Emma and the Werewolves (57 page)

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

T
he
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 before, nor ever before
entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of
giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it,
except in subsequent ridicule.

There was a bustle on her approach; a good
deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something
was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awkward;
hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her
in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the
adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking
extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard
Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down
upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as
usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going
on.

“
I am afraid Jane is not
very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they tell me she is well.
I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I
hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little
able—Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure
she will be here presently.”

Emma seriously hoped she
would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her.
But Miss Bates soon came— “Very happy and obliged” —but Emma’s
conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful volubility
as before—less ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry
after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a return of
old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.

“
Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how
kind you are! I suppose you have heard—and are come to give us joy.
This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me— (twinkling away a
tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her,
after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headach just
now, writing all the morning: such long letters, you know, to be
written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’ said I,
‘you will blind yourself’ —for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and
though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I suppose, as
no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do not think
us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good
fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you
were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you
know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is
as low as possible. To look at her, nobody would think how
delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You
will excuse her not coming to you—she is not able—she is gone into
her own room—I want her to lie down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’ said
I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but, however, she
is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has
written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be
extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your
kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was
quite ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so
happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the
stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs.
Cole,’ said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’
‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may
as well be now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’
said I, ‘it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see
her.’— ‘I can see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and would go
away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—and extremely
sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go, my dear,’ said I, ‘you
must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.’”