Emma
“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how
great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”
“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to
chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a
worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very
ill-judged measure.”
Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had
reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law’s breaking out.
“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do
as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it
any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my family to
one part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of
my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more than
his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only
sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and
five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater
expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as
willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”
“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition—“very
true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling
you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the
right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive
any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of
inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly
the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,
will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow
morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me
your opinion.”
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his
friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been
attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;—but the soothing
attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the
immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the
other, prevented any renewal of it.
CHAPTER XIII
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over
what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had
nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of
the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he
could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually
at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on
that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for
Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
only persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well
as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being
consulted in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with
a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma
called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with
regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:
Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of,
and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which
excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not
speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much
Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at
last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a
most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had
not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by
Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on
slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the
rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he
might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr.
John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two
eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a
country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton
and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and
proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s
complaint;—“a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat
about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.
Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often
alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as
he exclaimed,
“A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of
yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.
Why does not Perry see her?”
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and
care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she
could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist
than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,
“It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like
snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I
should really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from
venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel
the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so
great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr.
Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me
a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and
what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than
common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s,
he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma,
too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear
him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied
with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly
very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from
Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet
every hour of the evening.
“You do quite right,” said she;—“we will make your apologies to Mr. and
Mrs. Weston.”
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only
objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;
never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
he next looked at her.
“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!—After I had got him
off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill
behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there is, I believe, in many men,
especially single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining
out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing
gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in
love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must
dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see
ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while
assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair
friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting
her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he
sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of
approbation much in his favour.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley
began with—
“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With
men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to
please, every feature works.”
“Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but where there
is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a
great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he
will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such
perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but
value.”
“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems
to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”
“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you imagining me
to be Mr. Elton’s object?”
“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration
now.”
“Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!”
“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is
so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your
manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better
look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”
“I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I
are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a
partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of
high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very
well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and
in want of counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in
spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of
shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his
eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness
of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his