Emma and the Werewolves (33 page)

“
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 chuse 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. Colonel 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 her’s 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 oneself! 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 chuses.”

“
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 idolized 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 oneself; 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 attached 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
shewed 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.

* * * *

Chapter VII

E
mma’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 traveling sixteen miles twice over on such
an errand or doing so alone in these times that plagued Highbury,
for that spoke only of his bravery; 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 charges. 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 Surry, 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 where it had so few others during time in Highbury. 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. They had spared no expense in defense of this home either.
Mr. Cole kept a well-stocked array of rifles and pistols to be
available should the need arise and went so far as to hire guards,
just as Emma’s own father had done. The Cole’s expanded home seemed
like a fortress in some respects, with its thick doors and
shuttered windows which were always closed up at night. 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, who thought of all as equals under the eyes
of God regardless of their station in life, and none of Mr.
Weston.