Emma
done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the
bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic
parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but
feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.
Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and
sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go
together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it
was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing
but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must
already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it
could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain
to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an
arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an
arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of
being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and
the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of
secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr.
Weston’s temper.
“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably.
“But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without
numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its
own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not
leave her out.”
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was
growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to
pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing
into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were
inadequate to such an attack.
“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather
for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What
are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful
exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”
“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may
be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are
ripening fast.”
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,
for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like
it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was
famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt
the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again
and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment
as she chose to consider it.
“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your
day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”
“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom
I would wish to meet you.”
“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”
“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to
give any other invitations.”
“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid
of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.
Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”
“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and
that one is—”
“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.
“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such
matters myself.”
“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you like.
Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her
aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting
the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”
“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on
Miss Bates in my way home.”
“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is
to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I
shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging
on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be
more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be
no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your
gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under
trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out
of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural
and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”
“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the
table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is
best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”
“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be
sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to
inspect anything—”
“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely
clever.”
“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and
would spurn any body’s assistance.”
“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I
really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I
conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so
many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in
winter there is dirt.”
“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane
is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however,
if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing
to be as much to your taste as possible.”
“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes,
believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please
me.”
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He
wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat
would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the
specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him
for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for
two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go
very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear
girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp
now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house
again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton,
and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all
to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning.
He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind
and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining
out.”
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The
invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like
Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment
to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of
pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over
to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which
could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say
that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no
time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to
Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was
settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing
exactly right.
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was
safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of
this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the
Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was
happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what
had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not
to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on
purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all
the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and
sympathiser.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and
look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more
particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds
which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed
the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,
characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens
stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with
all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance
of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance
had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike
it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many
comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought
to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had;
but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them
neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These
were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it
was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the
strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank
Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,
in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was
very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or
spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always
wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather