the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed
and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could
not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even
for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father
were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal
solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their
having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and
drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for,
without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long
a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance
on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet
manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt
up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly
attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a
warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault
in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any
quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also
much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful
of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond
of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry.
They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong
habit of regard for every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private
character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally
pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an
ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a
reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with
such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects
in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper
must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she
wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to
Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have
passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,
but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without
praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of
all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful
forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John
Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally
a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma's
charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently
to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of
every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of
necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.
They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a
melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention
to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so
grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”
“Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably.”
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts
of the air of Randalls.
“Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
life--never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”
“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.
“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the
plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--“Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”
“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,
have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,
either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston
is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way,
you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be
aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be
assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by
any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact
truth.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped
it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be
doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I
have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change
being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have
Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse--“yes, certainly--I cannot
deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty
often--but then--she is always obliged to go away again.”
“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--You quite
forget poor Mr. Weston.”
“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has
some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the
poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims
of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,
she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all
the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”
“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--
“Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for
the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss
Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting
Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does
not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever
existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal
for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that
very windy day last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last
September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,
on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I
have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better
man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on this
occasion--or has he not?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in
nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father.
“He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very
well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--”
“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”
“Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought
it--and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,
time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was an
exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal
of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on; and it
was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'--I remember that perfectly.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with
him. To give up one's child! I really never could think well of any body
who proposed such a thing to any body else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt
what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather
an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes
things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,
depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his
comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing
whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection,
or any thing that home affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had
half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She
would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and
valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on
the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.
CHAPTER XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of
Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time
to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. -She- certainly had not been
in the wrong, and -he- would never own that he had. Concession must be
out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had
ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of
friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children
with her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who
was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced
about in her aunt's arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave
looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in
the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the
unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again;
and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then
a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the
baby,
“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with
regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women,
and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with
them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always
think alike.”
“To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the
wrong.”
“Yes,” said he, smiling--“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when
you were born.”
“A material difference then,” she replied--“and no doubt you were much
my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the
lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?”
“Yes--a good deal -nearer-.”
“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently.”
“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little
Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old
grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
“That's true,” she cried--“very true. Little Emma, grow up a better
woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good
intentions went, we were -both- right, and I must say that no effects on
my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that
Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”
“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.
“Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me.”
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley
made his appearance, and “How d'ye do, George?” and “John, how are
you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that
seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led
either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the
other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards
entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and
the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his
daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally
distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in
one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally
some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at
Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to
give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting
to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his
life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change
of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for
wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality
of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his
willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries
even approached a tone of eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a
full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.
“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and
interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her
five children--“How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,
my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and
I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all
have a little gruel.”
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the
Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and
two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of
gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every
body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,
“It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South
End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”
“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not
have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for
the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing.”
“Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any
good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though
perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use
to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.”
“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must
beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I
who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear
Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and
he never forgets you.”
“Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?”
“Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has
not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take
care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round
the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But
then there is not so clever a man any where.”
“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He
will be so pleased to see my little ones.”
“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella's throat.”
“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to
her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr.
Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August.”
“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use
to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have
spoken to--
“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma, “I
have not heard one inquiry after them.”
“Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention
them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.
Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They
are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss
Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?”
“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a
bad cold about a month ago.”
“How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more
general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza.”
“That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy
as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it
altogether a sickly season.”
“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it -very- sickly
except--
“Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always
a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a
dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the
air so bad!”
“No, indeed---we- are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is
very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London
in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be
unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is
hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:
but -we- are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of
Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.”
“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but
after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different
creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think
you are any of you looking well at present.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a
little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of
coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I
assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever
sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that
you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with
affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley
very far from looking well.”
“What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.
“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have
wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you
left home.”
“My dear Isabella,”--exclaimed he hastily--“pray do not concern yourself
about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and
the children, and let me look as I chuse.”
“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,”
cried Emma, “about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will
not the old prejudice be too strong?”
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to
give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane
Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that
moment very happy to assist in praising.
“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley.--“It
is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always
regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at
Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a
delightful companion for Emma.”
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a
better companion than Harriet.”
“I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age.”
This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar
moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not
close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied
a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--undoubting
decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty
severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with
tolerably;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter
had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in
her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never
had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth
gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered
it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a
dangerous opening.
“Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her
with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, “Ah!
there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It
does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would not
talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to
the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes,
however, he began with,
“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here.”
“But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a
great deal of good.”
“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been
to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to
hear you had fixed upon South End.”
“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite
a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never
found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is
entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may
be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and
his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”
“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--Perry
was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the
sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by
what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from
the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable. You should have
consulted Perry.”
“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how
great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”
“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to
chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into
a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very
ill-judged measure.”
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he
had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law's breaking out.
“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do
as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it
any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family to
one part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use of
my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--I want his directions no more than
his drugs.” He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only
sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and
five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater
expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as
willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--“very
true. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I was telling
you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the
right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive
any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of
inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly
the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,
will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow
morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me
your opinion.”
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his
friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been
attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the soothing
attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and
the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the
other, prevented any renewal of it.
CHAPTER XIII
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what
she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing
to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a
delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of
the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he
could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually
at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on
that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for
Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as
well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being
consulted in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with
a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called
on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to
Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard
was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet
herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her
from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss
without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr.
Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last
tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most
comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not
advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr.
Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly
together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on the rumour
of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might
carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by Mr. John
Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest
boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country
run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice
pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and
proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's
complaint;--“a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat
about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.
Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often
alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as
he exclaimed,
“A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of
yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.
Why does not Perry see her?”
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and
care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she
could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist
than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,
“It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like
snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I
should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from
venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the
cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great
a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr. Elton,
in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a
little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and
what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than
common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's,
he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but Emma,
too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him
impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with
his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly very
cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls,
and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour
of the evening.
“You do quite right,” said she;--“we will make your apologies to Mr. and
Mrs. Weston.”
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only
objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;
never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
he next looked at her.
“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!--After I had got
him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill
behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men,
especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining
out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any
thing gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love
with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine
out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready
wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while
assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair
friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting
her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and
he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of
approbation much in his favour.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began
with--
“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With
men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please,
every feature works.”
“Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but where there is
a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great
deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will
have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect
good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.”
“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems
to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”
“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you imagining me to
be Mr. Elton's object?”
“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.”
“Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!”
“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it
is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your
manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better
look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”
“I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and
I are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a
partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high
pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very well
pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in
want of counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in
spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of shrinking
from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest
daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the
weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own
going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it was
cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe;
and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow
were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so
overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world
in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The
preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of
his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,
which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the
whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his
discontent.
“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks
people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as
this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most
agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest
absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--The folly of not allowing
people to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying
comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such
an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we
should deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing
than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of
the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view
or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter
that he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in
another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and
four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering
creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had
at home.”
Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no
doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true,
my love,” which must have been usually administered by his travelling
companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making
any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being
quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to
talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening
her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton,
spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with
pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and
cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she
began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from
what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had
been, “Much the same--not better.”
“-My- report from Mrs. Goddard's,” said she presently, “was not so
pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was -my- answer.”
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of
sentiment as he answered.
“Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing
before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,
by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--I
had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I
knew had been given her in the morning.”
Emma smiled and answered--“My visit was of use to the nervous part of
her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat;
it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you
probably heard.”
“Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--”
“He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is
impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!”
“Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment.”
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really
estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay
when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,
and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
“What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin for
carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold
with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have
rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced
and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way
unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very
cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.--Ha!
snows a little I see.”
“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good deal of
it.”
“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable; and
extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin
yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly
have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been
much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite
the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body invites
their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst
weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing
could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away
till that very day se'nnight.”
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but
said only, coolly,
“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”
At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much
astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed
quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.
“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every thing in the
greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston
indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but where
small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably;
and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by
two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with
a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation,
though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of
London, may not quite enter into our feelings.”
“I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with
any body.”
“Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will
be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great
enjoyment.”
“My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed through the
sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.”
CHAPTER XIV
Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they
walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his
joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.
Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as
happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any
one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and
understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the
little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father
and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston
had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication
of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life
depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not
afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the
very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful
to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr.
Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that
was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough
to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and
Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just
got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his
daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost
wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and
welcome her dear Emma.
Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry
to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.
The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards
Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and
solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting
him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal
suggestion of “Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be
possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from
Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!”--Yet he would be so anxious
for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,
and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her
drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly
like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her
good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's,
in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively
civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's
nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough
to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she
heard the words “my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,” repeated several
times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected
that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could
quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving
question from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never
marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr.
Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently
thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that
if she -were- to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,
character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the
families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be
a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.
Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though
not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could
change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention
of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and
a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends'
imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly
pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the
substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for
when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston,
at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of
hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to
her,
“We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see
two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and
then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me
telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.
I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a
fortnight.”
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to
his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party
quite complete.
“He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. Weston, “ever since
September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his
own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between
ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
January.”
“What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
yourself.”
“Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is
quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other
room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a
party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and
that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not
put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family
that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular
dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in
two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.
I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing
Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:
but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table)
has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at
Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been
long in the practice of doing.”
“I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,” replied
Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he
will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.”
“Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself
to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very
fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of
any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her
way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing
to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,
that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say
it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
general; and the devil of a temper.”
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet
observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.--
Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be
secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked
of: “for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as
Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.
Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?”
“Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.”
“My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the certainty
of caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending
before--“You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means
so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in
short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on
the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered
woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him.”
“Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,” replied Isabella:
“and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest
compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must
be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but
it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any
children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!”
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have
heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve
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