Jane Fairfax enters presently on the scene. Jane is the grand-daughter
of the old vicar, the daughter of a young officer who fell in action,
and whose wife did not survive her loss. Their little child had been
committed to the care of her affectionate grandmother and aunt, who,
however, could only have afforded her the most slender advantages in
the way of education, had a compassionate fellow-officer of her late
father not stepped forward, and taken the little girl to be educated
with his own daughter. Jane’s home from childhood to womanhood has,
therefore, been with the family of Colonel Campbell, and she has only
returned at intervals to visit her relatives, Mrs. and Miss Bates, at
Highbury.
The intention had been that the unprovided-for girl should be trained
to render herself independent by teaching. But her friends shrank from
anticipating what Jane Austen calls “the evil of Jane Fairfax’s going
out into the world to earn her bread.” Farther on in the book, the
author expresses still more decidedly, through her heroine, her pity
for a woman in Jane Fairfax’s position. These were the settled opinions
of gentlewomen in Jane Austen’s generation. We cannot now regard
them as either very liberal or very wholesome, in the light of what
has been developed of womanly independence, usefulness, courage, and
cheerfulness. Most people of native spirit and intelligence, whatever
their grade, would now be disposed to regard Jane Fairfax’s position,
after she was grown up, in Colonel Campbell’s family--however good
and kind they might be--as more detrimental to Jane’s self-respect,
more disparaging in the eyes of others, more trying in every way,
than encountering the ordeal of working for herself among comparative
strangers.
Another--what I must call weakness and prejudice of the gifted writer,
is visible here and elsewhere. In dwelling on the superior cultivation
and refinement of the more intelligent and polished society which Jane
Fairfax shared, while she resided in the London house of a man of good
position and large income, to what she must have submitted to in the
village of Highbury, in the house of her excellent but poorly-educated
grandmother and aunt, whose narrow means are in keeping with their
confined interests, I think Jane Austen’s aristocratic bias carries
her too far in the line of mere superficial advantages. True culture
is not so dependent on rank and wealth; and culture, though something,
is hardly of such importance as she makes it. A rough diamond is a
great deal better worth than a polished pebble. But Jane Fairfax is the
diamond, not the pebble; so that polish is not wasted on her. She has
a very pleasing person, a good understanding, and, what is more to the
purpose, an excellent heart, which is not injured by her undesirable
circumstances. She does not learn to despise and undervalue Highbury or
her homely kindred, in London, among her influential friends. She is
a sort of heroine in Highbury, when she comes there on her periodical
visits.
Jane Austen gives Emma Woodhouse’s impression of Jane Fairfax, when
Emma sees Jane, after two years’ absence. Jane is very elegant,
remarkably elegant (an exploded term of commendation often used by Jane
Austen, when she desires to impress on her readers somebody’s special
grace and refinement); and Emma has herself the highest value for
elegance. “Her height was pretty, just such as almost everybody would
think tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming
medium between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health
seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but
feel all this; and then her face, her features--there was more beauty
in them altogether than she had remembered: it was not regular, but it
was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes--a deep grey, with dark eyelashes
and eyebrows--had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which
she had been used to cavil at as wanting colour, had a clearness and
delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty
of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such she must in
honour, by all her principles, admire it; elegance of which, whether of
person or mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar
was distinction and merit.”
Yet Emma has no inclination, or only the most fleeting disposition, to
cultivate Jane’s friendship. The fact is, the two girls, of the same
age, have all their lives been held up to each other as most desirable
companions and friends, until human nature, in its waywardness, has
rebelled against the obligation.
George Knightley has told Emma very frankly that she does not like Jane
Fairfax, because Emma sees in her the really accomplished young woman
that Emma wishes to be herself, but that she has not the self-denial
and perseverance to become actually. Emma, in her best and most candid
moments, is driven to own there is some truth in this accusation. At
other times she defends her bad taste in preferring Harriet Smith as a
friend, by asserting that she--Emma--can never get acquainted with Jane
Fairfax. “She did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and
reserve, such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not; and
then her aunt was such an eternal talker! and she was made such a fuss
with by everybody; and it was always imagined that they were to be so
intimate; because their ages were the same, everybody had supposed they
must be so fond of each other.”
In the meantime Miss Campbell, with whom Jane had been brought up,
though inferior to her friend both in beauty and accomplishments, has,
as Jane Austen says, “by that luck which so often defies anticipation
in matrimonial affairs,” engaged the affections and married happily,
after a short acquaintance, a Mr. Dixon, a young, agreeable, and rich
man.
Jane Fairfax is one-and-twenty, the age at which she had fixed, in
her own mind, on beginning her career as a governess. The following
are the strong terms in which the author refers to the step about
to be taken:--“With the fortitude of a devoted noviciate, she had
resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from
all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,
peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.” Surely this
is exaggerated language, even for the last century, and reflects
painfully both on the footing which governesses occupied, and on the
qualifications deemed essential to gentlewomen, among our mothers and
grandmothers. There is also an inconsistency in it where this tale is
concerned, and one perceives that Jane Austen’s rooted class prejudices
cause even so wise a woman to contradict herself; for in the beginning
of the book we have an evident indication how much respected and liked
Mrs. Weston had been when, as Miss Taylor, she had filled the post of
governess to Emma Woodhouse. No relations in the story are happier
and pleasanter than those which are involved in the warm and lasting
friendship between the two who had been formerly teacher and pupil. Why
might not Jane Fairfax have looked forward to being another Miss Taylor?
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell’s good sense had led them to acquiesce in
Jane Fairfax’s determination, loth as they were to lose her company,
and it was only because she had not been quite well, or in equal
spirits for some time, that they had used their influence to induce
her not to enter immediately on her arduous duties, but to spend the
last three months of her liberty with her fond grandmother and aunt in
Janet’s native air, while the Campbells paid their first visit to their
married daughter settled in Ireland.
Emma heard the first, not very welcome news of Jane Fairfax’s coming,
as she sought to get rid of Harriet Smith’s dolefulness, and at the
same time to do an irksome duty by taking Harriet to call at the
Bateses. Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and Emma knew she
was “considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection
in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing
what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.”
“She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley, and some from her own
heart, as to her deficiency, but none were equal to counteract the
persuasion of its being very disagreeable--a waste of time--tiresome
women--and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the
second and third rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever,
and therefore she seldom went near them.” But now she made the sudden
resolution of not passing their door without going in, observing, as
she proposed it to Harriet, that as well as she could calculate, they
were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
“The house belonged to people in business; Mrs. and Miss Bates
occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized
apartment which was everything to them, the visitors were most
cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet, neat old lady, who,
with her knitting, was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to
give up her place to Miss Woodhouse; and her more active, talking
daughter almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks
for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after
Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her mother’s, and
sweet cake from the buffet.”
Emma had argued without her host, as she soon hears from Miss Bates,
who prattles with the delightful _abandon_ of the most innocent,
unsuspicious heart, in company with the most honest thick head in
the world. She rambles, breaks off, diverges right and left in her
monologues, as only a very talkative, simple-minded, elderly woman--a
Mrs. Nickleby or a Miss Bates--can wander, pull herself up, and start
afresh in her conversation. Miss Bates has only just finished reading a
letter from her niece to a previous visitor, and, of course, mentions
what she has been about.
“Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest,
‘Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I
hope she is well?’”
“‘Thank you, you are so kind!’ replied the happily-deceived aunt, while
eagerly hunting for the letter. ‘Oh, here it is! I was sure it could
not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without
being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very
lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading
it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away I was reading it again to my
mother, for it is such a pleasure to her--a letter from Jane--that she
can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and
here it is, only put under my huswife; and since you are so kind as
to wish to hear what she says----But first of all I really must, in
justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter, only two
pages you see, hardly two, and in general she fills the whole paper and
crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
She often says, when the letter is first opened, “Well, Hetty, now I
think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work”--don’t
you, ma’am? And then I tell her I am sure she would contrive to make it
out for herself, if she had nobody to do it for her, every word of it.
I am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And,
indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can
see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is
such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often
says when she is here, ‘I am sure, grandmamma, you must have had very
strong eyes to see as you do, and so much fine work as you have done
too! I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’
“All this spoken extremely fast, obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;
and Emma said something civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax’s
handwriting.
“‘You are extremely kind,’ replied Miss Bates, highly gratified, ‘you
who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure
there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss
Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear, she is a little deaf, you know.
Ma’am,’ addressing her, ‘do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging
as to say about Jane’s handwriting?’
“And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment
repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She
was pondering in the meanwhile upon the possibility, without seeming
very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had
almost resolved on hurrying away directly, under some slight excuse,
when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.
“‘My mother’s deafness is very trifling, you see, just nothing at all.
By only raising my voice, and saying anything two or three times over,
she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very
remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmamma at
all deafer than she was two years ago, which is saying a great deal at
my mother’s time of life; and it really is full two years, you know,
since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before,
and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough
of her now.’
“‘Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?’
“‘Oh, yes, next week.’
“‘Indeed! That must be a very great pleasure.’
“‘Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Everybody is so
surprised; and everybody says the same obliging things. I am sure she
will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury as they can be to see
her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So
very good of him to send her the whole way. But they always do, you
know. Oh, yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.
That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in
the common course, we should not have heard from her before Tuesday or
Wednesday.’
“‘Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my
hearing anything of Miss Fairfax to-day.’[52]
“‘So obliging of you!’ the kindly soul took the words in good faith,
and surely smote Emma’s better nature. ‘No, we should not have heard,
if it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her being to
come here so soon. My mother is so delighted, for she is to be three
months with us, at least. Three months, she says so positively, as I
am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you
see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded
her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had
not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to
see them again; for, till she married last October, she was never
away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange
to be--in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but, however,
different countries; and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her
mother, or her father--I declare I do not know which it was, but
we shall see presently in Jane’s letter--wrote in Mr. Dixon’s name
as well as her own, to press their coming over directly; and they
would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their
country-seat--Ballycraig--a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a
great deal of its beauty--from Mr. Dixon, I mean; I do not know that
she has ever heard about it from anybody else; but it was very natural,
you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was
paying his addresses, and as Jane used to be very often walking out
with them--for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about
their daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which
I do not at all blame them--of course she heard everything he might be
telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she
wrote us word that he had shown them some drawings of the place--views
that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I
believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland from his account of
things.’
“At this moment an ingenious and animating idea entering Emma’s brain
with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not
going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of further
discovery--‘You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be
allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular
friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected
her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’
“‘Very true; very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been
rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a
distance from us for months together--not able to come if anything was
to happen; but you see everything turns out for the best. They want her
(Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind and pressing
than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently.
Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is
a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at
Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by
the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would
have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone,
if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her
habit--I can never think of it without trembling--but ever since we had
the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!’
“‘But in spite of all her friend’s urgency, and her own wish of seeing
Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting her time to you and Mrs. Bates?’
“‘Yes--entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should
recommend; and, indeed, they particularly _wish_ her to try her native
air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.’”
The idea which has entered into Emma’s idle, fertile brain, is that Mr.
Dixon, while paying his addresses to the well-endowed Miss Campbell,
may in his secret heart have preferred her portionless friend; that
there may also have been an unfortunate hidden attachment on Jane
Fairfax’s part--one result of which is her disinclination to visit the
Dixons.
Altogether, Emma’s notion is neither very sensible nor charitable.
But sensible and amiable conclusions are not always to be expected
from spoilt girls, who, with rather an overweening opinion of their
own deserts, are not altogether indisposed to find fault with the
alleged perfections of threatened rivals. My readers will long ago
have discovered that caution and prudence are not Emma Woodhouse’s
strong points. Emma guesses as much herself, and on that very account
is the more tempted to take a naughty pleasure in detecting undreamt
of follies in that model of discretion--Jane Fairfax. But it is only
by degrees that Emma is led on to the serious offence against fairness
and kindness, of attributing anything more dishonourable than a rash,
ill-judged bestowal of her affections, to Jane Fairfax.
When Emma and Jane first meet again on the occasion of Jane’s three
months’ visit to Highbury, Emma is shaken for a moment, in her
unreasonable dislike and unjustifiable fancies, till the old influences
begin anew to work. Miss Bates is more tiresome than ever in her
anxiety about her niece’s health. It is affectation in Jane to praise
Emma’s playing on the piano,[53] when her own is so superior; worst
of all, Jane Fairfax is so cold and reserved in her perfect good
breeding--if anything more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the
Dixons than on any other, and Emma believes she knows how to explain
this caution.
But neither is Jane Fairfax communicative on another topic which is of
the deepest interest to all Highbury, including even Emma Woodhouse,
who considers herself above local gossip in general. Jane Fairfax had
met Mr. Weston’s son, Frank Churchill, at Weymouth, but not a syllable
of real information can Emma get from her as to what he is like. “Is he
handsome?” She believes he is reckoned a very fine young man. “Is he
agreeable?” “He is generally thought so.” “Does he appear a sensible
young man? a young man of information?” “At a watering-place, or in a
common London acquaintance, it is difficult to decide on such points.”
Emma cannot forgive Jane Fairfax.
For Emma Woodhouse has a double source of interest in Frank Churchill.
He is her friend, Mrs. Weston’s unknown step-son, who has indeed
written her “a very handsome letter,” on her marriage with his father,
but has not yet shown her the attention of coming to Randalls. He is
kept away, his friends agree, by the tyrannical whims of the aunt who
adopted him.
Emma with her lively penetration has also seen, and that not with
displeasure, in spite of her protest against marriage for herself, that
Mr. and Mrs. Weston have fixed on her, as far as they can have any
choice in the matter, for Frank’s wife--nay, that all Highbury look on
them as a predestined happy couple. Everything is so suitable--age,
good looks, agreeable qualities, position, fortune. Emma does not deny
these recommendations. No wonder she is curious to hear more of Frank
Churchill.
Highbury is suddenly excited by the announcement of the approaching
marriage of Mr. Elton, who has improved his time in Bath, and only
returned to proclaim his happiness and prepare for his bride.
Emma is bent, as part of her atonement, on breaking the news to Harriet
Smith, when Harriet comes in heated and agitated, crying “Oh, Miss
Woodhouse, what do you think has happened?”
The blow has fallen already, Emma is sure, and prepares to bestow all
the kindness that is due from her.
But the susceptible Harriet is occupied with quite another train of
ideas. She has been shopping in Ford the linendraper’s, when who
should come in but Elizabeth Martin and her brother, the first time
Harriet has met them since she refused young Martin. She thought she
would have fainted. The sister had seen her directly, and looked
another way. When the brother found her out, there was a little
whispering, and Harriet had guessed he was persuading his sister to go
up to her and speak to her as usual. She had been in such a tremble;
but she had seen that the Martins, especially the brother, had tried to
behave with the old kindness and friendliness. Poor little Harriet had
been conscience-stricken, yet comforted by his good nature.
It is in the middle of this comical counter-current of distress, which
at last swells high enough to provoke and alarm Emma, that in order to
put the Martins out of Harriet’s silly, vacillating head, her friend,
in a hurry, and not at all with the tender care she had intended, tells
the girl of Mr. Elton’s prospects. And the shock revives Mr. Elton’s
supremacy.
The future Mrs. Elton is a Miss Hawkins, who is said to be handsome,
elegant, highly accomplished, perfectly amiable, and the possessor of
ten thousand pounds. No wonder Mr. Elton is triumphant in the abundant
consolation which has come to him.
Emma, while satisfied that a Mrs. Elton will be a relief and an aid
in renewing her intercourse with the vicar, and while too indifferent
on the subject to think much of the lady, has this sop for her
mortification on Harriet’s account, that though, doubtless, good enough
for Mr. Elton and Highbury, there is no superiority of connexion on
Miss Hawkins’ side. She brings no name, no blood, no alliance. She is
the younger daughter of a Bristol merchant. “All the grandeur of the
connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very well
married_, to a gentleman in a great way, near Bristol, who kept two
carriages. That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of
Miss Hawkins.”
From these reflections, we may judge that Emma has more than a tinge
of Mr. Darcy’s pride and superciliousness. Was Jane Austen herself
entirely free from the same defects? We are all fallible mortals.
Harriet Smith, easily carried captive by public opinion, now hears so
much of Mr. Elton in every house she enters, and is so impressed by the
gifts, graces, and happiness of the bride, that she would have been in
a fair way to break her heart over her disappointment, had it not been
for the diversion caused by a slight revival of her intercourse with
the Martins. Under the influence of Robert Martin’s good feeling, his
sister has called again for Harriet; and Emma is sufficiently shrewd
to comprehend the danger of a heart’s being caught on the rebound. She
takes care to regulate Harriet’s return of this civility. She herself
carries Harriet in the Hartfield carriage to Abbey Mill Farm,[54] and
pays a visit to an old servant while Harriet makes her call, which
is thus abridged to a quarter of an hour’s length. Harriet’s account
of it is rather a sad one. Mrs. Martin and the girls have been as
uncomfortable as their visitor; and just when they were becoming more
cordial, in consequence of somebody saying that Harriet was grown,
when the whole party could not help looking at the wainscot by the
window, where the different heights of all the girls stood as they had
been noted by _him_ last summer, the Hartfield carriage was announced.
That was enough; the style and the shortness of the visit could not be
mistaken. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom Harriet had
thankfully passed six weeks, not six months ago!
Though Emma has contrived it all, she has the grace to feel it is a
bad business, and would have given a great deal to have had the Martins
in a higher rank of life.
It is some comfort to Emma to hear that Frank Churchill is at last
coming to Randalls, to stay a whole fortnight. His father brings him at
once to the Woodhouses; and the young man is, as nearly as possible,
all that Emma’s fancy had painted him--handsome, gentlemanlike, lively,
eager to be pleased, and by no means unwilling to admire, and show that
he admires, Emma Woodhouse.
After he has won her good-will by his warm praises of his stepmother,
and contrived in complimenting Mrs. Weston to compliment Emma, she
begins to wonder if he, too, is aware of what their friends expect from
their knowing each other, and whether his merry compliments are signs
of acquiescence or defiance. As for herself, she must wait and know
him better before she has any opinion on the subject; but the first
impression is greatly in his favour.
Mr. Weston has business at the Crown Inn, and his son asks carelessly
if there is a family named Fairfax--no, he believes the name is Barnes,
or Bates--living near, as he has a call to make on them. There had been
that degree of acquaintance between him and one of the members of the
family, when living at Weymouth, which requires such an attention, and
it may be as well shown then as afterwards.
To be sure, his father knows the Bateses and Miss Fairfax; let Frank
call upon her by all means.
Any day will do, the young man explains; there is no particular
necessity for calling that morning.
But Mr. Weston decides promptly that the mark of respect ought to be
shown at once. Frank had met Jane Fairfax at the Campbells, where she
was everybody’s equal; here she is with a poor old grandmother who
has barely enough to live on. If he does not call early it will be a
slight. And the young man allows himself to be convinced.
Mrs. Weston, in her turn, brings Frank Churchill--with whom she is on
the happiest terms--the following day; and Emma walks and shops with
them in Highbury. She is on such an easy footing with the young fellow
already as to inquire about his visit of the previous morning.
He thanks Emma for her preparatory hint about the talkative aunt, who
would otherwise have been the death of him. As it was, she entangled
him into a visit of three-quarters of an hour’s length, when he had
only meant to stay ten minutes.
Emma asks how he thinks Miss Fairfax is looking?
Ill, very ill, he tells her, that is, if a young lady can ever be
allowed to look ill, and Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale as almost to
give the appearance of bad health--a most deplorable want of complexion.
Emma defends Jane Fairfax’s soft, delicate skin from the accusation of
having a sickly hue; but her companion only makes the defence adroitly
into an opportunity for professing his preference for “a fine glow of
health.”
Still Emma insists he must admire Miss Fairfax in spite of her
complexion.
But he only shakes his head, laughs, and says he cannot separate Miss
Fairfax and her complexion.
Emma is curious to know how much he had known of Jane Fairfax at
Weymouth.
But when he first leaves the question unanswered, because he must go
into a shop and show himself a citizen of Highbury by buying something,
and then asserts it is always a lady’s right to decide on the degree of
acquaintance, she has to inform him he is as discreet as Miss Fairfax
herself.
After all, he is not unwilling to return to the subject, and talk of
Miss Fairfax and her piano-playing; and Emma is as foolishly elated
as a child, by a chance admission of his, which seems to confirm her
former conclusion. Frank Churchill has proclaimed his own inability
to judge Miss Fairfax’s musical powers, but added that a gentleman
who was a musical man would never ask the young lady to whom he was
engaged to sit down to “the instrument,” if Miss Fairfax could sit down
instead. The next moment Frank has to admit that the gentleman was Mr.
Dixon, and the lady, to whom he was on the point of marriage, Miss
Campbell.
Emma, in her amusement at the corroboration of her suspicions, does not
attempt to conceal her inference from what her companion has said. Poor
Mrs. Dixon! As to Miss Fairfax, she must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction.
Frank Churchill hesitates a little. “There appeared such a perfectly
good understanding among them;” but the next moment he owns that it is
impossible for him to tell how it might have been behind the scenes,
and leaves Emma to suppose what she likes.
Emma’s good opinion of Frank Churchill is in some danger of being
nipped in the bud, when she hears that he has gone off to London
merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seems to have seized him
at breakfast, and he has sent for a chaise and set off, intending to
return to dinner; but with no more important view that appeared than
having his hair cut. There is no harm in his travelling sixteen miles
on such an errand, but there is an air of foppery and nonsense in it
which Emma cannot approve.
His father only calls him a coxcomb; but Mrs. Weston passes the matter
over as quietly as possible, and Mr. Knightley, when informed of the
expedition, is heard to mutter over his newspaper, “Hum! just the
trifling, silly fellow I took him for.”
Frank Churchill comes back punctually. He has got his hair cut, and he
laughs at himself with a good grace, but without seeming really ashamed
of what he has done.
At a dinner-party in the neighbourhood, Emma receives a very
interesting addition to the little history she has made out for Jane
Fairfax. A fine piano from Broadwood’s has arrived at the Bateses’, to
the great astonishment of the family, who have at length come to the
conclusion that it is one of Colonel Campbell’s kind gifts.
But why should Colonel Campbell present Jane Fairfax with a piano at
this late date, and in this mysterious manner? Emma, on the first
opportunity, taxes Frank Churchill with sharing her thoughts on the
subject. The piano has not come from the Campbells; it might have come
from the Dixons, from _Mr._ as well as Mrs. Dixon; and then Emma is so
foolish and wrong as to repeat to Frank Churchill all her suspicions
of Mr. Dixon’s secret preference for Jane, and Jane’s response to
that preference, without, however, for a moment impugning the good
intentions and principles of either.
He hears it all with the greatest gravity, and fully acknowledges the
probability of her version of the gift. He is ready to be guided by her
greater penetration. He did see in it at first only a mark of paternal
kindness from Colonel Campbell; but when she mentioned Mrs. Dixon,
he has felt how much more likely it is that the piano should be the
tribute of warm female friendship; and now he can regard it in no other
light than as an offering of love.
Oh! mischievous, thoughtless Frank, and credulous, confident Emma!
Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, Harriet Smith, and other less important
guests, join the party in the evening. Jane looks superior to all the
others; still Emma can affectionately rejoice in the blooming sweetness
and artless manner of her friend, with regard to whom it could never
have been guessed how many tears she had been shedding lately. For “to
be in company nicely dressed herself, and seeing others nicely dressed,
to sit and smile, and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the
happiness of the present hour.”
When the gentlemen join the ladies in the drawing-room, Frank Churchill
immediately seeks out Emma, and enters into an animated conversation
with her, devoting himself to her.
Once, indeed, she notices him looking intently across the room at Miss
Fairfax. “What is the matter?” Emma asks.
He starts. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replies; “I believe I have
been very rude; but really, Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd
a way that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw anything so
_outré_. Those curls! I see nobody else looking like her. I must go and
ask whether it is an Irish fashion--shall I? Yes, I will; I declare I
will, and you shall see how she likes it--whether she colours.”
He is gone immediately, and Emma soon sees him standing before Miss
Fairfax and talking to her; but as to the effect of his conversation,
he has placed himself inadvertently exactly between her and Emma, so
that the latter can distinguish nothing.
Mrs. Weston tells Emma that Mr. Knightley’s carriage--for the use of
which on this occasion, Emma, who stands up for proper dignity, had
already complimented him--brought over Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, and
is to take them home again.
Both Mrs. Weston and her old pupil are agreed in their praise of Mr.
Knightley’s consideration and kindness. But when Mrs. Weston suggests
another motive, and says Emma has infected her, for she has made a
match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax, the listener bursts
forth into vehement opposition. How can Mrs. Weston think of such a
thing! Mr. Knightley must not marry. Emma cannot have little Henry, her
nephew, cut out of Donwell. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey! No,
no! Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. Mrs. Weston is not to put it
in his head. He is as happy as possible by himself, with his farm, and
his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage. And he is
extremely fond of his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry,
either to fill up his time or his heart.
Mrs. Weston is accustomed to Emma’s ebullitions. The elder lady
contents herself with reminding her companion that if the gentleman
really loves Jane Fairfax----
“Nonsense,” Emma interrupts the speaker hotly. “He does not care about
Jane Fairfax in the way of love; I am sure he does not.”
Emma goes on to protest in extravagant terms that it would be a
shameful, degrading connexion to have Miss Bates haunting the Abbey,
thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane, and
then flying off through half a sentence to her mother’s old petticoat,
not that it was such a very old petticoat either.
“For shame, Emma!” Mrs. Weston cries out at being diverted against
her conscience; and she will not resign her fancy. She has heard Mr.
Knightley speak so very highly of Jane Fairfax. He is so concerned for
her welfare. He is such an admirer of her music. What if he and not the
Campbells prove the donor of the piano?
Emma, too, remains unconvinced, and as indignant as unconvinced. Mrs.
Weston takes up ideas and runs away with them, as she has many a time
reproached Emma for doing. She believes nothing of the kind of the
piano. Only absolute proof will convince her that Mr. Knightley has any
thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.
In the interest of the argument, Emma has lost sight of Frank
Churchill, beyond the fact that he had found a seat next Miss Fairfax.
Presently, however, he comes over to join their host in pressing Miss
Woodhouse--the young lady of most consequence at the party--to play and
sing.
Emma complies, only attempting what she can accomplish with credit. She
is agreeably surprised by having Frank Churchill volunteer a pleasant
second. He has all the praise usual on such occasions, and the two sing
together again to their mutual satisfaction and that of the company.
Emma, conscious that she is to be far outstripped, resigns her place
to Jane Fairfax. Frank Churchill sings with her also. It seems that
they have sung together at Weymouth; but Emma cannot attend to them for
the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive of the listeners.
Her objections to his marriage crowd into her mind and supersede every
other thought. It would be a great disappointment to her brother, and
consequently to her sister, a real injury to the children, a mortifying
change to all. For herself she cannot endure the prospect. A Mrs.
Knightley for them all to give way to! No, Mr. Knightley must never
marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Mr. Knightley looks round, and comes and sits by Emma. She tries him in
various ways. His admiration of the music is warm, but except for Mrs.
Weston’s words would not have struck her. He cuts short her allusion to
his kindness in reference to the carriage, but then he will never dwell
on any kindness of his own. Above all he speaks with perfect calmness,
and a shade of consolatory disapprobation, on the great topic of the
evening, the gift of the piano. It was kindly given, but the Campbells
would have done better to have announced their intention. Surprises are
foolish things. He should have expected better judgment from Colonel
Campbell.
From that moment Emma could have taken her oath Mr. Knightley had
nothing to do with the present.
Jane Fairfax’s voice grows husky.
“That will do,” said Mr. Knightley, aloud. “You have sung quite enough
for one evening.”
The inconsiderate audience beg for another song; and Frank Churchill is
heard saying, “I think you could manage this without effort.”
Mr. Knightley now grows angry. “That fellow thinks of nothing but
showing off his own voice. This must not be;” and he calls on Miss
Bates to interfere.
The singing is put an end to, as there are no other young lady
performers, but a dance is got up.
Mrs. Weston, capital in her country dances, takes her place at the
piano.
Frank Churchill, with most becoming gallantry, secures Emma’s hand, and
takes her to her place at the top of the set.
Emma is nothing loth, but she cannot help watching Mr. Knightley. He is
no dancer in general; if he is now alert in seeking Jane Fairfax as a
partner, the sign will be ominous. But no, he continues talking to his
hostess, and looks on unconcernedly while Jane is claimed by some other.
Emma has no longer any alarm for Henry; his interests are yet safe; and
she leads off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more
than five couples can be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness
of it make it very delightful, and she finds herself well matched in a
partner. They are a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, are all that can be allowed. It is growing
late, and Miss Bates becomes anxious to get home, on her mother’s
account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin
again, they are obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have
done.
“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to
her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
would not have agreed with me, after yours.”
Emma had gone next day to shop with Harriet Smith at the Highbury
linendraper’s. Shopping with Harriet was no easy matter, when it
involved convincing Harriet that if she wanted a plain muslin it was
of no use to look at a figured; and that a blue riband, be it ever so
beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern.
Already the young ladies have encountered Frank Churchill and Mrs.
Weston at the door of the Bateses’ house, opposite. Mrs. Weston
is there, in performance of a promise she had forgotten, but of
which her stepson had reminded her, that she should go and hear the
newly-imported “instrument.”
Frank Churchill has attempted to get off from accompanying Mrs. Weston
after he met Emma, and she refused to be one of the party. The matter
has ended in Mrs. Weston’s carrying off Frank Churchill, according
to their original intention, and the girls making their purchases at
Ford’s. But in a few moments Miss Bates and Mrs. Weston come over
together, and entreat Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith to join the others,
and give their opinion of the piano.
Miss Bates pours forth one of the most amusing of her effusions.
“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are----” began Emma.
“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;
and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse? I am so
glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.
‘Oh, then,’ said I, ‘I must run across. I am sure Miss Woodhouse will
allow me just to run across, and entreat her to come in. My mother
will be so very happy to see her; and now we are such a nice party,
she cannot refuse.’ ‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss
Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’ ‘But,’
said I, ‘I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go
with me.’ ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished
my job,’ for, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in
the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my
mother’s spectacles. The rivet came out, you know, this morning; so
very obliging!--for my mother had no use of her spectacles, could not
put them on, and, by-the-bye, everybody ought to have two pair of
spectacles; they should, indeed, Jane said so. I meant to take them
over to John Saunders, the first thing I did, but something or other
hindered me all the morning; first one thing, and then another, there
is no saying what, you know. At one time, Patty came to say she thought
the kitchen-chimney wanted sweeping. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘Patty, do not
come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress’s
spectacles out.’ Then the baked apples came home. Mrs. Wallis sent
them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the
Wallises, always. I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be
uncivil, and give a very rude answer; but we have never known anything
but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value
of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know?
only three of us. Besides, dear Jane at present--and she really eats
nothing--makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened
if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats; so
I say one thing, and then I say another, and it passes off. But about
the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes
so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for
I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened
to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before. I have so
often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is
the only way Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We
have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent
apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and
these ladies will oblige us.”
Emma would be very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates; and they did at last
move out of the shop, with no further delay from Miss Bates than “How
do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon; I did not see you before. I
hear you have a charming collection of new ribands from town. Jane came
back delighted yesterday. Thank ye! the gloves do very well, only a
little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”
“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were all
in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of. Oh, my mother’s
spectacles! So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ‘Oh,’ said
he, ‘I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
excessively;’ which, you know, showed him to be so very----Indeed, I
must say, that much as I have heard of him before, and much as I had
expected, he far exceeds anything--I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,
most warmly. He seems everything the fondest parent could----‘Oh,’ said
he, ‘I can fasten that rivet; I like a job of that kind excessively.’ I
never shall forget his manner; and when I brought out the baked apples
from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as
to take some, ‘Oh,’ said he directly, ‘there is nothing in the way of
fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples
I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so very----and I am sure,
by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed, they are very delightful
apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice, only we do not have
them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have
them done three times; but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to
mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking,
beyond a doubt; all from Donwell--some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal
supply. He sends us a sack every year, and certainly there never was
such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees--I believe there
are two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in her
younger days. But I was really quite struck the other day, for Mr.
Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we
talked about them, and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked
whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must
be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another supply, for I have a great
many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger
quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more before they
get good for nothing.’ So I begged he would not--for really, as to
ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great many
left--it was but half a dozen, indeed--but they should all be kept for
Jane, and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so
liberal as he had been already, and Jane said the same; and when he was
gone she almost quarrelled with me--no, I should not say quarrelled,
for we never had a quarrel in our lives, but she was quite distressed
that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made
him believe we had a great many left. ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘my dear, I did say
as much as I could.’ However, the very same evening William Larkins
came over with a large basket of apples, a bushel at least, and I was
very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins, and
said everything, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old
acquaintance, I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found out
afterwards from Patty that William said it was all the apples of that
sort his master had; he had brought them all, and now his master had
not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself,
he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many--for William,
you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than anything--but Mrs.
Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away.
She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another
apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not mind
it, and be sure not to say anything to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges
_would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold,
it did not signify who ate the remainder; and so Patty told me, and I
was exceedingly shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley know
anything about it for the world! He would be so very----I wanted to
keep it from Jane’s knowledge, but unluckily I had mentioned it before
I was aware.”
“Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door, and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will. ‘Pray take care,
Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take care, Miss
Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase; rather darker and narrower
than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am
quite concerned; I am sure you have hurt your foot. Miss Smith, the
step at the turning.’”[55]
The scene which the opening of the door presents is often quoted
for its perfection of quiet realism. “The appearance of the little
sitting-room as they entered was tranquillity itself. Mrs. Bates,
deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire;
Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deeply occupied about her
spectacles; and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on
her pianoforte.”
“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? You would not
earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”
“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied; “I have been
assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily;
it was not quite firm, an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see
we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to
be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”
This last sentence is for Emma, as he immediately renews his marked
attentions to her, contrives that she shall be seated by him, looks out
the best roasted apple for her, and tries to make her advise him in his
work, till Jane is ready to sit down to the piano.
There is no doubt Jane is agitated. Emma imagines that she has
not possessed the instrument long enough to get accustomed to its
associations. When the player is able to do herself justice, everybody
is loud in praise of the piano.
Frank Churchill, in the middle of an assertion that whoever Colonel
Campbell had employed, the person has not chosen ill, introduces with
a smile to Emma certain _doubles entendres_ with regard to the musical
taste of the old Weymouth party, and to the enjoyment which Miss
Fairfax’s friends in Ireland must have in imagining what she will be
doing, until even Emma tells him in a whisper it is not fair, hers has
been a random guess.
Jane pretends not to hear, and answers with the briefest acknowledgment
of his apparent meaning. He goes to her and urges her to play one of
the waltzes they danced last night, exclaiming, “Let me hear them once
again.”
As she plays, he exclaims on the felicity of hearing again a tune which
has made one happy before, adding, “If I mistake not, that was danced
at Weymouth.”
She looks at him for a moment, colours deeply, and plays something else.
He brings over some music, including a new set of “The Irish Melodies,”
to show to Emma. The music had been selected and sent with the piano.
Frank Churchill honours that part of the gift particularly. It has
all been so thoughtful, so complete. True affection only could have
prompted it.
Emma wishes he would not be so pointed in his remarks, but glancing at
Jane, she catches the ghost of a smile hovering about her lips, and has
less scruple in her amusement. This excellent Jane Fairfax indulges in
very reprehensible feelings.
Mr. Knightley passes the window on horseback; and Miss Bates trots
into the next room, and from an open window holds a colloquy with him,
charmingly characteristic of both speakers, and perfectly audible to
the visitors in the apartment she has just quitted.
“How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Very well, I thank you; so obliged to you
for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready
for us. Pray come in; do come in; you will find some friends here.”
So began Miss Bates, and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard
in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, “‘How
is your niece, Miss Bates? I want to inquire after you all, but
particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope she caught no cold
last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is!’
“And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would
hear anything else. The listeners were amused, and Mrs. Weston gave
Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.
“‘So obliged to you! So very much obliged to you for the carriage,’
resumed Miss Bates.
“He cut her short with, ‘I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for
you?’
“‘Oh, dear! Kingston, are you? Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she
wanted something from Kingston.’
“‘Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do anything for _you_?’
“‘No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here? Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith, so kind as to call to hear the new
pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.’
“‘Well,’ said he, in a deliberating manner, ‘for five minutes, perhaps.’
“‘And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill, too. Quite
delightful, so many friends.’
“‘No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on
to Kingston as fast as I can.’
“‘Oh, do come in; they will be so very happy to see you.’
“‘No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day and hear
the pianoforte.’
“‘Well, I am so sorry. Oh, Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last
night; how extremely pleasant! Did you ever see such dancing? Was not
it delightful? Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw
anything equal to it.’
“‘Oh, very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose
Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing everything that
passes, and’ (raising his voice still more) ‘I do not see why Miss
Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very
well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country dance player, without
exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they
will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot
stay to hear it.’
“‘Oh, Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence--so
shocked! Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!’
“‘What is the matter now?’
“‘To think of you sending us all your store apples. You said you had a
great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked.
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You
should not have done it, indeed you should not have done it. Ah, he is
off.’”
Frank Churchill easily induces his father to consent to give a ball the
night before Frank is to leave Randalls. No room in the house is large
enough to meet the hospitable gentleman’s views, and it is at last
fixed to give the ball at the Crown Inn. Emma is engaged by the hero of
the evening for the first two dances; and even the grave Jane Fairfax
is sufficiently moved by the brilliant prospect to exclaim, “Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, I hope nothing will happen to prevent the ball. I look
forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure.”
But time and tide, and the humours of a tyrannical woman, accommodate
themselves to no man. A summons arrives for Frank Churchill to return
instantly to his uncle’s place at Enscombe, as his aunt is far too
unwell to do without him.
Frank has no great belief in the illness, but he is forced to obey
orders. The ball has to be deferred to the uncertain period of his next
visit.
Extremely disconsolate, he pays his farewell calls, and when at
Hartfield, while talking of other things--the length of time before
he came to Highbury, his recent leave-taking at the Bateses, he seems
suddenly on the point of a serious declaration, “In short,” said he,
after getting up and walking to a window--“perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I
think you can hardly be without suspicion----”
But either Emma does not afford him sufficient encouragement, or some
other obstacle occurs to hinder him, for he goes no further than a
profession of warm regard for Hartfield.
To Emma the loss of the ball and her partner is a severe
disappointment. She finds Jane Fairfax’s comparative composure on the
misfortune odious. But she is a little softened by hearing of the bad
headaches from which Jane has been suffering, and is willing to admit
that her unbecoming indifference may proceed from the apathy engendered
by bad health.
Emma has arrived at the point of believing she returns Frank
Churchill’s love. At first, when she misses him and the ball most, she
fancies she is very much in love; then the “very much” dwindles down
to a “little,” since Emma, who is still quite capable of reasoning on
her feelings, makes the acute observation, that though she admires
and likes him, she continues to see faults in him; and she notices
that in all the imaginary scenes and dialogues which she invents for
herself and Frank Churchill, while he is to urge his suit with all the
eloquence of passion and true affection, she is always to refuse him,
in the tenderest and most delicate manner indeed, but still to refuse
him. Their love is inevitably destined to subside into friendship.
Emma had long ago determined never to quit her father, but it strikes
her now--that were she strongly attached to Frank, there would be,
even in anticipation, more struggle in the sacrifice.
Having come to this sage conclusion, Emma is a little sorry for Frank;
the next thing is to provide him with a substitute for the wife he can
never win from Hartfield. Her own partiality for her friend, and desire
to atone to her for her former error, together with an accidental
polite reference in one of his letters to his step-mother, puts Harriet
Smith into Emma’s creative brain. For she is not cured of match-making,
she is still inveterately possessed with what is most apt to be the
clever, warm-hearted matron’s mania for arranging the matrimonial
affairs of others.
In fact, Emma, with all her youthful pride and dignity, is in some
danger of becoming a meddler and busybody in other people’s business.
Even the knowledge she might have had of how different are Mr. and Mrs.
Weston’s--not to say Mr. and Mrs. Churchill’s--expectations for their
son and nephew, does not serve to crush the foolish idea, though it
only lurks in the background in the meantime.