Chapter XVII.
Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons;
but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother
best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older—and
even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—to have his
fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies
of a child never banished from home;am and Mrs. Weston—no one could
doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be quite a pity that
any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their powers in
exercise again.
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she
continued—“like La Baronne d‘Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in
Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore,23 and we shall now see her
own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than she
did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the only
difference.”
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”
“Nothing very bad. The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in
infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my bitterness
against spoiled children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my
happiness to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on
them?”
Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether
my own sense would have corrected me without it.”
“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding: —Miss
Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was
quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what
right has he to lecture me? and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it
was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The
good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection
to me. I could not think about you so much without doating on you, faults
and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you
ever since you were thirteen at least.”
“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often
influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am very
sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it
will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done
for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.”
“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
saucy looks,—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so and so; papa says I may,’
or, ‘I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did not
approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings
instead of one.”
“What an amiable creature I was! No wonder you should hold my
speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”
“ ‘Mr. Knightley.’ You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from habit,
it has not so very formal a sound. And yet it is formal. I want you to call me
something else, but I do not know what.”
“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you
made no objection, I never did it again.”
“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”
“Impossible! I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will not
promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you
Mr. K But I will promise,” she added presently, laughing and blushing, “I
will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when,
but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in which N. takes M.
for better, for worse.”24
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice which
would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful
intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject. She could not
enter on it. Harriet was very seldom mentioned between them. This, on his
side, might merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma was
rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some
appearances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware herself,
that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have
corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it
now almost wholly did, on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was
so. The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards him, was
very little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visiter as could be expected;
on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared
perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that
business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from
what she had known her before. Isabella, to be sure, was no very quick
observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing with the children, it
would not have escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes were most
agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was
likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come
down in August, and she was invited to remain till they could bring her
back.
“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is
his answer, if you like to see it.”
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma
accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know
what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend
was unmentioned.
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr. Knightley,
“but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise,
a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that
any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am
not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read the
letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good
fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope
of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me
already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not
have believed him.”
“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”
“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”—
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps; than he
is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject.”
“Emma, my dear Emma—”
“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear
his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you justice.
He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the
question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’
with him at once. His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go
no farther.”
“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as
John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be
happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you notice it?
—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprise,
that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind.”
“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some
thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared
for that.”
“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
feelings. What has he been judging by? I am not conscious of any
difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time
for my marrying any more than at another. But it was so, I suppose. I dare
say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I
believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember
one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’ ”
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her
gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to
announce it at home, and then at Randalls. But how to break it to her father
at last! She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley’s
absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have failed her, and
she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and
follow up the beginning she was to make. She was forced to speak, and to
speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a more decided subject of misery
to him, by a melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a
misfortune. With all the spirits she could command, she prepared him first
for something strange, and then, in few words, said, that if his consent and
approbation could be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with
no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—she and
Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the
constant addition of that person’s company, whom she knew he loved, next
to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of her
having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a
great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor
Miss Taylor. But it would not do. Emma hung about him affectionately, and
smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella
and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from Hartfield had, indeed,
made a melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield; she
should be always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or
their comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be a
great deal the happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he
were once got used to the idea. Did not he love Mr. Knightley very much?
He would not deny that he did, she was sure. Whom did he ever want to
consult on business but Mr. Knightley? Who was so useful to him, who so
ready to write his letters, who so glad to assist him? Who so cheerful, so
attentive, so attached to him? Would not he like to have him always on the
spot? Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too
often; he should be glad to see him every day: but they did see him every
day as it was. Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was
overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the
rest. To Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s,
whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he
was soon used to be talked to by each on every fair occasion. They had all
the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest
approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to consider
the subject in the most serviceable light; first, as a settled, and, secondly, as
a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of the two
recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind. It was agreed upon, as what
was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided assuring him
that it would be for his happiness; and having some feelings himself which
almost admitted it, he began to think that some time or other, in another
year or two, perhaps, it might not be so very bad if the marriage did take
place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she said to
him in favour of the event. She had been extremely surprised, never more
so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only
increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.
She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to think he deserved even her
dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and
unexceptionable a connection, and in one respect, one point of the highest
importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that now it
seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached herself to any other
creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having
thought of it, and wished it long ago. How very few of those men in a rank
of life to address Emma would have renounced their own home for
Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr.
Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable! The difficulty of
disposing of poor Mr. Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s
plans and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle
the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—
less acknowledged by Mr. Weston than by herself—but even he had never
been able to finish the subject better than by saying,—“Those matters will
take care of themselves; the young people will find a way.” But here there
was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was all
right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a
union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real,
rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as
these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could
increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have
outgrown its first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprise wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston
had his five minutes’ share of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise
the idea to his quickness of mind. He saw the advantages of the match, and
rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the wonder of it was
very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour, he was not far from believing
that he had always foreseen it.
“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are always a
secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be told
when I may speak out. I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.”
He went to Highbury the next morning and satisfied himself on that point.
He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he
must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs.
Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was no more
than the principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of
its being known at Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were
thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, with
great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and
others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all
removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and
another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the
whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation—the
vicarage. There, the surprise was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton
cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young
lady’s pride would now be contented;” and supposed “she had always
meant to catch Knightley if she could;” and, on the point of living at
Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “Rather he than I!” But Mrs. Elton was
very much discomposed indeed. “Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad
business for him. She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric,
he had a thousand good qualities. How could he be so taken in? Did not
think him at all in love—not in the least. Poor Knightley! There would be
an end of all pleasant intercourse with him. How happy he had been to
come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all
over now. Poor fellow! No more exploring parties to Donwell made for her.
Oh no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.
Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the
housekeeper the other day. Shocking plan, living together. It would never
do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged
to separate before the end of the first quarter.”
