what I like and approve—so truly the gentleman,
without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I
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have a vast dislike to puppies— quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr.
Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we
used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is
mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.’
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was
chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could
recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended
to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. ‘I have no doubt of
its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our
coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!—I
believe we drive faster than any body.— What a pleasure
it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!— I understand you
were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite
unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care
of them.’
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two
gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed
to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s to receive
them. Her gestures and movements might be understood
by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words,
every body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant
flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not
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finished her speech under many minutes after her being
admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she
was heard,
‘So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to
signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And
Jane declares— Well!—(as soon as she was within the
door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is admirable!—
Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting.
Could not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!— Jane,
Jane, look!—did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston,
you must really have had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs.
Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs.
Stokes,’ said I— but I had not time for more.’ She was
now met by Mrs. Weston.— ‘Very well, I thank you,
ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it.
So afraid you might have a headach!— seeing you pass by
so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so
obliged to you for the carriage!—excellent time. Jane and
I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most
comfortable carriage.— Oh! and I am sure our thanks are
due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had
most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—
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But two such offers in one day!—Never were such
neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my word,
ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well.
Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—
for the evenings are not warm—her large new shawl—
Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So kind of her to think
of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know—Mr.
Dixon’s choice. There were three others, Jane says, which
they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather
preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not
wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so
afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely— and
there was a mat to step upon—I shall never forget his
extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell
you my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since;
the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of
your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often
talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?— Ah! here’s Miss
Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?—
Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in
fairy-land!— Such a transformation!—Must not
compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most complacently)—
that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss
Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s
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hair?—You are a judge.— She did it all herself. Quite
wonderful how she does her hair!— No hairdresser from
London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare— and
Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes
for a moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—
Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?—
Where’s dear Mr. Richard?— Oh! there he is. Don’t
disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young
ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the
other day as you rode through the town—Mrs. Otway, I
protest!— and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and
Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George
and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all
do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never
better.— Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this
be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this
is charming to be standing about among such friends! And
such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank
you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please,
sir, by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every
thing so good!’
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and
as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself
necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and
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Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—
He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she
could not determine. After a good many compliments to
Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and
properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be
complimented herself— and it was, ‘How do you like my
gown?—How do you like my trimming?— How has
Wright done my hair?’—with many other relative
questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton
then said, ‘Nobody can think less of dress in general than I
do—but upon such an occasion as this, when every body’s
eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the
Westons—who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly
to do me honour—I would not wish to be inferior to
others. And I see very few pearls in the room except
mine.— So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I
understand.—We shall see if our styles suit.—A fine young
man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well.’
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that
Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own
praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of
the ladies were drowned for a while, till another
suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly
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forward.—Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife
was exclaiming,
‘Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our
seclusion?— I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you
would begin to be impatient for tidings of us.’
‘Jane!’—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of
surprize and displeasure.— ‘That is easy—but Miss Fairfax
does not disapprove it, I suppose.’
‘How do you like Mrs. Elton?’ said Emma in a
whisper.
‘Not at all.’
‘You are ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful!—What do you mean?’ Then changing
from a frown to a smile—‘No, do not tell me—I do not
want to know what you mean.— Where is my father?—
When are we to begin dancing?’
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an
odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was
quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He
had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be
laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston
that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she
would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of
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giving Emma that distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth
with fortitude.
‘And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?’
said Mr. Weston. ‘She will think Frank ought to ask her.’
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former
promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his
father looked his most perfect approbation of—and it then
appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance
with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to
help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty
soon.— Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr.
Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma
must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she
had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was
almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton
had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity
completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin
with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change.
Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.— In spite of this
little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment,
delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was
forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual
festivity before her.— She was more disturbed by Mr.
Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There he
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was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he
ought to be dancing,—not classing himself with the
husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were
pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers
were made up,—so young as he looked!— He could not
have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere,
than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright
figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of
the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every
body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was
not one among the whole row of young men who could
be compared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how
gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must
have danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever
she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general
he was looking grave. She wished he could love a
ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.—
He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter
herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were
criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid. There was
nothing like flirtation between her and her partner. They
seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That
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Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was
indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the
incessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown
away. Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a
delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball
has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very
beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very
recordable events, it was not more productive than such
meetings usually are. There was one, however, which
Emma thought something of.—The two last dances before
supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;—the only
young lady sitting down;— and so equal had been hitherto
the number of dancers, that how there could be any one
disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder
lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering
about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were
possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and
she was expecting him every moment to escape into the
card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part
of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to
some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his
liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not
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omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.— Emma saw it.
She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up
from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look
around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all.
When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were
exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her
eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard
every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place
between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his
wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not
only listening also, but even encouraging him by
significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs.
Weston had left her seat to join him and say, ‘Do not you
dance, Mr. Elton?’ to which his prompt reply was, ‘Most
readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.’
‘Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than
myself. I am no dancer.’
‘If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,’ said he, ‘I shall have
great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel
myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing
days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any
time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.’
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‘Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a
young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see
dancing—Miss Smith.’ ‘Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not
observed.—You are extremely obliging— and if I were
not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over,
Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should
be most happy to do, at your command—but my dancing
days are over.’
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine
with what surprize and mortification she must be
returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable,
obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.— She looked round for a
moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance,
and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while
smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow,
and she feared her face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr.
Knightley leading Harriet to the set!—Never had she been
more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that
instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet
and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon
as she could catch his eye again.
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His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it,
extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost
too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things
before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very
high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded
higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was
in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking
(Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was
quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like
her;—she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly
to her partner,
‘Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—
Very goodnatured, I declare.’
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss
Bates might be heard from that moment, without
interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up
her spoon.
‘Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is
your tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet.
She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage,
though every thing has been done—One door nailed
up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you
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must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well
you put it on!—so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—
Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help
grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told
you. Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening
with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and
backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and
baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing
luck in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal
about you, how you were amused, and who were your
partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not forestall Jane; I left her
dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you
all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.
Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr.
William Cox.’ My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there
nobody you would not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir,
you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and
me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little back,
Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she
looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, here we are at
the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps.
Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there
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were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were
two, and there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to
the comfort and style—Candles everywhere.—I was
telling you of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a little
disappointment.— The baked apples and biscuits,
excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate
fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at
first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the
asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now
there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread
and asparagus— so she was rather disappointed, but we
agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its
getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so
very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all
amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such
elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it
since— Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is
of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?—
Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill— only it seems too
good—but just as you please. What you direct in this
house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever
recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless
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me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most
excellent, and I cannot help beginning.’
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr.
Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the
ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come
to her and be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of
Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of
censure.
‘They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,’ said he.
‘Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?’
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving
no answer, added, ‘She ought not to be angry with you, I
suspect, whatever he may be.—To that surmise, you say
nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want
him to marry Harriet.’
‘I did,’ replied Emma, ‘and they cannot forgive me.’
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence
with it, and he only said,
‘I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own
reflections.’
‘Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain
spirit ever tell me I am wrong?’
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‘Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one
leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.’
‘I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in
Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you
discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced
of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of
strange blunders!’
‘And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will
do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for
him better than he has chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith
has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally
without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—
infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to
such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more
conversable than I expected.’
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were
interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every
body to begin dancing again.
‘Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax,
what are you all doing?— Come Emma, set your
companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body
is asleep!’
‘I am ready,’ said Emma, ‘whenever I am wanted.’
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‘Whom are you going to dance with?’ asked Mr.
Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘With you, if
you will ask me.’
‘Will you?’ said he, offering his hand.
‘Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance,
and you know we are not really so much brother and
sister as to make it at all improper.’
‘Brother and sister! no, indeed.’
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Chapter III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma
considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable
recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn
the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that
they had come to so good an understanding respecting the
Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife
were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his
concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The
impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had
threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked
forward to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s
infatuation.— From Harriet’s manner of speaking of the
circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had
strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly
opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was
not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever
was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse
being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She
depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying
all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther
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requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much
in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with
her, how very happy a summer must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He
had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure
of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the
middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them
through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to
the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the
two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the
great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered
whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank
Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually
Harriet!—A moment sufficed to convince her that
something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked
white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.—
The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards
asunder;— they were all three soon in the hall, and
Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions
must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events
are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last
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long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the
whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour
boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball,
had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond
road, which, though apparently public enough for safety,
had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond
Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by
elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very
retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some
way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small
distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by
the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came
towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively
frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to
follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at
the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back
to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had
suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first
attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it
as made her absolutely powerless— and in this state, and
exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young
ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such
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an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet
was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a
stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and
impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—
More and more frightened, she immediately promised
them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a
shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her
ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and
was moving away—but her terror and her purse were too
tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by
the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she
trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a
most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been
delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical
moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced
him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by
another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury— and
happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night
before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore
them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in
for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had
intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole
party till almost close to them. The terror which the
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woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
their own portion. He had left them completely
frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly
able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield,
before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to
bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his
communication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had
recovered her senses and speech.— He dared not stay
longer than to see her well; these several delays left him
not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give
assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of
there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to
Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings
that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a
lovely young woman thrown together in such a way,
could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest
heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least.
Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a
mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed
their appearance together, and heard their history of it,
without feeling that circumstances had been at work to
make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How
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much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with
speculation and foresight!—especially with such a
groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort
had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place,
within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the
kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, and
at the very hour, when the other very person was
chancing to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very
extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did, the favourable
state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more.
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to
herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most
interesting consequences. It was not possible that the
occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to
the other.
In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet
had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible,
he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she
seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and
delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had
been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms.
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Every thing was to take its natural course, however,
neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step,
nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference.
There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive
scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would
on no account proceed.
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the
knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and
alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that
concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it
was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to
engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and
all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the
happiness of frightful news. The last night’s ball seemed
lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he
sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied
without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery
again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries
after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours
knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss
Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he
had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all
very indifferent— which, though not exactly true, for she
was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise,
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Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state
of health in general for the child of such a man, for she
hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not
invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a
message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice;
they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of
Highbury might have walked again in safety before their
panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a
matter of little importance but to Emma and her
nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground,
and Henry and John were still asking every day for the
story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting
her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the
original recital.
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Chapter IV
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when
Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in
her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus
began:
‘Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have
something that I should like to tell you—a sort of
confession to make—and then, you know, it will be over.’
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to
speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which
prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something
more than ordinary.
‘It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,’ she
continued, ‘to have no reserves with you on this subject.
As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it
is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing
it. I do not want to say more than is necessary—I am too
much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I
dare say you understand me.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘I hope I do.’
‘How I could so long a time be fancying myself! …’
cried Harriet, warmly. ‘It seems like madness! I can see
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nothing at all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care
whether I meet him or not—except that of the two I had
rather not see him— and indeed I would go any distance
round to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the
least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done:
she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think
her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall never
forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you,
Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be
ever so happy together, it will not give me another
moment’s pang: and to convince you that I have been
speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought
to have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have
kept— I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).—
However, now I will destroy it all—and it is my particular
wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how
rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
holds?’ said she, with a conscious look.
‘Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any
thing?’
‘No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I
have valued very much.’
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the
words Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity
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was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she
looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver
paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which
Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton;
but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of
court-plaister.
‘Now,’ said Harriet, ‘you must recollect.’
‘No, indeed I do not.’
‘Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you
could forget what passed in this very room about courtplaister,
one of the very last times we ever met in it!—It
was but a very few days before I had my sore throat—just
before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came— I think the
very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his
finger with your new penknife, and your recommending
court-plaister?— But, as you had none about you, and
knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too
large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time
with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so
then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure
of it— so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it
now and then as a great treat.’
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‘My dearest Harriet!’ cried Emma, putting her hand
before her face, and jumping up, ‘you make me more
ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I
remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic—I
knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting
the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and
saying I had none about me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—
And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!—One of my
senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual blush
all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)— go
on—what else?’
‘And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I
never suspected it, you did it so naturally.’
‘And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by
for his sake!’ said Emma, recovering from her state of
shame and feeling divided between wonder and
amusement. And secretly she added to herself, ‘Lord bless
me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in
cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had
been pulling about! I never was equal to this.’
‘Here,’ resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,
‘here is something still more valuable, I mean that has
been more valuable, because this is what did really once
belong to him, which the court-plaister never did.’
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Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It
was the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
‘This was really his,’ said Harriet.—‘Do not you
remember one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But
one morning—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it
was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he
wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it
was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling
him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted
to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there
was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would
not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon
the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it;
and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with
it again from that moment.’
‘I do remember it,’ cried Emma; ‘I perfectly remember
it.— Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr.
Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s
seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly
remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here,
was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here.’
‘Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd,
but I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I
remember, much about where I am now.’—
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‘Well, go on.’
‘Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to
say— except that I am now going to throw them both
behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.’
‘My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found
happiness in treasuring up these things?’
‘Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it
now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them.
It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any
remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but
had not resolution enough to part with them.’
‘But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the courtplaister?—
I have not a word to say for the bit of old
pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful.’
‘I shall be happier to burn it,’ replied Harriet. ‘It has a
disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—
There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr.
Elton.’
‘And when,’ thought Emma, ‘will there be a beginning
of Mr. Churchill?’
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the
beginning was already made, and could not but hope that
the gipsy, though she had told no fortune, might be
proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after
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the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite
undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the
moment, which made the information she received more
valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial
chat, ‘Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise
you to do so and so’—and thought no more of it, till after
a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious
tone, ‘I shall never marry.’
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it
was; and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should
pass unnoticed or not, replied,
‘Never marry!—This is a new resolution.’
‘It is one that I shall never change, however.’
After another short hesitation, ‘I hope it does not
proceed from— I hope it is not in compliment to Mr.
Elton?’
‘Mr. Elton indeed!’ cried Harriet indignantly.—‘Oh!
no’—and Emma could just catch the words, ‘so superior
to Mr. Elton!’
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should
she proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem
to suspect nothing?— Perhaps Harriet might think her
cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally
silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear
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too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as
had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes
and chances, she was perfectly resolved.— She believed it
would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that
she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best.
She had previously determined how far she would
proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be
safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain
laid down with speed.— She was decided, and thus
spoke—
‘Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your
meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of
never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom
you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in
situation to think of you. Is not it so?’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the
presumption to suppose— Indeed I am not so mad.—But
it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to
think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world,
with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially.’
‘I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he
rendered you was enough to warm your heart.’
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‘Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—
The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—
when I saw him coming—his noble look—and my
wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such
a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!’
‘It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—
Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so
gratefully.— But that it will be a fortunate preference is
more that I can promise. I do not advise you to give way
to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being
returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any
rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are
persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his
behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this
caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
the subject. I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name
ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be
cautious now.—He is your superior, no doubt, and there
do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature;
but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place,
there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care
of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though,
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however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts
to him, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know
how to value.’
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive
gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an
attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency
would be to raise and refine her mind— and it must be
saving her from the danger of degradation.
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Chapter V
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance,
June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it
brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking
of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of
their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from
Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of
Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there
full two months longer, provided at least she were able to
defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save herself
from being hurried into a delightful situation against her
will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to
himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank
Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He
began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit
of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared
indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions,
his father’s hints, his mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it
was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and
indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were
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devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him
over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of
some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not
understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence
between them—he thought so at least— symptoms of
admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he
could not persuade himself to think entirely void of
meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma’s
errors of imagination. She was not present when the
suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls
family, and Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look,
more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the
admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of
place. When he was again in their company, he could not
help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid
observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his
fire at twilight,
‘Myself creating what I saw,’
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a
something of private liking, of private understanding even,
between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very
often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and
Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on
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returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like
themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as
the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and
their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally
met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates,
Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that
would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it
immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss
Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it
possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging
invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry
passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his
horse.
‘By the bye,’ said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston
presently, ‘what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up
his carriage?’
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, ‘I did not
know that he ever had any such plan.’
‘Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it
three months ago.’
‘Me! impossible!’
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‘Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You
mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs.
Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about
it. It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being
out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You
must remember it now?’
‘Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.’
‘Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—
Then I must have dreamt it—but I was completely
persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired.
You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.’
‘What is this?—What is this?’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘about
Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage,
Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself,
had you?’
‘No, sir,’ replied his son, laughing, ‘I seem to have had
it from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of
Mrs. Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to
Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—
but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before,
of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.
I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—
and when I have gone through my particular friends, then
I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.’
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‘It is odd though,’ observed his father, ‘that you should
have had such a regular connected dream about people
whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at
Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and his wife’s
persuading him to it, out of care for his health— just what
will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a
little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs
through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities
it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that
Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.
Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?’
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before
her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and
was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston’s hint.
‘Why, to own the truth,’ cried Miss Bates, who had
been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, ‘if I
must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr.
Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he
did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I
must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring;
for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the
Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a
secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about
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three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should
have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits
one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane,
don’t you remember grandmama’s telling us of it when we
got home? I forget where we had been walking to— very
likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs.
Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed
I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to
her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us,
of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day
to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At
the same time, I will not positively answer for my having
never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop
out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I
am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing
escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I
were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing
in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly
remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.— Extraordinary dream,
indeed!’
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had
preceded Miss Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank
Churchill’s face, where he thought he saw confusion
suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned
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to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her
shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other
gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr.
Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination
of catching her eye— he seemed watching her intently—
in vain, however, if it were so— Jane passed between
them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation.
The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must
take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular
table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which
none but Emma could have had power to place there and
persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized
Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty
years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody
seemed in a hurry to move.
‘Miss Woodhouse,’ said Frank Churchill, after
examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he
sat, ‘have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their
box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a
sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated
rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement
with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you
again.’
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Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing
the box, the table was quickly scattered over with
alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to
employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming
words for each other, or for any body else who would be
puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly
eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been
distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston
had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily
occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the
departure of the ‘poor little boys,’ or in fondly pointing
out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how
beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She
gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to
it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them—and
Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his
object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent
observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint
smile pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed
with the others, and buried from sight, she should have
looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it
was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word,
and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work.
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She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for
help. The word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly
proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane’s cheek which
gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley
connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was
beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the
discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!
He feared there must be some decided involvement.
Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him
at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for
gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal
a deeper game on Frank Churchill’s part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him;
with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two
blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for
Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He
saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly
entertaining, though it was something which she judged it
proper to appear to censure; for she said, ‘Nonsense! for
shame!’ He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance
towards Jane, ‘I will give it to her—shall I?’—and as
clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing
warmth. ‘No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.’
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It was done however. This gallant young man, who
seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend
himself without complaisance, directly handed over the
word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of
sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s
excessive curiosity to know what this word might be,
made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye
towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be
Dixon. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his;
her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert
meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so
arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and
seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had
ever perceived her, and saying only, ‘I did not know that
proper names were allowed,’ pushed away the letters with
even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by
no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted
from those who had made the attack, and turned towards
her aunt.
‘Aye, very true, my dear,’ cried the latter, though Jane
had not spoken a word—‘I was just going to say the same
thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is
closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear
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sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
night.’
Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her
aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and
wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving,
that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought
he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed
towards her, and resolutely swept away by her
unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl—
Frank Churchill was looking also—it was growing dusk,
and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr.
Knightley could not tell.
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts
full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles
came to assist his observations, he must—yes, he certainly
must, as a friend— an anxious friend—give Emma some
hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a
situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It
was his duty.
‘Pray, Emma,’ said he, ‘may I ask in what lay the great
amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to
you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to
know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and
so very distressing to the other.’
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Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure
to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions
were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of
having ever imparted them.
‘Oh!’ she cried in evident embarrassment, ‘it all meant
nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.’
‘The joke,’ he replied gravely, ‘seemed confined to you
and Mr. Churchill.’
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not.
She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak.
He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his
mind. Interference— fruitless interference. Emma’s
confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to
declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He
owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in
an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to
encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of
neglect in such a cause.
‘My dear Emma,’ said he at last, with earnest kindness,
‘do you think you perfectly understand the degree of
acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have
been speaking of?’
‘Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh!
yes, perfectly.— Why do you make a doubt of it?’
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‘Have you never at any time had reason to think that
he admired her, or that she admired him?’
‘Never, never!’ she cried with a most open eagerness—
‘Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an
idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into
your head?’
‘I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of
attachment between them— certain expressive looks,
which I did not believe meant to be public.’
‘Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find
that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—
but it will not do— very sorry to check you in your first
essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration
between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar
circumstances—feelings rather of a totally different
nature— it is impossible exactly to explain:—there is a
good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is capable
of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as
far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as
any two beings in the world can be. That is, I presume it
to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on
his. I will answer for the gentleman’s indifference.’
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She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a
satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay
spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation,
wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every
look described, and all the wheres and hows of a
circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety
did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and
his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he
might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire
which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost
every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards
took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and
solitude of Donwell Abbey.
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Chapter VI
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from
Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged
to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not
possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of
novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In
the daily interchange of news, they must be again
restricted to the other topics with which for a while the
Sucklings’ coming had been united, such as the last
accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every
day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.
Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might
eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as
that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the
delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her
introductions and recommendations must all wait, and
every projected party be still only talked of. So she
thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her
that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they
explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come?
They could go there again with them in the autumn. It
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was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there
was to be such a party had been long generally known: it
had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been
to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so
well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to
chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three
more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join
them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending,
elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and
preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic
parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that
Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little
displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been
proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had
failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go
together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded
to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her
objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs.
Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly
aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it could
not be done without a reproof to him, which would be
giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore
obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would
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have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which
would probably expose her even to the degradation of
being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was
offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission
left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections
on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.
‘I am glad you approve of what I have done,’ said he
very comfortably. ‘But I thought you would. Such
schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One
cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own
amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out.’
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of
it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine;
and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day,
and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold
lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into
sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few
days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations
could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy
stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were inadequate to such
an attack.
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‘Is not this most vexations, Knightley?’ she cried.—
‘And such weather for exploring!—These delays and
disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?—
The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a
delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings
Weston.’
‘You had better explore to Donwell,’ replied Mr.
Knightley. ‘That may be done without horses. Come, and
eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast.’
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was
obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with
delight; and the ‘Oh! I should like it of all things,’ was not
plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its
strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been
enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going
somewhere. She promised him again and again to come—
much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing
compliment as she chose to consider it.
‘You may depend upon me,’ said she. ‘I certainly will
come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow
me to bring Jane Fairfax?’
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‘I cannot name a day,’ said he, ‘till I have spoken to
some others whom I would wish to meet you.’
‘Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carteblanche.—
I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party.
I will bring friends with me.’
‘I hope you will bring Elton,’ said he: ‘but I will not
trouble you to give any other invitations.’
‘Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you
need not be afraid of delegating power to me. I am no
young lady on her preferment. Married women, you
know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all
to me. I will invite your guests.’
‘No,’—he calmly replied,—‘there is but one married
woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite
what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is—‘
‘—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,’ interrupted Mrs. Elton,
rather mortified.
‘No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will
manage such matters myself.’
‘Ah! you are an odd creature!’ she cried, satisfied to
have no one preferred to herself.—‘You are a humourist,
and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I
shall bring Jane with me— Jane and her aunt.—The rest I
leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the
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Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached
to them.’
‘You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I
shall call on Miss Bates in my way home.’
‘That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as
you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know,
Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large
bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my
arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon.
Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have
such another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of
gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and
gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—and
whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of
doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing
as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?’
‘Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will
be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The
nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with
their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by
meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the
house.’
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‘Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out.
And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to
you with our opinion?— Pray be sincere, Knightley. If
you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect
anything—‘
‘I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.’
‘Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my
housekeeper is extremely clever.’
‘I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as
clever, and would spurn any body’s assistance.’
‘I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all
to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my
caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about
purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a
sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many
resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer
there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.’
‘You will not find either, between Donwell and
Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is
perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer
it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing
to be as much to your taste as possible.’
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‘That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice,
my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt
manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr.
E., you are a thorough humourist.— Yes, believe me,
Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very
thing to please me.’
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table
in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as
well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have
any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would
inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under
the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or
two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were
to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He
had not been at Donwell for two years. ‘Some very fine
morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well;
and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear
girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they
could be damp now, in the middle of the day. He should
like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be
very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of
his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all to
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his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine
morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley
to invite them— very kind and sensible—much cleverer
than dining out.—He was not fond of dining out.’
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready
concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well
received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all
taking the scheme as a particular compliment to
themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston,
unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if
possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could
have been dispensed with.— Mr. Knightley was then
obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr.
Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no
arguments to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that
the party to Box Hill was again under happy
consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day,
and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactly
right.
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer,
Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with
one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and
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in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey,
especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he
was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with
pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body
to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.— Mrs.
Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to
be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all
the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient
listener and sympathiser.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that
as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was
glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh
and correct her memory with more particular observation,
more exact understanding of a house and grounds which
must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which
her alliance with the present and future proprietor could
fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style
of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic
situation, low and sheltered— its ample gardens stretching
down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the
Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a
sight—and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues,
which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—
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The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it,
covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular,
with many comfortable, and one or two handsome
rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and it looked
what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as
the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John
Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself
unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor
names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were
pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them
till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect
round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were
assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected
every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her
apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,
was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be
thought or spoken of.—‘The best fruit in England— every
body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest
beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—
the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning
decidedly the best time—never tired— every sort good—
hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison— the others
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hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—
white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
London— abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—
cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners
thinking exactly different—no general rule— gardeners
never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit— only
too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—
currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—
could bear it no longer— must go and sit in the shade.’
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—
interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in
her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were
come—and she was a little uneasy.— She had some fears
of his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now
Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane
Fairfax were talking of.— A situation, a most desirable
situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice
of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with
Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity
and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a
cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a
lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming,
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superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—
and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and
triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend’s
negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that
she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating
the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.— Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to
write an acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane
could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.—She did
look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a
decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—
‘Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew
them the gardens— all the gardens?—She wished to see
the whole extent.’—The pertinacity of her friend seemed
more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the
gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three
together, they insensibly followed one another to the
delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the
river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.— It led
to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone
wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their
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erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the
house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,
as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a
charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely
pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of
which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form
beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of
considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with
wood;— and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in
front, and the river making a close and handsome curve
around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind.
English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen
under a sun bright, without being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the
others assembled; and towards this view she immediately
perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest,
quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It
was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a
companion, and turned from her with little ceremony.
Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had
been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to
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see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill
Farm; but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed
with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich
pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light
column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the
wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in
looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to
modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile
which seemed to say, ‘These are my own concerns. I have
a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of
introducing Robert Martin.’—She did not suspect him. It
was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased
to think of Harriet.—They took a few turns together
along the walk.—The shade was most refreshing, and
Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in
and eat;— and they were all seated and busy, and still
Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and
looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy,
and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of
wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had
expressed himself as to coming, with more than common
certainty. ‘His aunt was so much better, that he had not a
doubt of getting over to them.’—Mrs. Churchill’s state,
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however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to
such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in
the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at
last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some
attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—
Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under
consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no
emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out
once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old
Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which
was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate,
have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—
Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in
the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the
river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his
daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston
might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr.
Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers
of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family
collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his
old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness
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had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been
exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing
them all to him, and now he would shew them all to
Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a
child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he
was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second
looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the
hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation of the
entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly
there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in
from the garden, and with a look of escape.— Little
expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a
start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she
was in quest of.
‘Will you be so kind,’ said she, ‘when I am missed, as
to say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—
My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have
been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am
determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to
any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress.
Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they
do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?’
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‘Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to
walk to Highbury alone?’
‘Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at
home in twenty minutes.’
‘But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone.
Let my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the
carriage. It can be round in five minutes.’
‘Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would
rather walk.— And for me to be afraid of walking
alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others!’
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very
feelingly replied, ‘That can be no reason for your being
exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The
heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.’
‘I am,’—she answered—‘I am fatigued; but it is not the
sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss
Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied
in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest
kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own
way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.’
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all;
and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the
house immediately, and watched her safely off with the
zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her
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parting words, ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!’—seemed to burst from an
overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the
continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards
some of those who loved her best.
‘Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!’ said Emma, as she
turned back into the hall again. ‘I do pity you. And the
more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more
I shall like you.’
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they
had only accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place,
Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma
had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think
of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; they
were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.
He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in
her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and
he had quite given up every thought of coming, till very
late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have,
and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed
he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he
had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had
staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could
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Emma
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bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—
and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very
deplorable.
‘You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,’ said Emma.
‘As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could
very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my
coming! You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole
party breaking up. I met one as I came—Madness in such
weather!—absolute madness!’
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that
Frank Churchill’s state might be best defined by the
expressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people
were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his
constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking
were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she
recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find
abundance of every thing in the dining-room—and she
humanely pointed out the door.
‘No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would
only make him hotter.’ In two minutes, however, he
relented in his own favour; and muttering something
about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret—
Emma
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