Chapter V.
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend
called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led her to the very spot,
where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White
Hart, Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the
butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where the coaches passed; and
every thing in this world, excepting that trunk and the direction, was
consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be
put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between
espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which had
given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a
little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her to be
looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to
allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on
herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and
settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again; and
Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and
unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the
gravel walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her
seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling
too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the
sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen only Mrs.
Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly;
and nothing beyond the merest common-place had been talked almost all
the dme—till just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that
she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting
subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured
last September with her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and
memorandums on the wainscot by the window. He had done it. They all
seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion,—to feel the
same consciousness, the same regrets,—to be ready to return to the same
good understanding; and they were just growing again like themselves
(Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial
and happy,) when the carriage re-appeared, and all was over. The style of
the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen
minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six
weeks not six months ago! Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how
justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad
business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to
have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a
little higher should have been enough; but as it was, how could she have
done otherwise? Impossible! She could not repent. They must be separated;
but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so much to herself at this
time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on
going home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of
Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely
necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that neither
“master nor mistress was at home:” they had both been out some time; the
man believed they were gone to Hartfield.
“This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now we shall
just miss them; too provoking: I do not know when I have been so
disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs,
or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being the
commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt:
she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to
speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still
greater pleasure was conveyed in sound; for Mr. Weston immediately
accosted her with,—
“How d‘ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with your father—
glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I had a letter this
morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty—he is at
Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If
he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days: I was always
glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have just the right
weather for him,—fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him
completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could wish.”
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence
of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all was by the words
and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the
purpose. To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to make
Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most
delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in
the freshness of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s
thought, she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which
allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as
well as the route and the method of his journey; and she listened, and
smiled, and congratulated.
“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his
wife.
“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she; “we are detaining the
girls.”
“Well, well, I am ready;” and turning again to Emma, “but you must not
be expecting such a very fine young man; you have only had my account,
you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary,” —though his own
sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a
manner that appropriated nothing.
“Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,” was Mrs.
Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only for
her.
“Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,” was Mr.
Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a
different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before.
When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must soon be
coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet she saw something like a
look of spring, a tender smile even there.
“Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?” was a
question, however, which did not augur much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once; and Emma
was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s faithful
pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o’clock, that she was
to think of her at four.
“My dear, dear, anxious friend,” said she, in mental soliloquy, while
walking down stairs from her own room, “always over-careful for every
body’s comfort but your own: I see you now in all your lit tle fidgets, going
again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.” The clock struck
twelve as she passed through the hall. “ ’Tis twelve,—I shall not forget to
think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a
little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am
sure they will bring him soon.”
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her
father,—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes;
and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day
before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil
welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of
surprise, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually
before her—he was presented to her; and she did not think too much had
been said in his praise; he was a very good looking young man; height, air,
address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of
the spirit and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She
felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of
manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending
to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the
eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier,
later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.
“I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation,—“I told you all
that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to
do myself. One cannot creep upon ajourney: one cannot help getting on
faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s
friends before the look-out begins is worth a great deal more than any little
exertion it needs.”
“It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the young man,
“though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in
coming home I felt I might do any thing.”
The word home made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the
conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly
allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury,
Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always
felt the sort of interest in the country, which none but one’s own country
gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been
able to indulge so amiable a feeling before passed suspiciously through
Emma’s brain; but still if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and
pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did
really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects, in general, were such as belong to an opening
acquaintance. On his side were the enquiries,—“Was she a horse-woman?
—Pleasant rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they a large neighbourhood?—
Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?—
There were several very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they
balls?—Was it a musical society?”
But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
proportionately advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their
two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law,
and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm
admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father,
and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his
knowing how to please—and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try
to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to
be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly, he could know
very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could
be sure of little else. “His father’s marriage,” he said, “had been the wisest
measure: every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had
received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the
highest obligation on him.”
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits,
without seeming quite to forget that, in the common course of things, it was
to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved to
qualify his opinion completely for trav elling round to its object, he wound
it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.
“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he; “but I confess
that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably
well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a
pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”
“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston, for my feelings,”
said Emma: “were you to guess her to be eighteen, I should listen with
pleasure; but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words.
Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young
woman.”
“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon it (with a
gallant bow), that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I
might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms.”
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected
from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her
mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be
considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see
more of him to understand his ways; at present, she only felt they were
agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick
eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy
expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.
Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the
entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a
most comfortable circumstance. Happily, he was not farther from approving
matrimony than from foreseeing it. Though always objecting to every
marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the
apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two
persons’ understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved
against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without
the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at
any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted
civility in solicitous enquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill’s accommodation
on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and
express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly
escaped catching cold,—which, however, he could not allow him to feel
quite assured of himself, till after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move. “He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for
Mrs. Weston at Ford’s; but he need not hurry any body else.” His son, too
well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,—
“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of
paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as
well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour
of yours (turning to Emma), a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of
the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the
house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name,—I should rather
say Barnes or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?”
“To be sure we do,” cried his father: “Mrs. Bates—we passed her house—
I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss
Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call
upon her, by all means.”
“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young man:
“another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at
Weymouth which—”
“Oh, go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot
be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank—any want of
attention to her here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the
Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here
she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If
you do not call early it will be a slight.”
The son looked convinced.
“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma: “she is a very
elegant young woman.”
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost to doubt
his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance
for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily
gifted with it.
“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said she, “I
think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her and hear her—
no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never
holds her tongue.”
“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr.
Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give me
leave to assure you, that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She
is staying here on a visit to her grand-mamma and aunt, very worthy people;
I have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am
sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to show you the way.”
“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”
“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown, quite
on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses: you might
be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the
footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had best cross the
street.”
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could; and
his father gave his hearty support, by calling out, “My good friend, this is
quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to
Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump.”
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a
graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained
very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now
engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with full
confidence in their comfort.
