Emma
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No,
Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take
me by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure
you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has
not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,” said
she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”
“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or
wittier than his neighbours.”
“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what
she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough
in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr.
Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her
civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation
of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s
acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring
her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful
exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”
“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do not accuse her of
want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her
temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;
but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than
she used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my
supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax
and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no
thought beyond.”
“Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do
you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”
“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it
were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.”
CHAPTER XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was
disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed
in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.
“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite
the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very
formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a
disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have
been at a loss.”
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for
dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at
the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury
card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a
good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon
shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the
spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in
which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and
unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the
evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the
refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at
Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she
should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful
resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,
with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons,
it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of
course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must
be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with
equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased
by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not
be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able
to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would
rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had
she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the
fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to
give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the
very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.—
Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was
more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often
been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane
Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.
“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which
was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—and
always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—She will never
like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater
attention than I have done.”
Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and
staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day
of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of his being
put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening
so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the
utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma
apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not
being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without
falling in with a dinner-party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by
representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he
always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very
immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to
have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John
Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and
must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the
evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;
and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the
philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the
chief of even Emma’s vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John
Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being
agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they
waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as
elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in
silence—wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but
Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could
talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a
walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It
was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,
“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am
sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you
turned directly.”
“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before
the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters
when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A
walk before breakfast does me good.”
“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”
“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and
Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you
have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth
going through the rain for.”
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing
older should make me indifferent about letters.”
“Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse.”
“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of
friendship.”
“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly.
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”
“Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am
very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I
can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than
to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes
the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body
dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and
therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I
think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than
to-day.”
“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of
years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation
which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time
will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the
daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an
old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years
hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank
you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear
in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was
now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on
such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his
particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all
his mildest urbanity, said,
“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning
in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies