Emma
deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection;
and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that
any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme
sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and
quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an
ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to
Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have
passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister,
but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without
praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all
in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful
forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr.
John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and
generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often
for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the pain of
apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The
beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest
feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass
away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and
composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a
sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield
since she had been there last.
“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous business.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I have been so
grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”
“Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably.”
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any
doubts of the air of Randalls.
“Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”
“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.
“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the
plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—“Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”
“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,
have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,
either at Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston
is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy
way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body
must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought
also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our
missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which
is the exact truth.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped
it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not
be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all
easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of
the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and
now you have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—“yes, certainly—I cannot deny
that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty
often—but then—she is always obliged to go away again.”
“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.—You quite
forget poor Mr. Weston.”
“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has
some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of
the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the
claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for
Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of
putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”
“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.—
“Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for
the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of
Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to
slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is
nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very
best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your
brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his
flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter—and ever
since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing
that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could
not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body
can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on
this occasion—or has he not?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in
nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father. “He
wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very
well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—”
“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”
“Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not have thought it—and
he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does
fly indeed!—and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding
good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of
pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept.
28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it
was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’—I remember that perfectly.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents
and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part
with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of
any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have
felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is
rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings;
he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow
or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society
for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and
playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family
affection, or any thing that home affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and
had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She
would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable
and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home
to himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on
the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
important.—It had a high claim to forbearance.
CHAPTER XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the inclination of
Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of right however had decided it; and
besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time
to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been
in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be
out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had
ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration
of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the
children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months
old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to
be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though he began
with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of
them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with
all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends
again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and
then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring
the baby,
“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and
nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;
but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”
“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and
women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings
with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might
always think alike.”
“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the
wrong.”
“Yes,” said he, smiling—“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when
you were born.”
“A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt you were much
my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the
lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?”
“Yes—a good deal _nearer_.”
“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently.”
“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little
Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing
old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”
“That’s true,” she cried—“very true. Little Emma, grow up a better
woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.
Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good
intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects
on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know
that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”
“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.
“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.”
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John,
how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a