Emma
Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and
enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the
rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
Knightley gravely said,
“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body
else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.”
“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton; “_I_
really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had
an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all
pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well
at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of
place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in
summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have
witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I
have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be
allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if
you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We
have nothing clever to say—not one of us.
“Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering
consciousness; “_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss
Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for
nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”
“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.
Come, Jane, take my other arm.”
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy
couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of
hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they
did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew
each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to
any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public
place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is
only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as
they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it
is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man
has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest
of his life!”
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own
confederates, spoke now.
“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank
Churchill turned towards her to listen.
“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.
“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate
circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot
imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may
arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I
would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute
characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an
oppression for ever.”
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,
“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I
marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning
to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any
body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a
smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt
her, educate her.”
“And make her like myself.”
“By all means, if you can.”
“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming
wife.”
“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come
to you for my wife. Remember.”
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could
say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.
“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”
“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was
ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall
soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of
the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I
declare—”
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr.
Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s
spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at
last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking
quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views
beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to
give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of
collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to
have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the
quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of
this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many
ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He
looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,
“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a
privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use
it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could
you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your
wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not
thought it possible.”
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.
“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”
“I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it
since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what
candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for
ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be
so irksome.”
“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most
unfortunately blended in her.”
“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over
the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma,
consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk
from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must
probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was
badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she
had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have
you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at
her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of
whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment
of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from
pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can;
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than
you can do now.”
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had
misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her
tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,
mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,
on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then
reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no
acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with
voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He
had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look
back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they
were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was
vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she
could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at
any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth
of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could
she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And
how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of
concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel
it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary
to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running
down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble
to check them, extraordinary as they were.
CHAPTER VIII
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the
evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could
not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a
morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational
satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her
father, was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for
there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his
comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond
affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct,
be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not
without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How could
you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths
while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If attention, in
future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had
been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in
thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.
In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next
morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,
equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she
might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while
she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
“The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound