Chapter VIII.
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s dinner waiting
it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his
being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which
could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very
good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done.
He had no reason to wish his hair longer to conceal any confusion of face;
no reason to wish the money unspent to improve his spirits. He was quite as
undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus
moralised to herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do
cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly. It depends
upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is not a trifling,
silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently. He would
either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would
have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too
weak to defend its own vanities. No, I am perfectly sure that he is not
trifling or silly.”
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a
longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners, and, by
inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of guessing how
soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of
fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing
them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr. Cole’s;
and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even
in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to
dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.
Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left the
house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and
while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the
two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of
cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of
their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal. She
had provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could know that
they had been allowed to eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to see
that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having
little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence,
was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his
carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an
opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart,
for he stopped to hand her out.
“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman. I am quite
glad to see you.”
He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment; for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you
would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You might
not have distinguished how I came by my look or manner.”
“Yes I should; I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness
or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them.
You think you carry it off very well, I dare say; but with you it is a sort of
bravado, an air of affected unconcern: I always observe it whenever I meet
you under those circumstances. Now you have nothing to try for. You are
not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller
than any body else. Now I shall really be very happy to walk into the same
room with you.”
“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger. Emma had as
much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley.
She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and
given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived,
the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration, were for her, from
both husband and wife: the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness
which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated
by her; and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other family,—a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance,—and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family,
the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the
evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at
dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be
general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could
fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The
first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend was the name
of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was
expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth
listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing
supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates; and,
as soon as she entered the room, had been struck by the sight of a piano-
forte, a very elegant looking instrument; not a grand, but a large-sized
square piano-forte: and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue
which ensued of surprise, and enquiry, and congratulations on her side, and
explanations on Miss Bates‘s, was, that this piano-forte had arrived from
Broadwood’s10 the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and
niece, entirely unexpected; that, at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane
herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly
have ordered it; but now they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be
from only one quarter, —of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole; “and I was only
surprised that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a
letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows
their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any reason for
their not meaning to make the present. They might choose to surprise her.”
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were
enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen
to Mrs. Cole.
“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me
more satisfaction. It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays
so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame,
especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments
are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure;
and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole I really was ashamed to look
at our new grand piano-forte in the drawing-room, while I do not know one
note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps
may never make any thing of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is
mistress of music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even
the pitifulest old spinetq in the world, to amuse herself with. I was saying
this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so
particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the
purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging
occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the
reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we ought to be
ashamed of it. We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed
with to try it this evening.”
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned
to Frank Churchill.
“Why do you smile?” said she.
“Nay, why do you?”
“Me! I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich
and so liberal. It is a handsome present.”
“Very.”
“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”
“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”
“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument, which must
now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”
“That is a grand piano-forte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.
Bates’s house.”
“You may say what you choose, but your countenance testifies that your
thoughts on this subject are very much like mine.”
“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what there is
to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”
“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”
“Mrs. Dixon! very true, indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She
must know, as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;
and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprise, is more like a young
woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told
you that your suspicions would guide mine.”
“If so, you must extend your suspicions, and comprehend Mr. Dixon in
them.”
“Mr. Dixon! very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the
joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you
know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”
“Yes, and what you told me on that head confirmed an idea which I had
entertained before. I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of
either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax; but I cannot help suspecting either that,
after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in
love with her, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side.
One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am
sure there must be a particular cause for her choosing to come to Highbury,
instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a
life of privation and penance; there, it would have been all enjoyment. As to
the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse. In
the summer it might have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for
them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and
carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate
health, and I dare say in hers. I do not require you to adopt all my
suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I
honestly tell you what they are.”
“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon’s
preference of her music to her friend’s I can answer for being very
decided.”
“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that? A water party; and
by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
“He did. I was there—one of the party.” “Were you really? Well! But you
observed nothing, of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you. If I had
been there, I think I should have made some discoveries.”
“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that Miss
Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel, and that Mr. Dixon caught her—
it was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm
were very great, and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half an
hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too general a
sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean
to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries.”
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in
the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged
to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again
safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and
occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,—
“The arrival of this piano-forte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a
little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon
hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it, we must
conclude it to come from the Campbells.”
“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows
it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She
would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
convinced you, perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.
Dixon is a principal in the business.”
“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you
satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal
kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you
mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the
tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light
than as an offering of love.”
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed
real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more,—other subjects took their
turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded; the
children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of
conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much
the larger proportion neither the one nor the other—nothing worse than
every-day remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies,
in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entrée of her own
particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace,
she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but
could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition
which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure in the midst of the
pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who would have
guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company,
nicely dressed herself, and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and
look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present
hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she
might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet,—very glad to have
purchased the mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr.
Elton in vain,—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing
herself beloved by the husband of her friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the piano-forte, she felt too much in the secret
herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore
purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject was almost
immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which
congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the
name of “my excellent friend Colonel Campbell.”
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the
circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance
in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone,
touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it
as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.
They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the
early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest; and
after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made
his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss
Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma
divined what every body present must be thinking. She was his object, and
every body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend Miss Smith,
and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the
other. “He had never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her
naïveté.” And she,—“only to be sure it was paying him too great a
compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.”
Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He
told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated sitting
long—was always the first to move when he could—that his father, Mr.
Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over parish business
—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he
found them in general a set of gentlemen-like, sensible men; and spoke so
handsomely of Highbury altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable
families—that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place
rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire, the
extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make
out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was
very little going on; that their visitings were among a range of great
families, none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and
invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in
health or spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not
without difficulty without considerable address at times, that he could get
away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken in its
best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at
home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did
not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt
where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it, he
owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he could with time
persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which his influence failed
he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had been very
eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This had
happened the year before. Now, he said, he was beginning to have no longer
the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be
good behaviour to his father.
“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause. “I
have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never knew days fly so
fast. A week to-morrow!—and I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just
got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others. I hate the recollection.”
“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out
of so few, in having your hair cut.”
“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no
pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen.”
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When
Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as before,
she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax,
who was sitting exactly opposite.
“What is the matter?” said she.
He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I have been
very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way—so
very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any
thing so outrée!r Those curls! This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody
else looking like her. I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion.
Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall see how she takes it;
—whether she colours.”
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as he had
improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of
Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she: “one can get near every
body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I
have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I
must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her
niece came here?”
“How!—They were invited, were not they?”
“Oh yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of their
coming?”
“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”
“Very true. Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it
would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and cold
as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear
to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be
particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so,
as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke
to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my
wishes; and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates,
to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us
home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul!
she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so
fortunate as herself!’—but with many, many thanks,—‘there was no
occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to
take them home again.’ I was quite surprised;—very glad, I am sure; but
really quite surprised. Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an
attention! —the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short,
from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was
for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would
not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse
for assisting them.”
“Very likely,” said Emma, “nothing more likely. I know no man more
likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing really
good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man,
but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s ill health,
would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for an act of unostentatious
kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley.
I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived together; and I laughed at him
about it, but he said not a word that could betray.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more simple,
disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while Miss Bates
was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able
to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In
short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the
consequence of keeping you company!—What do you say to it?”
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston,
how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley
must not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?
—Oh no, no,—Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr.
Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that
you should think of such a thing.”
“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not want
the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea has been
given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry,
you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of six years old,
who knows nothing of the matter?”
“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted. Mr. Knightley
marry! No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And
Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”
“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well
know.”
“But the imprudence of such a match!”
“I am not speaking of its prudence—merely its probability.”
“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than
what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be
quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the
Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad to
show them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to match-making.
You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey! Oh no, no;—every
feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.”
“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,
and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”
“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least
idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry? He is as happy
as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all
the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother’s children. He
has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart.”
“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves
Jane Fairfax—”
“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I am
sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he could
do them would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”
“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself—a very
shameful and degrading connection. How would he bear to have Miss Bates
belonging to him? To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all
day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind and
obliging! But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And then fly
off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat. ‘Not that it was
such a very old petticoat either—for still it would last a great while,—and,
indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.’ ”
“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my
conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be
much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might
talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk
louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it would be a
bad connection for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I
have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The
interest he takes in her—his anxiety about her health—his concern that she
should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so
warmly on those points! Such an admirer of her performance on the piano-
forte, and of her voice! I have heard him say, that he could listen to her for
ever. Oh, and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this
piano-forte that has been sent her by somebody—though we have all been
so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be
from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the
person to do it, even without being in love.”
“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think
it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing
mysteriously.”
“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener
than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of
things, occur to him.”
“Very well; if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so.”
“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong
notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when
Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”
“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it, as you have
many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of at tachment. I
believe nothing of the piano-forte, and proof only shall convince me that
Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”
They combated the point some time longer in the same way, Emma rather
gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most
used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room showed them that tea
was over, and the instrument in preparation; and at the same moment Mr.
Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of
trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation
with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a
seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties;
and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper
compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than
she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little
things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice
well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprise—a
second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was
duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He
was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of
music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter,
and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more;
and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose
performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to
conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They
had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of
Mr. Knightley among the most attentive soon drew away half Emma’s
mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston’s
suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only
momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying did
not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a
great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley, consequently to Isabella. A real
injury to the children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to them
all—a very great deduction from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to
herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell
Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to! No—Mr. Knightley
must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly
very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck
her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in
conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of
cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to
dwell on any kindness of his own.
“I often feel concerned,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage more
useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know
how impossible my father would deem it that James should put to for such a
purpose.”
“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he replied; “but you
must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at
the conviction, that she must proceed another step.
“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this piano-forte is very
kindly given.”
“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment. “But
they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprises are
foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often
considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel
Campbell.”
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley
had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely
free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual preference—
remained a little longer doubt ful. Towards the end of Jane’s second song,
her voice grew thick.
“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud, “you have
sung quite enough for one evening; now be quiet.”
Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would
not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.”
And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls
on the second.”
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but showing off his
own voice. Thus must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at that
moment passed near,—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing
herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on
her.”
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
grateful, before she stepped forward and put an end to all further singing.
Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodbouse and Miss
Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five
minutes) the proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew where
—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was
rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her
country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank
Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured
her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiv ing on her
voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very
alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no
immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole—he was looking
on unconcerned;Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking
to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry: his interest was yet safe; and
she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five
couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it
very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were
a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing
late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother’s account.
After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were
obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.
“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her
carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would
not have agreed with me, after yours.”
