Emma
back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like
himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking
over views in Swisserland.
“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall
never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my
sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem.
I shall do something to expose myself.”
“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to
Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave
England.”
“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for
her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I
assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I
shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I
want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating
eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I
could.”
“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few
hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
“_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in
every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
person.”
“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and
eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice
of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you
nearly on a par with the rest of us.”
“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”
“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want
of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”
“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”
“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”
“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”
“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of
you all there without me.”
“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your
own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others
took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and
disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it
was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short
final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank
Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,
that his last words to Emma were,
“Well;—if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
CHAPTER VII
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in
favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating
safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with
the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.
Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.
Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body
had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount
of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of
spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated
too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took
charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank
Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise
better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never
materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness
to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole
hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of
separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine
prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to
remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked
without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing
what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first
object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to
her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,
was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the
admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most
animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own
estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people
looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but
flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves
open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple
Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and
thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less
happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;
and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all,
whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious,
they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her
friend.
“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come
to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all
the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”
“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that
you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than
you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to
come.”
“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”
“It is hotter to-day.”
“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
“You are comfortable because you are under command.”
“Your command?—Yes.”
“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own
management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command
rather than mine.”
“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a
motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always
with me. You are always with me.”
“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not
begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour
before.”
“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you
first in February.”
“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody
speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”
“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively
impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill
hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and
Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then
whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to
rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and
gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,
presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking
of?”
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great
deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr.
Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all
thinking of?”
“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no
account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt
of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all
thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,
(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be
afraid of knowing.”
“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which _I_
should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,
perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party—_I_ never was in any
circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,
“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but
some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body
knows what is due to _you_.”
“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I
am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here
are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one
thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two
things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she
engages to laugh heartily at them all.”
“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy.
‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I
shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on
every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”
Emma could not resist.
“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be
limited as to number—only three at once.”
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old
friend.”
“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my
best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”
“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be
indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”
“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.
Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me
hear it.”
“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too
much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet
are there, that express perfection?”
“What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not know.”
“Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never
guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”