Chapter VIII.
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the
evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could not
tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways, might be
looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more
completely mis-spent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time,
and more to be abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed. A
whole evening of backgammon with her father was felicity to it. There,
indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of
the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the
degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her
general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped
she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How
could you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths
while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no never! If attention, in
future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been
often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought
than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more. In the warmth
of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next morning, and it
should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that
nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might
see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were
paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed of the
appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. Her eyes were towards
Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.
“The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound before,
nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish
of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in
subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates’s voice; something was to be done in a hurry; the
maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a
moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both
escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of,
looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard
Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the
bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not
quite understand what was going on.
“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they tell
me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently, Miss
Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very
little able—have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure
she will be here presently.”
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates
keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—“Very happy and
obliged,”—but Emma’s conscience told her that there was not the same
cheerful volubility as before,—less ease of look and manner. A very
friendly enquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a
return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.
“Ah, Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are! I suppose you have heard—and
are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me
(twinkling away a tear or two); but it will be very trying for us to part with
her, after having had her so long; and she has a dreadful headache just now,
writing all the morning: such long letters, you know, to be written to
Colonel Campbell and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘you will blind
yourself,’ for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one
cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate,
—such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on
first going out; do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such
surprising good fortune (again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul; if
you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you
know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as
possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she
is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you,
she is not able, she is gone into her own room. I want her to lie down upon
the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but,
however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has
written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely
sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse
her. You were kept waiting at the door; I was quite ashamed; but somehow
there was a little bustle; for it so happened, that we had not heard the knock;
and, till you were on the stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It
is only Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘depend upon it; nobody else would come so
early.’—‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may as
well be now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is
Miss Woodhouse, I am sure you will like to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’
said she, and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us
keep you waiting; and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must
go, my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the
bed.’ ”
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a
cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity;
and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past,
obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve, on seeing Mrs.
Cole, or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She
spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude; sincerely wishing that
the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually
determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort
as possible. “It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was
to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”
“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates; “but you are always kind.”
There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her dreadful
gratitude, Emma made the direct enquiry of—
“Where, may I ask, is Miss Fairfax going?”
“To a Mrs. Smallhdge,—charming woman,—most superior,—to have the
charge of her three little girls,—delightful children. Impossible that any
situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs.
Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate
with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four miles
from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.”
“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person, to whom Miss Fairfax owes
—”
“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She would
not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, ‘No;’ for when Jane first heard
of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at
Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against
accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she
had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell’s return,
and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present—and
so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am sure I had no more
idea that she would change her mind;—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose
judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not every body that
would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take
Jane’s answer; but she positively declared she would not write any such
denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough,
yesterday evening, it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprise to
me! I had not the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at
once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Suckling’s situation,
she had come to the resolution of accepting it. I did not know a word of it
till it was all settled.”
“You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”
“Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon the
hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. ‘You must all spend
your evening with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you all come.’ ”
“Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”
“No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I thought
he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let him off, he
did not; but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable
evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must
always find agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the
morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say
that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall
always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind
friends who included me in it.”
“Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day.”
“I dare say she had.”
“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her
friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is
possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in
the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and Bragges,
there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all
Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman! A
style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as to the children, except
the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet
children any where. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness! It
will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure. And her salary—I really
cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used
as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given
to a young person like Jane.”
“Ah, madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions dearly
earned.”
“You are so noble in your ideas.”
“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”
“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a fortnight.
Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to
bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and say, ‘Come, ma’am,
do not let us think about it any more.’ ”
“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return?”
“Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation as she
cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she first
told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the
same moment came congratulating me upon it. It was before tea—stay—no,
it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards—and yet it
was before tea, because I remember thinking—oh no, now I recollect, now I
have it; something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called
out of the room before tea, old John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him.
Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father
twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very
poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—I must go and see him to-day;
and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John’s son came
to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish: he is very well to do
himself, you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing of
that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when
Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had been telling him, and
then it came out about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr.
Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was
after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.”
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this
circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she could
be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she
proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the
servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger,
however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had
sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account
of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond
the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go
home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a
cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the
ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and
driving very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught
Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged
her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the world,
and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing, the other nothing—and
she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious
on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,—
“Ay, I see what you are thinking of, the piano-forte. What is to become of
that? Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now. ‘You must go,’
said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business here. Let it stay,
however,’ said she; ‘give it house-room till Colonel Campbell comes back. I
shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my
difficulties.’—And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was
his present or his daughter’s.”
Now Emma was obliged to think of the piano-forte; and the remembrance
of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that
she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and,
with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to say of the good
wishes which she really felt, took leave.
