Chapter VII.
Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the
following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to have
his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he
had sent for a chaise and set off intending to return to dinner, but with no
more important view that appeared than having his hair cut. There was
certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an
errand; but there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she could
not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in
expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart which she had believed
herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;
heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as
to how his conduct might appear in general; he became liable to all these
changes. His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a very good
story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was clear enough, by her passing
it over as quickly as possible, and making no other comment than that “all
young people would have their little whims.”
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto
had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to
say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself,—how much
she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very
open temper,—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could observe
nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his
uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him; said he would be the
best man in the world if he were left to himself; and though there was no
being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude,
and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very
promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut,
there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour
which her imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really in
love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own
indifference—(for still her resolution held of never marrying)—the honour,
in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have
some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely
—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be
said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly:—as Mrs.
Weston observed, “all young people would have their little whims.”
There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surrey not so
leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes of
Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were made
for the little excesses of such a handsome young man,—one who smiled so
often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not to be
softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles,—Mr. Knightley.
The circumstance was told him at Hartfield: for the moment, he was silent;
but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to himself, over a
newspaper he held in his hand, “Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took
him for.” She had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation
convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and
not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.
Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune.
Something occurred while they were at Hartfield to make Emma want their
advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they
gave.
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in
Highbury, and were very good sort of people, friendly, liberal, and
unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and
only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country, they had
lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that
little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them a
considerable increase of means—the house in town had yielded greater
profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth, their
views increased; their want of a larger house, their inclination for more
company. They added to their house, to their number of servants, to their
expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and style of living,
second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new
dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a
few parties, chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The
regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume
to invite,—neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should
tempt her to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits
would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles
were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was
not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit
them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only from
herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many
weeks before it appeared, that when insult came at last, it found her very
differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and
none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for
it with “I suppose they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do
not dine out,” was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have
had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be
assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to
her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have
been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the
Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the
day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his. The bare
possibility of it acted as a further irritation on her spirits; and her being left
in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a
compliment, was but poor comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation, while the Westons were at
Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her first
remark on reading it was that “of course it must be declined,” she so very
soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice
for her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without
inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so properly—
there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so much consideration
for her father. “They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been
waiting the arrival of a folding screen from London, which they hoped
might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught.of air, and therefore induce
him the more readily to give them the honour of his company.” Upon the
whole, she was very persuadable; and it being briefly settled among
themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort, —how
certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for
bearing him company,—Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an
acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a day now near at
hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for his going,
Emma did not wish him to think it possible; the hours would be too late,
and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.
“I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he; “I never was. No more is
Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole
should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in
one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us; take us in their
afternoon walk, which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and
yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a
summer evening are what I would not expose any body too. However, as
they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you
will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish
to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither damp, nor cold,
nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs. Weston with a look of gentle reproach,
—“Ah, Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at home
with me.”
“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent
on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a
moment, if you wish it.”
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment was increasing, not
lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay
it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for
talking as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great
regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line and invite her.
James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written
to Mrs. Cole.”
“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say
that I am quite an invalid, and go nowhere, and therefore must decline their
obliging invitation; beginning with my compliments, of course. But you will
do every thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must
remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I
shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once
since the new approach was made; but still I have no doubt that James will
take you very safely: and when you get there, you must tell him at what
time you would have him come for you again; and you had better name an
early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is
over.”
“But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”
“Oh no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many
people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”
“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away early, it will
be breaking up the party.”
“And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The sooner every
party breaks up the better.”
“But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma’s going
away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured
people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any
body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing
it would be more thought of than any other person’s in the room. You would
not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good
sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these ten
years.
“No, upon no account in the world. Mr. Weston, I am much obliged to you
for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I
know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never
touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious
—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving them
any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run
the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than
you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe,
you know, among your friends.”
“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have no
scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only
afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being
exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know;
but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself,
instead of going to bed at your usual time; and the idea of that would
entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up.”
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that, if she
came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry,
that she would take something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for
her; and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were safe in
the house as usual.
