Emma
for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly
the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely
superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very
scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of
strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple
Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly
different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their
way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to
cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no
longer—must go and sit in the shade.”
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by
Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to
inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears
of his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to
overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation,
a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received
notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs.
Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it
fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an
acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful,
charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every
thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she
positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax
continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any
thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an
acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was
astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at
last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a
removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the
gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The
pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a
scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly
followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of
limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the
river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing;
nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,
which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an
approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,
as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a
charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The
considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,
gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a
mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well
clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the
river making a close and handsome curve around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without
being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and
towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet
distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and
Harriet!—It was an odd tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and
turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been
sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;
but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its
appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading
flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She
joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in
looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of
agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These
are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without
being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him.
It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of
Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was
most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they
were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.
Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself
uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing
that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to
coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better,
that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s
state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such
sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable
dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,
that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented
coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;
she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see
what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as
far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by
him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,
that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the
kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly
well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he
would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance
to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was
slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was
begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few
moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the
house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly
in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet
Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse
was the very person she was in quest of.
“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am
gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is,
nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and
I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to
the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not
be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I
am gone?”
“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury
alone?”
“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty
minutes.”
“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be
round in five minutes.”
“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for
_me_ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard
others!”
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That
can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the
carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”
“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of
fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all know at
times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are
exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me
have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into
her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched
her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was
grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and
to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,
even towards some of those who loved her best.
“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into
the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of
their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had
forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who
had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a
temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had
lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming,
till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how
late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have
come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing
like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like
heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was
intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.
“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be
going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I
came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of
humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be
his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some
refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.
“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him
hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and
muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all
her attention to her father, saying in secret—
“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man
who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy
temper will not mind it.”
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came