Emma
different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to
the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I
only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by
applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with
something that would do.”
“Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, _that_ may suit
your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are;
but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any
thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
life.”
“You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it
would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I
think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
A gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”
“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall
be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite
on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the
first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name
your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family
as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you
might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I
really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you
chose;—and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and
comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.”
“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a
situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;
however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at
present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am
obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing
nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I
shall remain where I am, and as I am.”
“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
“in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to
watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till
Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of
object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
“Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of his
gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he
is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,
old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish
you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I
began to think my cara sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am
rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like
it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is
not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being
over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments
now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like
a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of
dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the
minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show
and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a
trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will
look well?”
The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.
Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late
dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too
much expected by the best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been
sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute
astonishment.—That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at
home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk
half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed
company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility
and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A
man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and
might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have
been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been
alone!—Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own
fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again
into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken
back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would
probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked
at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I could
not have believed it even of _him_.”
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was
exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being
principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was
making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the
inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family
communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he
had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he
had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a few
lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking
to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible
to every body.
“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say
to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—Anne,
my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In
town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as
impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most
likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all
nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us
again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.
Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read
it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some
other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the
circumstance to the others in a common way.”
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and
words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was
happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm
and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little
occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the
degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative
to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,
and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.
It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might not
have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly
delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to
be made happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but
she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have
been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.
Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the
subject with her.
CHAPTER XVIII
“I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,”
said Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended
her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.
“You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” he
continued—“and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.”
“Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.
Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great
pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.”
“You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.— He
is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a
letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my
son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—it was
to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I
hardly ever get a letter.”
“And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.
Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most
dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours
follow your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we
married women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could
not have believed it of you!”
“Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.
Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a hurry,
merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to
town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the
whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to
move southward without loss of time.”
“Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”
“Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a
considerable journey.”
“Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than
from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people
of large fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.
Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice
in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four
horses.”
“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, “is, that
Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the
sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she complained, he
said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having
both his arm and his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to
sleep only two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly,
delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You
must grant me that.”
“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my
own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable
antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you,
if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you
would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to
avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have
caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;
an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”
“Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the
land for”—
Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure