Chapter XV.
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea
he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three companions
could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the
other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no
friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the drawing-room party
did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the
first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He
joined them immediately, and with scarcely an invitation, seated himself
between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the
expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late
improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his
making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly
smiles.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair,
lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing about her,
since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must confess that
the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And in this style he
talked on for some time very properly, not much attending to any answer,
but altogether sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and
Emma was quite in charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if he were
more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account than on Harriet‘s—
more anxious that she should escape the infection, than that there should be
no infection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to entreat her
to refrain from visiting the sick chamber again, for the present—to entreat
her to promise him not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry
and learned his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the
subject back into its proper course, there was no putting an end to his
extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no
concealing it—exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of
Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable! and
she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to
implore her assistance: “Would not she give him her support?—would not
she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs.
Goddard’s, till it were certain that Miss Smith’s disorder had no infection?
He could not be satisfied without a promise—would not she give him her
influence in procuring it?
“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless for herself!
She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home today, and yet will not
promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is
this fair, Mrs. Weston? Judge between us. Have not I some right to
complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”
Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprise, and felt that it must be great, at an
address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right of
first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked and
offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. She
could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she thought must
restore him to his senses; and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her
sister, and giving her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did
another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room
from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information
of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast, with a
strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse;—
“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.
Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way
through a storm of snow.”
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else
had something to say; every body was either surprised, or not surprised, and
had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma
tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son- in-law, who
was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.
“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing out in
such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon. Every
body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare
say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can hardly
make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in
the bleak part of the common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say
we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.”
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had
known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it should
make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying
away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to
impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they would find no
difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to
keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost good-will was sure that
accommodation might be found for every body, calling on his wife to agree
with him, that, with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged, which
she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two
spare rooms in the house.
“What is to be done, my dear Emma? what is to be done?” was Mr.
Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To
her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation
of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many
friends about them, revived him a little.
His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being
blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her
imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous
people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled,
that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls while she and her
husband set forward instantly through all the possible accumulations of
drifted snow that might impede them.
“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she: “I dare say
we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if we do come to
any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should
not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the
moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold.”
“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary
sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing does give you cold.
Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be
bad enough for the horses.”
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.
Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could
not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away; and they
were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left the room
immediately after his brother’s first report of the snow, came back again,
and told them that he had been out of doors to examine, and could answer
for there not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever
they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—
some way along the Highbury road—the snow was no where above half an
inch deep—in many places hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few
flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was
every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and
they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were
scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was
immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution
allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to
admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He was
satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no
assurance could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others
were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled
it in a few brief sentences: thus,—
“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?” “I am ready, if the
others are.” “Shall I ring the bell?”
“Yes, do.”
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes more,
and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own
house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness
when this visit of hardship were over.
The carriage came; and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such
occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.
Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of
alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery
of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was afraid they
should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it.
And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know
what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could;”
and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow, and wait for
the other carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he did not
belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally; so that Emma
found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr.
Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to
have a tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a
moment, it would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of
this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three quarters
of a mile would have seemed but one. But how, she would rather it had not
happened. She believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s
good wine; and felt sure that he would want to be talking nonsense.
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was
immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the
weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed
the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her subject cut
up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and Mr. Elton actually
making violent love to her: availing himself of the precious opportunity,
declaring sentiments which must be already well known, hoping—fearing
—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself that his
ardent attachment and unequalled love and unexampled passion could not
fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being
seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple—
without apology—without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of
Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly;
he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment
made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half
this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might
belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious
and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she
replied,—
“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me, you forget yourself—
you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to
deliver; but no more of this to me, if you please.”
“Miss Smith!—Message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly
mean!”—And he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such
boastful pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with
quickness,—
“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account for it
only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak either to me,
or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough to say no more,
and I will endeavour to forget it.”
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at all
to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and having
warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly
touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but acknowledging
his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he resumed the
subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his inconstancy
and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness, replied,—
“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself too
clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can express.
After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to Miss
Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing—to be
addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed,
which I had not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far—very far—
from gratified in being the object of such professions.”
“Good heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this? Miss
Smith! I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence
—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she
were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied otherwise, her own
wishes have misled her, and I am very sorry—extremely sorry. But, Miss
Smith, indeed! Oh, Miss Woodhouse, who can think of Miss Smith when
Miss Woodhouse is near? No, upon my honour, there is no unsteadiness of
character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the
smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have said or done, for
many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of
yourself. You cannot really, seriously doubt it. No! (in an accent meant to be
insinuating) I am sure you have seen and understood me.”
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt on hearing this; which of
all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely
overpowered to be immediately able to reply; and two moments of silence
being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried
to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed.—
“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting
silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”
“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having
long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to
your views till this moment. As to myself I am very sorry that you should
have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther from my
wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of her (pursuit
it appeared)—gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly
wishing you success; but had I supposed that she were not your attraction to
Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your
visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have never sought to recommend
yourself particularly to Miss Smith? that you have never thought seriously
of her?”
“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you. I
think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and
I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well;
and, no doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every body has their
level; but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not
so totally despair of an equal alliance as to be addressing myself to Miss
Smith! No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and
the encouragement I received—”
“Encouragement! I give you encouragement!—sir, you have been entirely
mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my friend.
In no other light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry; but it is well that the mistake ends
where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might have
been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware, probably, any
more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of.
But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I
have no thoughts of matrimony at present.”
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite
supplication: and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually deep
mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the
fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot pace. If there had not
been so much anger, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but
their straight-forward emotions left no room for the little zigzags of
embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage
Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at the door of
his house; and he was out before another syllable passed. Emma then felt it
indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned,
coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she was
then conveyed to Hartfield.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had
been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—
turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in strange
hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as if her
return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr. John
Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention;
and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if
not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its
being exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in peace and
comfort to all their little party, except herself. But her mind had never been
in such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive
and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet
reflection.
