There are to be two expeditions to Box Hill, the one having given
rise to the other. Mrs. Elton has organised an “exploring” picnic for
her brother and sister, the Sucklings, of Maple Grove, with their
barouche-landau. Emma and the Westons are to have something of the same
description, but very different--quiet, unpretending, and elegant, in
contrast to the fuss, ostentation, and regular eating and drinking of
the first.
What is Emma’s disgust to find that Mr. Weston, in his incorrigible
good nature, has proposed to unite the two parties, since Mrs. Elton
had been deprived of the company of the Sucklings. Chagrin or no
chagrin, Emma has to submit; and Mrs. Elton is impatient to settle
about the pigeon pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse
overthrows all calculation, and threatens a delay of weeks.
“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” Mrs. Elton appeals, with her
characteristic freedom, to the Squire of Donwell. “Such weather for
exploring!”
“You had better explore Donwell,” suggests the forbearing gentleman;
“that may be done without horses. Come and eat my strawberries; they
are ripening fast.”
If he has spoken in jest, he has to act in earnest, for the proposal is
caught at with delight. Not only so; Mrs. Elton elects herself queen of
the feast. “I am lady patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring
my friends with me.”
But the host is quite capable of repelling aggression. “I hope you
will bring Elton,” he says, with courteous calmness; “but I will not
trouble you to give any other invitation.”
Oh, he need not be afraid of delegating power to _her_. She is no young
lady on preferment. Married women may be safely authorised. It is her
party. Leave it all to her; she will invite the guests.
“No,” he calmly replies; “there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that
one is----”
“Mrs. Weston, I suppose?” interrupts the mortified Mrs. Elton.
“No--Mrs. Knightley; and till she is in being I will manage matters
myself.”
Was ever rebuff better given, with equal judgment and moderation? In
spite of her pushing self-assertion Mrs. Elton has to subside into a
mere guest, with the comfort, however, of telling everybody that she
has originated the party--that Knightley has given it to gratify her.
Mrs. Elton has insisted it is to be a morning scheme--quite a simple
thing. She is to wear a large bonnet, and bring one of her little
baskets hanging on her arm. They are to walk about the gardens, and
gather the strawberries themselves, sit under trees, and have a table
spread in the shade--everything as natural and simple as possible. Is
not that his idea?
“Not quite;” he puts down her officiousness and affectation with quiet,
well-bred humour. His idea of the simple and the natural would be to
have the table spread in the dining-room; when they were tired of
eating strawberries in the garden, there should be cold meat in the
house.
She wishes she had a donkey, the thing would be for them all to come on
donkeys--Jane, Miss Bates, and herself, with her _cara sposa_ walking
by. In country life a donkey is a sort of necessary; in summer there is
dust and in winter there is dirt.
No doubt Mr. Knightley keeps his countenance while he assures her
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and at that season of the year it is dry.
“Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it; you can borrow Mrs.
Cole’s.”
One reason for Mr. Knightley’s declining to make his guests dine out of
doors is, that he hopes to persuade Mr. Woodhouse to accompany Emma;
and Mr. Woodhouse, who has not been at Donwell for two years, is open
to persuasion.
In fact, everybody accepts his or her invitation, and as happy
events--like sad ones--do not come singly, the lame horse recovers, so
the party to Donwell is settled for the one day and the excursion to
Box Hill for the next.
Mr. Weston, in the innocence of his heart, proposes to get his son
Frank over from Richmond to attend both parties, and Mr. Knightley is
obliged to say he will be glad to see the young man.
On a bright June day Mr. Woodhouse is safely driven over in the
carriage, with one window down, to join in the _al fresco_ party, by
sitting in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey where a fire
has burnt all the morning, with Mrs. Weston to bear him company.
The few words representing Donwell Abbey have the usual effect of
Jane Austen’s spare but graphic, and perfectly unaffected, unlaboured
descriptions. The house and grounds, under the brooding heat of the
midsummer day, lie before us. The Abbey is an ample and irregular
building, low-lying, with all the old neglect of “prospect,” but having
abundance of “timber” in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor
extravagance has rooted up. There are extensive gardens, stretching
down to meadows washed by a stream. We can understand Emma Woodhouse’s
“honest pride and complacency” in her connection with the present and
future proprietor of Donwell Abbey.
There is an unaccountable delay in the arrival of Frank Churchill,
who was to have come on horseback, and some fears as to his horse are
entertained.
In the meantime Mrs. Elton picks strawberries and talks for
everybody--not excepting Miss Bates.
At last, when the various groups are resting on the seats in the shade,
Emma cannot help overhearing Mrs. Elton urging on Jane Fairfax the
acceptance of a situation as governess, offered to her through the
Sucklings of Maple Grove.
Miss Fairfax is replying that she cannot fix on any arrangement till
the return of the Campbells from Ireland.
Mrs. Elton is declining to be put off, and insisting on returning an
answer in the affirmative by the next post.
Emma wonders how Jane can bear it, and even Jane looks vexed, speaks
pointedly, and proposes to walk farther.
It is hot, and insensibly the company gather under the “delicious”
shelter of a short avenue of limes, stretching beyond the gardens, and
leading to nothing, unless to a view over a low stone wall, with high
pillars, giving the appearance of an approach to the house where none
had ever existed. The author objects to the sham, but expatiates--for
her--on the view:--the distant bank, well clothed with wood--the Abbey
Mill Farm, and its meadows--the river, making a curve around them.
Jane Austen adds the short, significant sentence:--“It was a sweet
view--sweet to the eye and mind. English verdure, English culture,
English comfort, seen under a sun bright without being oppressive.”
In this walk, Emma is amused to find Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith
leading the way. It is an odd _tête-à-tête_, but Emma is glad to see
it, and to meet Mr. Knightley’s smile when she joins the couple, and
finds him giving Harriet information on modes of agriculture. The smile
seems to say--“These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on
such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”
The cold repast is over, and still Frank Churchill does not put in
an appearance. His father and mother are anxious, but take refuge in
attributing his absence to some nervous attack of his aunt’s. Emma
looks at Harriet. That young lady is learning self-restraint; she
behaves very well, betraying no emotion.
The party go out again to see some old fish-ponds, and, perhaps, to get
as far as the clover, which is to be cut to-morrow.
Emma makes up her mind to remain indoors with her father. He has been
very well entertained hitherto with the books of engravings, drawers
of medals, cameos and shells brought out of the cabinets for his
amusement. He has shown them all to Mrs. Weston; he will show them over
again to Emma. The occupation is not so engrossing to Emma as to her
father; she strolls into the hall, where she meets Jane Fairfax, coming
quickly from the gardens, with a look of escape about her.
Jane hurriedly begs Emma to make her excuses if she should be missed.
It is late. She ought to be at home. She does not want to say anything
about going to give trouble. But will Miss Woodhouse kindly say, when
the others come in, that she is gone?
Certainly, Emma says; but she remonstrates on Jane Fairfax’s walking to
Highbury alone.
It will not hurt her; she walks fast; she will be at home in twenty
minutes.
Emma, who never forgets what is due to herself and others when she can
render her neighbour a service, offers her father’s servant; wishes to
order the Hartfield carriage.
“Thank you, thank you!” Jane says, but resolutely declines, adding with
agitation, “For _me_ to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon
have to guard others.”
Emma’s really kind heart is touched. She entreats to be allowed to lend
the carriage, and urges that the heat is cause sufficient, since Jane
is fatigued already.
Some of the bonds which fetter Jane’s spirit give way; she and Emma are
nearer being friends at that moment than they have ever been before.
Jane confides so far in her companion: “I am fatigued,” she owns, “but
it is not the sort of fatigue--quick walking will refresh me. Miss
Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits.
Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me
will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it
is necessary.”
Emma has not another word to say, and is full of commiseration, when
the words that burst from Jane at parting, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the
comfort of being sometimes alone!” betray the continued endurance the
poor girl has to practise, even with some of those who love her best.
Jane has not been gone for a quarter of an hour, and Emma and her
father have only reached the views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when
Frank Churchill enters the room. His father and mother were right. A
nervous seizure which had attacked Mrs. Churchill was the cause of his
delay. He had almost given up the idea of coming, and if he had known
how late he must be, and what he should have to suffer from the heat of
the weather, he would not have started.
This is not like a speech which could come from the gallant Frank
Churchill; but he continues to rail at the heat and at his own
sufferings--sitting at the greatest possible distance from the small
remnant of Mr. Weston’s fire, and looking deplorable--though Emma takes
it upon her to assure him, somewhat exasperatingly, perhaps, that he
will soon be cooler if he will sit still.
As soon as he is cooler he will go back again. He could ill be spared,
only such a point had been made of his coming. They will all be going
presently. He has met one of the party as he came--madness in such
weather.
Emma can come to no other conclusion than that Frank Churchill is out
of humour. Some people are always cross when they are hot. Eating
and drinking often cures such incidental complaints. She obligingly
recommends him to take some refreshment, and points out the dining-room
door.
No, he is not hungry; eating would only make him hotter; but he thinks
better of it and goes off, muttering something about spruce beer.[60]
Emma is glad she has done being in love with him; but Harriet has a
sweet temper.
He comes back with his good manners, if not his good spirits, restored,
enters into the Woodhouses’ occupation, but announces, _apropos_ of
sketches and Switzerland, that he hopes soon to go abroad. He wants a
change. He is sick of England.
He is sick of prosperity, his lively companion tells him; but she does
not think he is so miserable as when he arrived. Let him eat and drink
a little more. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of madeira
and water, and he will do very well.
No, he will sit by her; she is his best cure.
They are going to Box Hill to-morrow. It is not Switzerland, but it
will be something for a young man so much in want of a change.
No, certainly not; he will go home in the cool of the evening.
But he may come back again in the cool of the morning.
No, it would not be worth while. If he came he would be cross.
Then pray let him stay at Richmond.
But if he does, he will be crosser still. He could never bear to think
of them all enjoying themselves without him.
He must settle these difficulties, and choose his own degree of
crossness. She will press him no more.
Chaff was not a slang word early in the century. But how charmingly
Jane Austen can chaff by the lips of more than one of her heroines! And
what arch, sweet, perfectly womanly and ladylike chaff it is!
Frank Churchill[61] is very wrong, and yet there is a grain of excuse
for him when he says to Emma at parting, “Well, if _you_ wish me to
stay and join the party, I will.”
Emma smiles her acceptance of the concession, very nearly as
indefensibly.
There is another fine day for Box Hill; but though the scenery is much
admired, the excursion somehow is not successful.
There is a want of spirit and a want of union which cannot be got over.
The Eltons walk by themselves, Mr. Knightley takes charge of Miss
Bates and Jane Fairfax, Frank Churchill escorts Emma and Harriet. Mr.
Weston tries in vain to bring everybody together, and make the thing
harmonious.
At first it is downright dulness to Emma, for Frank Churchill is
actually stupid, and, of course, Harriet is no better. They are both
insufferable. It would have been well if they had continued dull,
though Emma flatters herself it is a great deal better when they all
sit down together, and Frank grows talkative and gay, making Emma his
first object; while she, glad to be enlivened, and not sorry to be
flattered, affords him every encouragement, in forgetfulness, it must
be confessed, of what Harriet’s feelings may be. But then Harriet is
the most placid of human beings, the most confiding of friends.
Emma means nothing: she even believes that he means nothing; but in the
opinion of most people present only one English word, “flirtation,”
could describe their behaviour. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
flirted together excessively” might be the report sent off in a letter
to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Yet it is really
because Emma is less--not more--happy than usual, that she lays herself
open to the imputation.
Frank Churchill piles up his compliments, and Emma parries them
merrily. The rest of the company fall into silence, as if to constitute
themselves an audience for the genteel comedy, until Emma objects aloud
to talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.
“They shall talk,” Frank ordains. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am desired
by Miss Woodhouse to say that she desires to know what you are all
thinking of?”
There is a little flutter of amusement here, and indignation there.
Mr. Knightley’s answer is most distinct, and most to the purpose: “Is
Miss Woodhouse sure she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”
“Oh, no! no!” cries Emma, laughing as carelessly as she can; “upon no
account in the world. Let me hear anything rather than what you are
thinking of.”
“It will not do,” whispers Frank to Emma; “they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen,
I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining, from each of you, in a general way. Here
are seven of you besides myself (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already), and she only demands from each of you either one
thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated; or two
things moderately clever; or three things very dull indeed; and she
engages to laugh heartily at them all.”
“Oh, very well,” exclaims Miss Bates; “then I need not be uneasy.
‘Three things very dull indeed!’ That will just do for me, you know. I
shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
sha’n’t I?” (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on
everybody’s assent). “Do not you all think I shall?”
Emma cannot resist. “Ah, ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon
me, but you will be limited as to the number--only three at once.”
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of the manner, does not
immediately catch the meaning; but when it bursts on her, it cannot
anger, though a slight blush shows that it can pain her.
“Ah! well, to be sure! Yes, I see what she means,” turning to Mr.
Knightley, “and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”
Mr. Weston volunteers a conundrum, which is not very clever, but
which he is sure Emma will not guess. “What two letters stand for
perfection?--‘M’ and ‘A’--Em--ma.”
It may be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma finds a great deal
to laugh at and enjoy in it.
Mr. Knightley says, gravely, “This explains the sort of clever thing
that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he
must have knocked up everybody else. _Perfection_ should not have come
quite so soon.”
Mrs. Elton is swelling with resentment. “I really cannot attempt--I am
not at all fond of the sort of thing. I have a great deal of vivacity
in my own way, but I must really be allowed to judge when to speak, and
when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill! pass Mr.
E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--not one
of us?”
“Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” adds her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness. “I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--quite good for
nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”
“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
Jane declines, and the husband and wife walk off.
“Happy couple!” says Frank Churchill, as soon as they are out of
hearing; “how well they suit one another! Very lucky, marrying, as
they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place. They
only knew each other, I think, a few weeks, at Bath.” Then, suddenly
becoming serious, he volunteers his emphatic opinion that there can be
no knowledge of a person’s disposition in such circumstances, finishing
with the sentence, “How many a man has committed himself on a short
acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”
Jane Fairfax wishes to speak. “Such things do occur, undoubtedly.” She
is stopped by a cough.
“You were speaking?” said Frank Churchill.
She recovers her voice. “I was only going to observe that though such
unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women,
I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent
attachment may arise, but there is generally time to recover from it
afterwards. I would be understood to mean that it can be only weak,
irresolute characters (whose happiness must be always at the mercy
of chance) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an
inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”
He makes no answer, merely looks and bows in submission, then resumes
his flirtation with Emma, more furiously than before. Will she choose a
wife for him? He is sure he will like anybody fixed on by her. He is in
no hurry. Emma may adopt her, educate her.
“And make her like myself!” cries the heedless Emma.
By all means, if she can.
She undertakes the commission in high glee. He shall have a charming
wife.
He only stipulates for two things. She must be lively, and she must
have hazel eyes. He will go abroad for a couple of years, and when he
returns he will come to her for a wife.
This jesting commission appeals to Emma’s special weakness. Will not
Harriet be the very creature described--barring the liveliness and
the hazel eyes--either sops of personal flattery thrown in for Emma
herself, whose appetite for that commodity is not small, or words
spoken at random? Might not Harriet be in his thoughts when he referred
the education of his wife to Emma?
“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”
Miss Bates is ready, so is Mr. Knightley; it seems, to use a homely
expression, that their absence will be better than their company.
Yet, after the rest of the party are gone, the pitch to which the young
man’s spirits rise becomes almost unpleasant to Emma. She is fairly
tired of fun and flattery. She welcomes the appearance of the servants
and the ordering of the carriages.
But Emma is not to escape without the rebuke she deserves. She finds
Mr. Knightley seeking to speak with her where nobody can hear. He says,
“‘Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do--a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps; but I must still use
it. I cannot see you acting wrong without a remonstrance. How could you
be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your
wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not
thought it possible.’
“Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. ‘Nay,
how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was
not so very bad. I daresay she did not understand me.’
“‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of
it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--with what
candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions as she was for
ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
so irksome.’
“‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better creature in the world;
but you must allow that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her.’
“‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge, and were she prosperous
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave her every harmless
absurdity to take its chance. I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she equal in situation--but, Emma, consider
how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from
the comforts she was born to; and if she live to old age must probably
sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly
done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen
grow up from a period when her notice was an honour--to have you now,
in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her,
humble her--and before her niece, too, and before others, many of whom
(certainly _some_) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment of her.
This is not pleasant to you, Emma, and it is very far from pleasant to
me; but I must, I will, tell you truths while I can; satisfied with
proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that
you will, some time or other, do me greater justice than you can do
now.’”
Nothing can be juster, manlier, more faithful than the remonstrance.
It goes straight to Emma’s heart. Mr. Knightley is quite mistaken in
imagining that she cannot appreciate it at its true worth. In the
middle of her contrition and distress, she is eager to show him that
she feels no sullenness. Not the least of her vexation is occasioned
by her having failed, in the hurry of the moment, to acknowledge the
true friendship of his tone, and by their having exchanged no friendly
leave-taking.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates; how could
she have exposed herself to such an ill opinion in any one she valued,
and then to suffer him to go without one word of gratitude and common
kindness?
Truly, Emma is candid, good, and gracious, in spite of her worst
faults, when these are contrasted with the intolerable flippancy, the
selfish heartlessness of some so-called heroines. We are sorry for her
as she drives away with Harriet, the tears stealing down Emma’s cheeks
in the comparative privacy of such companionship.
That scene at Box Hill, with its lights and shades, its apparent comedy
and hidden tragedy, its diversity of characters and feelings so finely
indicated, is the best in the book.
“Who breaks--pays.” Emma has, next morning, as the inevitable result
of her regardless folly the day before, to face a host of wretched
reflections. Girl-like, she is in haste to atone, as if atonement were
always easy or possible. She will go that very day to the Bateses, and,
though she cannot speak out her compunction, she will, from this time
henceforth, do all that is in her power to make up for her offence, by
lavishing friendly kindness on the family.
She fears for a moment she is to be refused admittance, but it is
only Jane Fairfax who is retreating from the visitor. The mother and
daughter are as civil and humble as usual, though it pains Emma to
recognise, at first, that Miss Bates is less cheerful and easy in her
volubility.
But Emma’s special friendliness soon reconciles the good old lady to
herself and all the world. Emma hears the present trouble poured forth
in the usual jumble of ideas and sentences. The substance is that Jane
has suddenly made up her mind to accept the situation Mrs. Elton hunted
up for her.
Emma is sincerely interested, and sorry for them all, and expresses her
feelings earnestly.
“So very kind,” replies the grateful Miss Bates, “but you are always
kind.”
This is certainly heaping coals of fire on Emma’s head. She hastens to
ask where Miss Fairfax is going.
“To Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--to have the charge of three little
girls--delightful children.”
Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove; but unfortunately Mrs.
Smallridge is in a great hurry, and Jane is to leave in a fortnight.
On Emma’s return home, she finds Mr. Knightley with her father, looking
in upon him before leaving for London, and wishing to learn if they
have any messages for John and Isabella, with whom he is going to spend
a few days.
Emma had not heard of the visit, though Mr. Knightley says he had been
thinking of it for some time; and she is certain he has not forgiven
her, he looks so unlike himself.
As they stand talking, Mr. Woodhouse begins to inquire for Mrs. Bates
and her daughter, with whom Emma has been--she is so attentive to them.
At this peculiarly _mal apropos_ praise, Emma’s colour rises, while she
looks at Mr. Knightley and shakes her head.
It seems as if he instantly understands all that has been passing
in her heart. He looks at her with a glow of regard, he takes her
hand--she is not sure afterwards that she did not offer it, but he
takes it, presses it, and is certainly on the point of carrying it to
his lips, when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly lets it go.
He would have judged better, she thinks, if he had not stopped, but she
can at least recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It speaks such
perfect amity. The next moment he is gone.
The following day brings news from Richmond which throws everything
else into the shade. An express had arrived at Randalls to announce the
death of Mrs. Churchill. The great Mrs. Churchill (the tyrannical rich
woman who has demanded such deference from both husband and nephew) is
no more.
Jane Austen has a most pertinent reflection on the event and some
of its consequences. “It was felt as such things must be felt.
Everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the
departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable
time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells
us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do
but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally
to be recommended as a clearer of ill fame. Mrs. Churchill, after
being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with
compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had
never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted
her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary
complaints.”
Emma soon begins to consider that now an attachment on Frank’s part to
Harriet Smith will have nothing to encounter.
Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, is feared by nobody; an easy,
guidable man--to be persuaded into anything by his nephew.
Harriet again behaves admirably, and betrays no agitation. Emma is
delighted to have this evidence of her friend’s strengthened character.
In the interval, before anything can be known of Frank Churchill’s
future, Emma longs to do the little she can to compensate for her
neglect of Jane Fairfax, and for the idle, unworthy fancies of which
she begins to feel thoroughly ashamed. But Jane is not so accessible to
advances as her aunt is. Emma would have Jane spend a day at Hartfield
before she quits Highbury, and writes to invite her. The invitation is
refused, and a message sent that “Miss Fairfax is not well enough to
write.”
Mr. Perry, in visiting the Woodhouses, confirms the accounts of
Jane Fairfax’s illness. She is seriously indisposed, suffering from
headaches, with nervous fever, and her appetite is gone. He doubts the
possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time fixed. He
is uneasy about Jane Fairfax, though there are no absolutely alarming
symptoms. Her present home is unfavourable to a nervous disorder.
Emma’s regrets and self-reproaches increase. She is eager to be useful;
she writes again, with the greatest tact and feeling she can command,
and proposes to take Jane for a drive, at any hour she will name.
Once more a verbal message is returned:--“Miss Fairfax’s compliments
and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.”
Emma thinks her note deserves more, but cannot be angry under the
circumstances. She would have tried personal persuasion, but only Miss
Bates comes to the carriage door to excuse her niece.
Hearing of Mr. Perry’s recommendation of nourishing food, Emma returns
home, and calling the housekeeper, despatches some arrowroot of very
superior quality, with a most friendly note to Miss Bates. In half an
hour the arrowroot is returned with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates,
but “dear Jane” would not be satisfied till it was sent back. It is
a thing she cannot take, and she insists on her aunt saying that her
niece is not in want of anything.
Such obduracy is unconquerable, and when Emma hears that Jane Fairfax
had been wandering about the meadows at some distance from Highbury
on the afternoon of the day on which she declined carriage exercise,
Emma is forced to see that Jane is resolved to receive no kindness from
_her_. She is sorry and mortified, but she has the comfort of thinking
Mr. Knightley would have understood and appreciated her motives.
Ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s death, Mr. Weston comes himself one
morning to Hartfield to beg Emma to accompany him to Randalls. Mrs.
Weston is not ill, but she has something very particular to say to her
friend. He will not tell beforehand what has happened, but on the road
he is led into such explanations as “The most unaccountable business;”
“she will break it to you better than I can.”
At the last words Emma stops short in terror. Something must have
happened in Brunswick Square (where Isabella lives). Which of them is
it? She must hear at once.
It is only on his solemnly assuring her that what has occurred has
nothing to do with the name of Knightley that she is relieved, and
walks on. “Who is that gentleman on horseback?” she asks, speaking in
order to keep up a conversation on indifferent topics.
It is one of the Otways. Not Frank. She will not see him. He is half
way to Windsor by this time.
Has his son been with them, then?
Oh, yes! Did she not know? Well, never mind.
Mrs. Weston looks ill, and much disturbed, and no sooner is she left
alone with Emma than the girl begs affectionately to be informed what
unpleasant event has befallen her friends.
“Have you no idea?” said Mrs. Weston, in a trembling voice.
Emma does guess it has to do with Mr. Frank Churchill.
She is right, Mrs. Weston confesses, resuming her work, and fixing her
eyes upon it. He had been there that morning on a most extraordinary
errand. He came to speak to his father--to announce an attachment.
Emma thinks first of herself and then of Harriet.
“More than an attachment--a positive engagement. What will you say,
Emma, what will anybody say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and
Miss Fairfax are engaged--nay, that they have been long engaged?”
Emma even jumped with surprise and consternation. Jane Fairfax! Mrs.
Weston is not serious. She does not mean it?
“You may well be amazed,” returns Mrs. Weston, steadily averting her
eyes; “you may well be amazed.”
There had been a solemn engagement between them ever since October,
formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from everybody, not a creature
knowing it but themselves, neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor
his.
Emma scarcely hears what is said. Her mind is divided between two
overwhelming ideas--her own former conversations with him about
Jane Fairfax, and poor Harriet. “Well,” she exclaims at last, “this
is a circumstance I must think of at least half a day before I can
comprehend it. What! engaged to her all the winter, before either of
them came to Highbury?”
“It has hurt me very much,” said Mrs. Weston; “it has hurt his father
equally; some part of his conduct we cannot excuse.”
Emma cannot pretend to misunderstand the speaker’s meaning. On the
contrary, she is eager and glad to remove this load from the Westons’
minds. In a few words she explains that Frank Churchill’s attentions
to her have not produced the effect his father and mother feared. It
seems too good news to be true; but Emma confirms her assertions of
indifference by owning there was a time when she did like him, but that
time soon passed--why, she cannot tell, and she has not cared about him
for the last three months.
Mrs. Weston kisses her, and cries with joy and thankfulness. On this
point she and her husband have been wretched. They had warmly wished
the match, and heartily believed in a mutual attachment. They have been
miserable on Emma’s account.
Emma is grateful for her escape, but she is by no means inclined to
excuse the offender. She turns, with her usual frankness and fervour,
to protest against his conduct. “What right had he to come among us
with affections and faith engaged, and manners so very disengaged?
What right had he to endeavour to please--as he certainly did--to
distinguish any young woman, as he certainly did, while he really
belonged to another? How could _she_ bear such behaviour? Composure,
with a witness! to look on while repeated attentions were offering to
another woman before her face, and not resent it.”
Now that Mrs. Weston’s mind is so agreeably relieved, she seeks to find
an apology for the delinquents.
Emma will not even listen to a reminder of his many good qualities.
“Mrs. Smallridge, too!” she is exclaiming; “Jane actually on the point
of going as governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy?
To suffer her to engage herself--to suffer her even to think of such a
measure!”
But Mrs. Weston is able to clear her stepson on this point--he knew
nothing of it. There had been misunderstandings. Jane had taken a
private resolution, which had somehow come round to Frank only the day
before; it had determined him to come forward at once, own all to his
uncle, and throw himself on his kindness. Had Mrs. Churchill lived
there could hardly have been a hope of the family’s consent; with her
influence gone everything had been easy. Frank was off with the morning
light to Highbury, went straight to the Bateses, and then came on to
his father’s. He had to return immediately to his uncle, but was to
write in full to his stepmother.
Emma remarks dryly, she supposes they will immediately get reconciled
to the idea, and she wishes the couple happy. But she will always
think it a very abominable system of hypocrisy, deceit, espionage, and
treachery. They must take the consequence, if they have heard each
other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable.
Mrs. Weston congratulates herself that she has always thought so highly
of Jane Fairfax, she can never have said ill of her to Frank.
Emma, smarting under her own consciousness, can only say her friend is
in luck. But she is able to set worthy Mr. Weston’s mind at rest at
once, by congratulating him, without the smallest difficulty, on having
the loveliest and most accomplished young woman in England for his
daughter-in-law.
“Harriet! poor Harriet!” There is the next torment. How is Emma to
break such news a second time to her friend? Mr. Knightley’s words
begin to sound prophetic--“Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet
Smith.”
There is no necessity for farther solicitude on Jane Fairfax’s behalf.
Her days of insignificance and evil are over. Now Emma can comprehend
why her late offers of assistance and regard have been repulsed. In
Jane’s eyes she has been a successful rival. In that light an airing
in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from
the Hartfield store-room must have proved poison.
But Harriet. Frank Churchill’s engagement is to be still kept a strict
secret during the family’s period of mourning for Mrs. Churchill;
however, there must be an explanation, on Harriet’s account.
Emma is reflecting Mrs. Weston’s agitation on her own behalf, when
Harriet comes in, with the eager exclamation, “Is not this the oddest
news that ever was about Jane Fairfax?” Mr. Weston has told her as the
greatest secret. “How very odd!”
Harriet’s behaviour is so extremely odd, that Emma does not know what
to make of it. She may spare her pity, if Harriet’s self-command has
reached this height. Harriet is even asking, with the utmost coolness,
if Miss Woodhouse had ever guessed that Mr. Frank Churchill was in love
with Miss Fairfax?
“Never!” protests Emma; “you may be sure of that. If I had, I should
have cautioned you accordingly.”
“Me!” cries Harriet, colouring; “why should you caution me? You do not
think that I care about Mr. Frank Churchill?”
If it is not Frank, who can it be? Is Emma to suppose----?
But Harriet is quite ready to explain herself in the middle of her
agitation. They have agreed not to name him; but he is so infinitely
superior to everybody else, that Harriet does not see how she could
have been thought to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill,
indeed! Harriet does not know who would look at him in the presence of
the other. And she has received the encouragement from Emma herself,
when it would have seemed too much presumption almost, to dare to think
of him--that more wonderful things had happened--there had been matches
of greater disparity.
“Harriet,” cries Emma, “let us understand each other now, without the
possibility of further mistake--are you speaking of Mr. Knightley?”
To be sure she is--she never could have an idea of anybody else.
Emma brings herself to ask, has Harriet any idea of Mr. Knightley’s
returning her affection?
“Yes,” replies Harriet modestly, but not fearfully, “I must say I have.”
Emma is silent, in the bitterness of her heart. Why is it so much
worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley than with
Mr. Churchill? Why is the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s
having some hope of a return of her love? There can only be one
explanation--it darts through Emma’s mind with the swiftness of an
arrow’s flight--Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself.
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, lies bare before her. How
inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling has been
her behaviour! And if she has acted improperly by Harriet, she may have
done still worse by Mr. Knightley. He had said she had been no friend
to Harriet Smith. She may prove to have been his worst enemy, if it
be possible that his association with Harriet can bring him to demean
himself to make a girl, so inferior to him in every respect, his wife.
But Emma must not make Harriet suffer for her fault. Emma is always
courageous in taking upon herself the heaviest penalty for her
misdoings.
She gently questions Harriet as to her reason, besides the assurance
Emma has given her, under a misconception, of Mr. Knightley’s growing
regard for her. And as Harriet, with great _naïveté_, brings forward
the different proofs--from his dancing with her at the ball at the
Crown, down to his seeking her out, and walking with her at his own
party at Donwell, including the change in his tone, his increased
kindness, the pains he takes to ascertain her opinions in conversation,
even to an effort to discover whether her affections are still
disengaged, Emma, sick at heart, is compelled to admit there is some
truth in what Harriet alleges. Emma herself has been struck with the
additional notice which Mr. Knightley bestows on Harriet Smith, and
several times lately he has praised her cordially to Emma.
If one could go so far as to conceive Mr. Knightley choosing a partner
for life so inferior to him in understanding, as well as in every other
desirable recommendation, then it might be that he would marry Harriet,
though the vision of her as the mistress of Donwell Abbey humbles Emma
for its master’s sake even more than for her own. If she had only not
brought the two together; if she had but left Harriet to marry the
unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy in the line of
life to which she belonged--in which she ought to have remained. Mr.
Knightley and Harriet Smith! It is a union to distance every wonder of
the kind. The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax becomes
commonplace and threadbare--presents no disparity by comparison. Such
elevation on Harriet’s side--such debasement on Mr. Knightley’s. It
is impossible. And yet it is very far from impossible. Is it a new
circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very
inferior powers? Is it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the
prize of a girl who will seek him?
Still Emma can be honourably fair to Harriet, and gentle with her. But
she does faintly suggest that Mr. Knightley may be paying attention to
Harriet with Mr. Martin’s interest in view.
But Harriet rejects the suggestion with such spirit--she hopes she
knows better now than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of
it--and so holds Emma to her former advice to observe the gentleman’s
behaviour, and let it be the rule of hers (Harriet’s); that, though it
requires a great exertion, Emma brings herself to say Mr. Knightley is
the last man in the world who would intentionally give any woman the
idea of his feeling more for her than he really did.
In return for the guarded speech, Harriet could have worshipped her
reluctant friend.
Emma seeks to weigh her regard for Mr. Knightley--to ascertain its
beginning and strength. Till she was threatened with its loss, she had
never known how much her happiness was dependent upon him. She had long
been first with him, for there was only Isabella to compete with her in
his affections; and she had been aware that she came before her sister
with him. She had known she was dear to him; and in her self-confident
security, and her delusions and fancies, she had never so much as
suspected that to be first and dearest with Mr. Knightley, or to have
another woman supplant her, constituted the fulness or the blankness,
the gladness or the sadness, of her lot.
Tried as Emma is, her good sense does not forsake her; she will not
believe in her own and Mr. Knightley’s loss, so long as unbelief
is possible. To continue to discuss the matter with Harriet is
intolerable. She contrives to keep Harriet away from Hartfield.
A visit from Mrs. Weston is a distraction to Emma’s cares, though it
is no longer of the importance it would have been before the last
miserable discovery.
Mrs. Weston comes with the news of the Westons’ visit to the Bateses.
Very great had been the evident distress and confusion of _the_ lady,
while the innocent satisfaction and delight of her grandmother and aunt
had been almost touching.
Jane Fairfax had spoken with energy to Mrs. Weston on the misery she
had suffered during the concealment for so many months. This was one of
her expressions:--“I will not say that since I have entered into the
engagement I have not had some happy moments, but I can say that I have
never known the blessing of one tranquil hour.”[62]
She had added:--“After all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it
is still not less misconduct. The fortunate turn that everything has
taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells
me ought not to be. Do not imagine, madam, that I was taught wrong. I
shall dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.”
Emma is softened. “Poor girl! her affection must have overpowered her
judgment.”
Mrs. Weston’s communications increase Emma’s esteem, compassion, and
sense of past injustice to Jane Fairfax. To all her other regrets and
sources of self-reproach is added the sense of having missed, by a
feeling of jealousy, the friendship with Jane--marked out by equality
of birth, abilities, and education, which all her friends had proposed
for her, and which might have been of benefit to both girls. Instead,
Emma had preferred the unsuitable, humble companionship and worship of
Harriet Smith; and what has come of it?