Emma
as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we
danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever
has to give—for another half-hour.”
She played.
“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one
happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played
something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,
and turning to Emma, said,
“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here
are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might
expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of
Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music
here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to
have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing
incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;
and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the
remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of
consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less
scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to
her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently
cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—Emma
took the opportunity of whispering,
“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least
ashamed of my meaning.”
“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the
idea.”
“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now
a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does
wrong, she ought to feel it.”
“She is not entirely without it, I think.”
“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this
moment—_his_ favourite.”
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.
Knightley on horse-back not far off.
“Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to
thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;
but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in
when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet
so!—Our little room so honoured!”
She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the
casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every
syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others,
as if it had passed within the same apartment.
“How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you
for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready
for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.”
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in
his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,
“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but
particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold
last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear
her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave
Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.
“So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the carriage,”
resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with,
“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”
“Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she
wanted something from Kingston.”
“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?”
“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?—Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new
pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”
“Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes, perhaps.”
“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—Quite delightful;
so many friends!”
“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on
to Kingston as fast as I can.”
“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”
“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear
the pianoforte.”
“Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last
night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever see such dancing?—Was not
it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any
thing equal to it.”
“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.
And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should
not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.
Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in
England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say
something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to
hear it.”
“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence—so
shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”
“What is the matter now?”
“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a
great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You
should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never
can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it
would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to
the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop.
He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....”
“Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.”
“Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was
open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must
have heard every thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at
Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must
you be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted
long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to
be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could
allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield
gates, before they set off for Randalls.
CHAPTER XI
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been
known of young people passing many, many months successively, without
being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—when the
felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it
must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;
and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded
to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young
people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his
the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of
the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and
appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people
again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself
with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any of
the wicked aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room
they were in to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking
the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in
spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size,
that it was a little the largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s
should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and
the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.
Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;
and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly
who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of
space to every couple.
“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will be the
two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.
Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and
Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five
couple there will be plenty of room.”
But soon it came to be on one side,
“But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think
there will.”
On another,
“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to
stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.
It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the
thought of the moment.”
Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and
must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert
would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was
put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one
family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old
acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the
five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation
in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might not
they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed the best
scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a
better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress
about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score
of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be
persevered in.
“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not
bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.
So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would
be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do
not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very
thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite
the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and
keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the
draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
quite the thing!”
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it,
and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now
closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only
in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on
Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour
before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now
endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.
“We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary room. Ten
couple may stand here very well.”
Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could be
worse than dancing without space to turn in?”
“Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But still he went
on measuring, and still he ended with,
“I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”