From Yesteryear

<<<< Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters I - V

<<<< Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters VI - X

Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters XVI - XIX(end)>>>>

Emma by Jane Austen CHAPTERS XI - XV

Chapter XI

Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s
power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures.
The coming of her sister’s family was so very near at hand,
that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth
her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay
at Hartfield it was not to be expected–she did not herself expect–
that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could
be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly
if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether
they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them.
There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will
do for themselves.

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual
absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the
usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their
marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey;
but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing
for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had
been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all
by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London,
even for poor Isabella’s sake; and who consequently was now most
nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.

He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a
little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to
bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms
were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished,
and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent
number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety.
The bustle and joy of such an arrival, 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.

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)

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 tolerable;–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.

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)

“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.

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)

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.

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)

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
which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,
would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge.
But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse
very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting
long after dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure.
Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did
he move to those with whom he was always comfortable.

While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity
of saying,

“And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any
means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,
whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”

“Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays.
Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still
afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us.
I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side; but I am sure
there is a great wish on the Churchills’ to keep him to themselves.
There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father.
In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston
were less sanguine.”

“He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a couple
of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man’s
not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_,
if she fall into bad hands, may be teazed, and kept at a distance
from those she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young
_man_’s being under such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week
with his father, if he likes it.”

“One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family,
before one decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs. Weston.
“One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the
conduct of any one individual of any one family; but Enscombe,
I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules:
_she_ is so very unreasonable; and every thing gives way to her.”

“But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite.
Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural,
that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband,
to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice
towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew,
to whom she owes nothing at all.”

“My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper,
to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must
let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times,
considerable influence; but it may be perfectly impossible for him
to know beforehand _when_ it will be.”

Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satisfied,
unless he comes.”

“He may have a great deal of influence on some points,”
continued Mrs. Weston, “and on others, very little: and among those,
on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be
this very circumstance of his coming away from them to visit us.”

Chapter XV

Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his
tea he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three
companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness
of the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was
chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort;
but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation.
Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in.
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined
them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, seated himself
between them.

Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind
by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget
his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before,
and on his making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen
with most friendly smiles.

He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend–
her fair, lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?–had she
heard any thing about her, since their being at Randalls?–
he felt much anxiety–he must confess that the nature of her
complaint alarmed him considerably.” And in this style he talked
on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer,
but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat;
and Emma was quite in charity with him.

But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if
he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account,
than on Harriet’s–more anxious that she should escape the infection,
than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began
with great earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting
the sick-chamber again, for the present–to entreat her to _promise_
_him_ not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry
and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off
and bring the subject back into its proper course, there was no
putting an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed.
It did appear–there was no concealing it–exactly like the pretence
of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy,
if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty
in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to implore
her assistance, “Would not she give him her support?–would not she
add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go
to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss Smith’s disorder
had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise–
would not she give him her influence in procuring it?”

“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless
for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day,
and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated
sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?–Judge between us.
Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support
and aid.”

Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great,
at an address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself
the right of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was
too much provoked and offended to have the power of directly
saying any thing to the purpose. She could only give him a look;
but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses,
and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving
her all her attention.

She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly
did another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came
into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them
all with the information of the ground being covered with snow,
and of its still snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind;
concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse:

“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements,
sir. Something new for your coachman and horses to be making
their way through a storm of snow.”

Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,
and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston
and Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention
from his son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.

“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing
out in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow
very soon. Every body must have seen the snow coming on.
I admired your spirit; and I dare say we shall get home very well.
Another hour or two’s snow can hardly make the road impassable;
and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part
of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say we
shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.”

Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he
had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word,
lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse
for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen
or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke;
he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might
be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls;
and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommodation might
be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him,
that with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged,
which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there
being but two spare rooms in the house.

“What is to be done, my dear Emma?–what is to be done?”
was Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say
for some time. To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances
of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses,
and of James, and of their having so many friends about them,
revived him a little.

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)

His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of
being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield,
was full in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just
passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay,
she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain
at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through
all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.

“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she;
“I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly;
and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk.
I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way.
I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not
the sort of thing that gives me cold.”

“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most
extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every
thing does give you cold. Walk home!–you are prettily shod
for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.”

Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan.
Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma;
but Emma could not so entirely give up the hope of their being
all able to get away; and they were still discussing the point,
when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room immediately after his
brother’s first report of the snow, came back again, and told them
that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there
not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever they
liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep–
some way along the Highbury road–the snow was nowhere above half
an inch deep–in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground;
a very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting,
and there was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen
the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing
to apprehend.

To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they
were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account,
who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous
constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not
be appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued
at Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in
returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe
to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,
Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus–

“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”

“I am ready, if the others are.”

“Shall I ring the bell?”

“Yes, do.”

And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few
minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion
deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other
recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over.

The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on
such occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley
and Mr. Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some
renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen,
and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for.
“He was afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid
poor Isabella would not like it. And there would be poor Emma
in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do.
They must keep as much together as they could;” and James was talked to,
and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage.

Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he
did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;
so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second
carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,
and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been
the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,
previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked
to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have
seemed but one. But now, she would rather it had not happened.
She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine,
and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.

To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity
of the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had
they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she
found her subject cut up–her hand seized–her attention demanded,
and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself
of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already
well known, hoping–fearing–adoring–ready to die if she refused him;
but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled
love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect,
and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon
as possible. It really was so. Without scruple–without apology–
without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet,
was professing himself _her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly;
he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of
the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak.
She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore
could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour.
Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she
hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied,

“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget yourself–
you take me for my friend–any message to Miss Smith I shall
be happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.”

“Miss Smith!–message to Miss Smith!–What could she possibly mean!”–
And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful
pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,

“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account
for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak
either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself
enough to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”

But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits,
not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning;
and having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious,
and slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,–
but acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned
at all,–he resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very
urgent for a favourable answer.

As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy
and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,

“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made
yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond
any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed
during the last month, to Miss Smith–such attentions as I
have been in the daily habit of observing–to be addressing me
in this manner–this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed,
which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far,
very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions.”

“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this?–
Miss Smith!–I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course
of my existence–never paid her any attentions, but as your friend:
never cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend.
If she has fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her,
and I am very sorry–extremely sorry–But, Miss Smith, indeed!–Oh!
Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse
is near! No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of character.
I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest
attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done,
for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my
adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it.
No!–(in an accent meant to be insinuating)–I am sure you have seen
and understood me.”

It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this–
which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was
too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply:
and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s
sanguine state of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he
joyously exclaimed–

“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting silence.
It confesses that you have long understood me.”

“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from
having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error
with respect to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am
very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings–
Nothing could be farther from my wishes–your attachment to my
friend Harriet–your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me
great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success:
but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield,
I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visits
so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend
yourself particularly to Miss Smith?–that you have never thought
seriously of her?”

“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you.
_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!–Miss Smith is a very good sort
of girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled.
I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not
object to–Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not,
I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair
of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!–
No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only;
and the encouragement I received–”

“Encouragement!–I give you encouragement!–Sir, you have been entirely
mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer
of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than
a common acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that
the mistake ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued,
Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views;
not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very
great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is,
the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting.
I have no thoughts of matrimony at present.”

He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided
to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment,
and mutually deep mortification, they had to continue together a few
minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them
to a foot-pace. If there had not been so much anger, there would have
been desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left
no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing
when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped,
they found themselves, all at once, at the door of his house;
and he was out before another syllable passed.–Emma then felt it
indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned,
coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits,
she was then conveyed to Hartfield.

There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father,
who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from
Vicarage Lane–turning a corner which he could never bear to think of–
and in strange hands–a mere common coachman–no James; and there it
seemed as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well:
for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all
kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort
of her father, as to seem–if not quite ready to join him in a basin
of gruel–perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome;
and the day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,
except herself.–But her mind had never been in such perturbation;
and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till
the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.

 

(All Things Jane Austen at the FromYesteryear amazon store)