Emma
either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the
misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a
little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without
guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular
cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the
Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and
penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of
trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.—In the summer
it might have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for them in
the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages
would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and
I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,
though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell
you what they are.”
“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon’s
preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being very
decided.”
“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water party;
and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
“He did. I was there—one of the party.”
“Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course, for it
seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I should
have made some discoveries.”
“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that
Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon
caught her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent
shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe
it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that
was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be
observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made
discoveries.”
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in
the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and
obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the
table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed
exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma
said,
“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a
little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall
soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must
conclude it to come from the Campbells.”
“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is
not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She
would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.
Dixon is a principal in the business.”
“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed
you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as
paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.
But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that
it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see
it in no other light than as an offering of love.”
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction
seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other
subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the
dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired
amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few
downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor
the other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old
news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree
of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her
dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and
the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,
cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many
alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed
affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she
had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and
seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say
nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax
did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad
to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the
mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in
vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself
beloved by the husband of her friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the
secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,
and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the
subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of
consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of
guilt which accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colonel
Campbell.”
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by
the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and
to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish
of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the
fair heroine’s countenance.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of
the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the
handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates
and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the
circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be
thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She
introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments
afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had never seen so
lovely a face, and was delighted with her naïveté.” And she, “Only to
be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think
there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her
indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated
sitting long—was always the first to move when he could—that his
father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over
parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been
pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of
gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury
altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable families—that Emma began
to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She
questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire—the extent of the
neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his
answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little
going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families,
none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations
accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health
and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not
without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he
could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at
its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement
at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He
did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded
his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and
noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he
could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on
which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much
to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she
would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he
said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be
good behaviour to his father.
“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause.—
“I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never knew days fly
so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But
just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I hate the
recollection.”
“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out
of so few, in having your hair cut.”
“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no
pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be
seen.”
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as
before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at
Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
“What is the matter?” said she.
He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I have
been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a
way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw
any thing so outrée!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I
see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her whether it is
an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall
see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as
he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in
front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one can get near
every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to
you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how
Miss Bates and her niece came here?”
“How?—They were invited, were not they?”
“Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of their
coming?”
“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”
“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it
would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and
cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw
her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could
not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,
and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may
guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I
made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage