Chapter VI.
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.
Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had
been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her
usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to choose their walk,
immediately fixed on Highbury. “He did not doubt there being very pleasant
walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always choose the
same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his
constant attraction.” Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and
she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked
thither directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for
half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew
nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprise to her, therefore, to
perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was
wanting to see him again; and especially to see him in company with Mrs.
Weston, upon his behavior to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he
were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing
them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine
words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be
more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her,—nothing could more
agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her
affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable
judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all
three walking about together for an hour or two,—first round the
shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with
every thing: admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and
when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made
acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and
interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He
begged to be shown the house which his father had lived in so long, and
which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an
old woman, who had nursed him, was still living, walked in quest of her
cottage, from one end of the street to the other; and though in some points
of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they showed,
altogether, a good will towards Highbury in general, which must be very
like a merit to those he was with.
Emma watched, and decided, that with such feelings as were now shown
it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting
himself: that he had not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere
professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though
the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were
kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run on
the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by any
interest excited there: but in passing it they gave the history of the large
room visibly added. It had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and
while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous, dancing state,
had been occasionally used as such: but such brilliant days had long passed
away; and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to
accommodate a whist club established among the gentlemen and half
gentlemen of the place. He was immediately interested. Its character as a
ball-room caught him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several
minutes at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in
and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should
have ceased. He saw no fault in the room; he would acknowledge none
which they suggested. No; it was long enough, broad enough, handsome
enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have
balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss
Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room? She who could
do any thing in Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the
conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be
tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not
be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him
could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when
particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to
admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing, or that
there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into their
proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent
on dancing; and Emma was rather surprised to see the constitution of the
Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed
to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his
father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed,
there was, perhaps scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank
bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however,
of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and
being now almost facing the house where the Bates’s lodged, Emma
recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
“Yes, oh yes,” he replied, “I was just going to mention it. A very
successful visit. I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much obliged to you
for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprise,
it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into
paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was
necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and I had told my father I should
certainly be at home before him, but there was no getting away, no pause;
and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me no where else)
joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly
three quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of
escape before.”
“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”
“III, very ill;—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill: but
the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never
look ill; and, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to
give the appearance of ill health—a most deplorable want of complexion.”
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss
Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not
allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness and
delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her
face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he had heard
many people say the same: but yet he must confess, that to him nothing
could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where features
were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they
were good, the effect was,—fortunately he need not attempt to describe
what the effect was.
“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste. At least you admire
her, except her complexion.”
He shook his head and laughed. “I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her
complexion.”
“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same
society?”
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,
“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of their
lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six
days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If it be not
inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself to belong to
the place,—to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Ford’s.
It will be taking out my freedom. I dare say they sell gloves.”
“Oh yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will be
adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you
were Mr. Weston’s son; but lay out half-a-guinea at Ford’s, and your
popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers”
and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said,
—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you
were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my amor patriæ.
p Do not let me lose it; I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame would
not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in private life.”
“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her
party at Weymouth?”
“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree of
acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account. I shall not
commit myself by claiming more than she may choose to allow.”
“Upon my word, you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her
account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed; she is so very
reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any body,
that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with
her.”
“May I, indeed? Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well.
I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in
town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Col. Campbell
is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted
woman. I like them all.”
“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is
destined to be.”
“Yes”—(rather hesitatingly)—“I believe I do.”
“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling;
“remember that I am here. Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say
when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a little
farther off.”
“I certainly do forget to think of her,” said Emma, “as having ever been
any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again,—“Did
you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of play?” said Frank
Churchill.
“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs to
Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She
plays charmingly”
“You think so, do you? I wanted the opinion of some one who could
really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable
taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself. I am excessively fond of
music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body’s
performance. I have been used to hear hers admired; and I remember one
proof of her being thought to play well: a man, a very musical man, and in
love with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of marriage—
would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if the
lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if
he could hear the other. That I thought, in a man of known musical talent,
was some proof.”
“Proof, indeed!” said Emma, highly amused. “Mr. Dixon is very musical,
is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you, than
Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”
“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a
very strong proof.”
“Certainly, very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger than,
if I had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I
could not excuse a man’s having more music than love—more ear than eye
—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss
Campbell appear to like it?”
“It was her very particular friend, you know.”
“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one’s very particular friend: with a stranger it might not recur
again; but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to
do every thing better than one does one’s self! Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am
glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”
“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really
did not seem to feel it.”
“So much the better, or so much the worse: I do not know which. But be it
sweetness, or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or dulness of
feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt it—Miss Fairfax
herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction.”
“As to that—I do not—”
“Oh, do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s sensations
from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human being, I
guess, but herself; but if she continued to play whenever she was asked by
Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chooses.”
“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all—”
he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it is
impossible for me to say on what terms they really were—how it might all
be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly.
But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge
of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct herself in critical
situations, than I can be.”
“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly: we have been children and
women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate,—
that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends.
But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, perhaps, from
that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl
so idolised and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother,
and all their set. And then, her reserve; I never could attach myself to any
one so completely reserved.”
“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes very
convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no
attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”
“Not till the reserve ceases towards one’s self; and then the attraction may
be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable
companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any
body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is
quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the least
—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner,
such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest
suspicions of there being something to conceal.”
He perfectly agreed with her; and after walking together so long, and
thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that
she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not
exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of his
notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore better than she had
expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his feelings warmer. She was
particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton’s house, which,
as well as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join them in
finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a
house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the
woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that
house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man
must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking
about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how
many advantages and accommodations were at tached to its size, he could
be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But
Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know what he was talking
about, and that he showed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life,
and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads
on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, or a bad
butler’s pantry; but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not
make him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly
give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.
