Emma
would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would
be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as
herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occasion to trouble
us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to take them home
again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite
surprized. Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an
attention!—the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in
short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think
that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do
suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it
was only as an excuse for assisting them.”
“Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know no man more
likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing
really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a
gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for
an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on
more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived
together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that
could betray.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more
simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while
Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have
never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more
probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.
Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you
company!—What do you say to it?”
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston,
how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must
not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?—Oh!
no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr.
Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am
amazed that you should think of such a thing.”
“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not
want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea
has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished
to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of
six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”
“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr. Knightley
marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.
And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”
“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know.”
“But the imprudence of such a match!”
“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”
“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would
be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for
the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad
to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to
match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the
Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not
have him do so mad a thing.”
“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,
and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”
“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the
least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He
is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and
his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of
his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up
his time or his heart.”
“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really
loves Jane Fairfax—”
“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I
am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he could
do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”
“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a
very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss
Bates belonging to him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind
and obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And
then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat.
‘Not that it was such a very old petticoat either—for still it would
last a great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their
petticoats were all very strong.’”
“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my
conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be
much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She
might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only
talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it
would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think
he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of
Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety about her
health—his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have
heard him express himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer of
her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him
say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost
forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been
sent here by somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to
consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr.
Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person
to do it, even without being in love.”
“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not
think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does
nothing mysteriously.”
“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;
oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common
course of things, occur to him.”
“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told
her so.”
“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very
strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly
silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”
“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I
believe nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that
Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”
They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather
gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the
most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed
them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;—and at the
same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do
them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the
eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing
nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.
Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it
suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more
than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit
in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could
accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her
agreeably by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank
Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and
every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful
voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and
that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly
asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her
place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental,
she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely
superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the
sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half
Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of
Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united
voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr.
Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside. She could see
nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John
Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a
most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;—a very great
deduction from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she could
not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.
Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never
marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They
talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly
very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have
struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his
kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in
the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate
only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.
“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage
more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;
but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should
put-to for such a purpose.”
“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he
replied;—“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with
such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another
step.
“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this pianoforte is very
kindly given.”
“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her
notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not
enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have
expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had
had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely
free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual
preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s
second song, her voice grew thick.
“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—“you have
sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet.”
Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would not
fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.”
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the
song falls on the second.”
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing off
his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at that
moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing
herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on
her.”