Emma
him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to which his prompt reply
was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”
“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no
dancer.”
“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great
pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old
married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
Gilbert.”
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.” “Miss
Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging—and if I were
not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You
will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
command—but my dancing days are over.”
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton!
the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round for a moment;
he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging
himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed
between him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley leading
Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,
both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;
and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for
the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment
and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,
flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
growing very like her;—_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing
audibly to her partner,
“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very good-natured,
I declare.”
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard
from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table
and taking up her spoon.
“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there
will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One
door nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.
Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so
gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I
said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits
and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of
her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were
amused, and who were your partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not
forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love
to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.
Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’
My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would not
rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane
on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little
back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she
looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen
of the evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take
care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded
there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there
is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and
style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama,
Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The baked apples and biscuits,
excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of
sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr.
Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all
out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread
and asparagus—so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would
not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss
Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!—Well, this is
brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such
elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since—Well, where
shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a
draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this
side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as
you please. What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane,
how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too!
Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent,
and I cannot help beginning.”
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;
but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him
irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his
reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of censure.
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma, why is it
that they are your enemies?”
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
“_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
that you did want him to marry Harriet.”
“I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
only said,
“I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever tell
me I am wrong?”
“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you wrong,
I am sure the other tells you of it.”
“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There
is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not:
and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was
through a series of strange blunders!”
“And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a
woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle of
Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!”
“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask
me.”
“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.
“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
“Brother and sister! no, indeed.”
CHAPTER III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable
pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which
she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely
glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the
Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much
alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was
peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few
minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward
to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.—From
Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted
the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were
suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the
superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma
could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by
injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for
supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther
requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and
Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer
must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that
he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he
was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them
all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened
up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their
grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons
entered whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank
Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment
sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer
her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards
asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately
sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,
and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the
suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted
with the whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.
Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and
taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough
for safety, had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury,
making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became
for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had
advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small
distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a
party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and
Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and
calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight
hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to
Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much
from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank
brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in
this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more
courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could