Chapter XI.
Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s power to
superintend his happiness, or quicken his measures. The coming of her
sister’s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then
in reality, it became henceforth the prime object of interest; and during the
ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected—she did not
herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance
could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they
would, however; they must advance somehow or other, whether they would
or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people,
who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent
from Surrey, were exciting, of course, rather more than the usual interest.
Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided
between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey: but all the holidays of this autumn
had been given to sea-bathing for the children; and it was therefore many
months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surrey
connections, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to
get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and who, consequently,
was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too
short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the
fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some of the
party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless: the sixteen
miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their
five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids, all reaching
Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be
talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of,
produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne
under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this; but the
ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs.
John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate
enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and
attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which
they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were
never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves or in
any restless attendance on them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet
manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate, wrapt up
in her family, a devoted wife, a doting mother, and so tenderly attached to
her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have
seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not
a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this
resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was
delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many
fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town
as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike, too, in a general
benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old
acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising
in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character: but
with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and
capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered
man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach: but his
temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping
wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be
increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all
the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted; and he could
sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great
favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She
was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt
herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been
flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind
brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any
degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that
greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of
respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the
patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
sharp retort equally ill bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John
Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a
strong sense of what was due to him: but it was too often for Emma’s
charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be
endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every
visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity
so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not
been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy
shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad
change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor. It is a grievous business.”
“Oh yes, sir,” cried she, with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her!
And dear Emma too. What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so
grieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her.
It is a sad change, indeed; but I hope she is pretty well, sir.”
“Pretty well, my dear,—I hope,—pretty well. I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably.”
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma, quietly, whether there were any
doubts of the air of Randalls.
“Oh no: none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life,—
never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”
“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.
“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the plaintive
tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated. “Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”
“Oh, papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have
we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at
Randalls or here; and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here.
They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as
herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving
Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor
must be missed; but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs.
Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we
ourselves anticipated,—which is the exact truth.”
“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped it was
from your letters. Her wish of showing you attention could not be doubted,
and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been
always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very
material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma’s
account, I hope you will be satisfied.”
“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse,—“yes, certainly. I cannot deny
that Mrs. Weston,—poor Mrs. Weston,—does come and see us pretty often;
but then, she is always obliged to go away again.”
“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa. You quite
forget poor Mr. Weston.”
“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley, pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has
some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor
husband. I being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man
may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been
married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons
aside as much as she can.”
“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.
“Are you talking about me? I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a
greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the
misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor
but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr.
Weston,—that excellent Mr. Weston,—I think there is nothing he does not
deserve. I believe he is one of the very best tempered men that ever existed.
Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I
shall never forget his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last
Easter; and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth
in writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
there was no scarlet fever at Cobham,6 I have been convinced there could
not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence. If any body can
deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”
“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on
this occasion, or has he not?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing;
and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father. “He
wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper,
handsome letter it was. She showed it to me. I thought it very well done of
him, indeed. Whether it was his own idea, you know, one cannot tell. He is
but young, and his uncle, perhaps—
“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”
“Three-and-twenty! is he, indeed? Well, I could not have thought it; and
he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother. Well, time does fly
indeed! and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good,
pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I
remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th, and began
‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it was signed ‘F. C.
Weston Churchill.’ I remember that perfectly.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But
how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never can comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with
him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of any body
who proposed such a thing to any body else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr.
John Knightley, coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt
what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an
easy, cheerful tempered man, than a man of strong feelings: he takes things
as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other,
depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his
comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist
with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any
thing that home affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and
had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would
keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and
valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on the
common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important. It
had a high claim to forbearance.
