Emma
hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s decided
opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was
only in this short note:
“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise.”
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was
impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed
indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best
counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the
answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s,
in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not
do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing
with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service—and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in
vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite
unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her
worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;
but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear
that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.
“Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any
body—any body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs.
Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except
them, Jane would really see nobody.”
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could
she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and
only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet,
which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any
thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they
could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In
half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being
sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she
insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of
the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,
she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was
resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.
Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable
from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little
credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:
but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good,
and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been
privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have
seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any
thing to reprove.
CHAPTER X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s decease, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who “could not stay five minutes, and
wanted particularly to speak with her.”—He met her at the parlour-door,
and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice,
sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be
possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the
carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you
know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”
“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what
you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really not
ill?”
“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in
time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something
really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was
well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her
father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon
out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for
Randalls.
“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,—“now
Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”
“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask me. I promised my wife to
leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not
be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good
God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in Brunswick
Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what
it is.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge you
by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
“Upon my word, Emma.”—
“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your honour, that it
has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be
_broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”
“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in
the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley.”
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I
should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern
you—it concerns only myself,—that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear
Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that
it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—If we
walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She
asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and
that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money
concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the
circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond
had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural
children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, though very
undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little
more than an animating curiosity.
“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they
proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,
than with any other view.
“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not Frank, I assure
you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.”
“Has your son been with you, then?”
“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded
and demure,
“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said
he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you
will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in
delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly
heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have
been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she
eagerly said,
“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I
find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been
walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do
not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your
distress, whatever it may be.”
“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
“Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to
hear?”
“So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”
“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;”
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) “He has
been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is
impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,—to announce an attachment—”
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of
Harriet.
“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an
engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any
body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,
“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”
“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her
eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to
recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a
solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth,
and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but
themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so
wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet
almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew
him.”
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two
ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and
poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require
confirmation, repeated confirmation.
“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at
all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of
them came to Highbury?”
“Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me, Emma, very
much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we
cannot excuse.”
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend _not_ to
understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured
that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are
apprehensive of.”
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as
steady as her words.
“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I
did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,
was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.
Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,
for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may
believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”
Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find
utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good
than any thing else in the world could do.
“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On
this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you