Emma
in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I
am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have
been your neighbours these _ten_ years.”
“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged to you
for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any
pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole
never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but
he is bilious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of
giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure,
rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a
little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You
will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends.”
“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am
only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not
being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you
know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by
yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual time—and the idea of
that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit
up.”
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if
she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if
hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should
sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every
thing were safe in the house, as usual.
CHAPTER VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner
waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious
for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had
done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any
confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his
spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent
way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It
depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
_not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this
differently. He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been
ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a
coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own
vanities.—No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a
longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing
how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were
now seeing them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.
Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.
Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than
his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left
the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after
dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping
them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever
unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged
them to practise during the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner
for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat
it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to
see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,
having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and
independence, was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could,
and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from
her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman.—I am
quite glad to see you.”
He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether
you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You
might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”
“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be
beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but
with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I
always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_
you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed
ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_
I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”
“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as
with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could
not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When
the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached
her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,
and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed,
not without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family,
the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the
evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at
dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her
neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to
attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating
something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She
listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of
Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that
she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room
had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking
instrument—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the
substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of
surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and
explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived
from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt
and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account,
Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could
possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied
that it could be from only one quarter;—of course it must be from
Colonel Campbell.
“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,
had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as
any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse
to surprize her.”
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still
listen to Mrs. Cole.
“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who
plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a
shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine
instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a
slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I
really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the
drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little
girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of
it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not
any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old
spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr.
Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so
particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in
the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so
obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that
really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we
ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse
may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned
to Frank Churchill.
“Why do you smile?” said she.
“Nay, why do you?”
“Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich
and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”
“Very.”
“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”
“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”
“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which must
now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”
“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates’s house.”
“You may _say_ what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your
_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.”
“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what
there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can
be?”
“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She
must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;
and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a
young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare
say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.”
“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in
them.”
“Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the
joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day,
you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”
“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had
entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions
of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting