She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied.There was a communication before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the confession of her engagement to her father;but she would have nothing to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs.Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure,to employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought to go—and she was longing to see her;the resemblance of their present situations increasing every other motive of goodwill.It would be a _secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door,but had not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill,when poor Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion,though all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being still unwelcome,determined her, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage,and send up her name.—She heard Patty announcing it;but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—No;she heard nothing but the instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward,as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her look so well,so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and warmth;there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an offered hand;and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,
“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely without words. ”
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of Mrs.Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out,which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere;but she was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs.Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and understand why she was,like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence,and fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to other people.Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of her face;and while paying her own compliments to Mrs. Bates,and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies,she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax,and return it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,
“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact,you have heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S.admits our apology, and is not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh!she is a sweet creature!You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word more.Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:
“For when a lady’s in the case, “You know all other things give place.”
Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read——mum!a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I?But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—_My_ representation, you see, has quite appeased her.”
And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
“I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.—Oh!no; cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every possible occasion.When they had all talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston,she found herself abruptly addressed with,
“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word,Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh!if you had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma, whispered farther,“We do not say a word of any _assistance_ that Perry might have;not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor.—Oh!no; Perry shall have all the credit.”
“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she shortly afterwards began,“since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was something wanting.Things did not seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it appeared to me at least,but I might be mistaken. However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again.What say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, not _one_ exception.”
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself,resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed,I quite understand—dearest Jane’s prospects—that is,I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to Jane!”—And from her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there,Emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards Jane,from the vicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed,which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,
“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long,that anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is,that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you. ”
“What!are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That will be a favour indeed!for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”
“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him,on some pretence or other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens,are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.—‘Upon my word, Mr.E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—I do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument,if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is,for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.—However,he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her words from Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh!yes, quite indispensable.”
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!
“He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from Knightley;but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”
“Oh!no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too;but one is apt to speak only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E.and Knightley have every thing their own way.”
“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr.Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”
“Oh!no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer,which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.—“I do believe,” she continued,“this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.”
“Your parish there was small,” said Jane.
“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject talked of.”
“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard you speak of,as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school,and not more than five-and-twenty children.”
“Ah!you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain you have!I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if we could be shaken together.My liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however,that _some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.—But hush!—not a word, if you please.”
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words, not to Mrs. Elton,but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her,as far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling vivacity.
“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with.You knew I should not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been sitting this hour,giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.His civilities to the other ladies must be paid;but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing.
“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found. Very odd!very unaccountable!after the note I sent him this morning, and the message he returned,that he should certainly be at home till one.”
“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.”
“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I went over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home!I assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me.The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill,perhaps into his woods.—Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?”
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary, indeed,and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world!The very last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you,I am sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his servants forgot it.Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants,who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”
“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house,and he told me I should not find his master at home,but I did not believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour.He did not know what was come to his master lately, he said,but he could hardly ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants,but it really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley to-day;and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose. ”
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly.In all probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to attend her out of the room,to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,
“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility.Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to introduce a subject,to ask questions, to speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent. ”
“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend—”
“Oh!you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and taking her hand.“You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe them,is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—”
“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have disgusted you.”
“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done quickest,and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”
“Very.”
“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as I begin to know you.”
“Oh!as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma, smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I am sure it will be safe),that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled.There must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but when they are over,I imagine there will be nothing more to wait for.”
“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured of.—Oh!if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety;and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma,it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl.She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston.She would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a match for her, hereafter,with either of Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best.It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—and even Mr.Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense,the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs.Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her;and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach,should not have their powers in exercise again.
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis,in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore,and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than she did you,and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the only difference.”
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”
“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in infancy,and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children,my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to _you_,would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?”
Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people.I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.”
“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss Taylor gave you principles.You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good.It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner.I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself,by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me.I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults and all;and by dint of fancying so many errors,have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.”
“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma.“I was very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time.I am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled,it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done for me,except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.”
“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley,I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which,you knew, I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings instead of one. ”
“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”
“‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from habit,it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what.”
“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago.I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again.”
“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”
“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr.K.—But I will promise,” she added presently,laughing and blushing—“I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when,but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her,to the advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith;but it was too tender a subject.—She could not enter on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them.This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of;but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances,that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself, that,parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more,and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did,on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so.The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him,was very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be expected;on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural,as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over,she did not appear to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.—Isabella,to be sure, was no very quick observer;yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her.Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer;her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs.John Knightley were to come down in August,and she was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is his answer, if you like to see it.”
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage.Emma accepted it with a very eager hand,with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it,and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr. Knightley, “but he is no complimenter;and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you,he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise.But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read the letter.“I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side,but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection,as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him.”
“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”
“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,” interrupted she,with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than he is aware of,if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject.”
“Emma, my dear Emma—”
“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother does not do me justice,only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it,he will be much farther from doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness,all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine.I wish I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther. ”
“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be,of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together.I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprize,that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind.”
“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying.He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that.”
“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so,I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day.I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual.I remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’”
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons’ reception of it tried.As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits,Emma having it in view that her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause,resolved first to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to her father at last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley’s absence,or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr.Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced to speak,and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him,by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command,she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a few words, said,that if his consent and approbation could be obtained—which, she trusted,would be attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—she and Mr.Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of that person’s company whom she knew he loved,next to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it.She was reminded, more than once, of having always said she would never marry,and assured that it would be a great deal better for her to remain single;and told of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do.Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so;and that he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston,whose marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change:but she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there;she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better;and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?—Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often;he should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day as it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given;time and continual repetition must do the rest.—To Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr.Knightley’s, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome;and he was soon used to be talked to by each,on every fair occasion.—They had all the assistance which Isabella could give,by letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting,to consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly,as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to Mr.Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what was to be;and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness;and having some feelings himself which almost admitted it,he began to think that some time or other—in another year or two,perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take place.