Emma and the Werewolves (56 page)

Emma listened, and looked,
and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s state might be best
defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour. Some
people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his
constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking
some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the
dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.

“
No—he should not eat. He
was not hungry; it would only make him hotter.” In two minutes,
however, he relented in his own favour; and muttering something
about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her attention to
her father, saying in secret—

“
I am glad I have done
being in love with him. I should not like a man who is so soon
discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not
mind it.”

He was gone long enough to
have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all the
better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able
to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so
late. He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve
them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They
were looking over views in Swisserland.

“
As soon as my aunt gets
well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall never be easy till I
have seen some of these places. You will have my sketches, some
time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do
something to expose myself.”

“
That may be—but not by
sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to Swisserland. Your
uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England.”

“
They may be induced to go
too. A warm climate may be prescribed for her. I have more than
half an expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I
feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be
abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a
change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating
eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow,
if I could.”

“
You are sick of prosperity
and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and
be contented to stay?”

“
I sick of prosperity and
indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do not look upon myself as
either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing
material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate
person.”

“
You are not quite so
miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and eat and drink a
little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold meat,
another draught of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par
with the rest of us.”

“
No—I shall not stir. I
shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”

“
We are going to Box Hill
to-morrow; you will join us. It is not Swisserland, but it will be
something for a young man so much in want of a change. You will
stay, and go with us?”

“
No, certainly not; I shall
go home in the cool of the evening.”

“
But you may come again in
the cool of to-morrow morning.”

“
No—It will not be worth
while. If I come, I shall be cross.”

“
Then pray stay at
Richmond.”

“
But if I do, I shall be
crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all there without
me.”

“
These are difficulties
which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your own degree of
crossness. I shall press you no more.”

The rest of the party were now returning,
and all were soon collected. With some there was great joy at the
sight of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there
was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s
disappearance being explained. That it was time for every body to
go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangement for
the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank Churchill’s little
inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that his last
words to Emma were,

“
Well; if you wish me to
stay and join the party, I will.”

She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less
than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the
following evening.

* * * *

Chapter VII

T
hey had a very
fine day for Box Hill;
and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement,
accommodation, and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party.
Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield
and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. Emma and Harriet
went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons; the
gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse.
Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there. Seven
miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body
had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general
amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want
of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They
separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr.
Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet
belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make
them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division,
but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed
no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but
during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there
seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too
strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any
cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright
dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and
stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked without seeing—admired
without intelligence—listened without knowing what she said. While
he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull
likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it
was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill
grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every
distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To
amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared
for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was
gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the
admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and
most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her
own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most
people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English
word but flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill
and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying
themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a
letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that
Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather
because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed
because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his
attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not
winning back her heart. She still intended him for her
friend.

“
How much I am obliged to
you,” said he, “for telling me to come to-day! If it had not been
for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this
party. I had quite determined to go away again.”

“
Yes, you were very cross;
and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the
best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you
were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come.”

“
Don’t say I was cross. I
was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”

“
It is hotter
to-day.”

“
Not to my feelings. I am
perfectly comfortable to-day.”

“
You are comfortable
because you are under command.”

“
Your command?
Yes.”

“
Perhaps I intended you to
say so, but I meant self-command. You had, somehow or other, broken
bounds yesterday, and run away from your own management; but to-day
you are got back again—and as I cannot be always with you, it is
best to believe your temper under your own command rather than
mine.”

“
It comes to the same
thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me,
whether you speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are
always with me.”

“
Dating from three o’clock
yesterday. My perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you
would not have been so much out of humour before.”

“
Three o’clock yesterday!
That is your date. I thought I had seen you first in
February.”

“
Your gallantry is really
unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody speaks except
ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the
entertainment of seven silent people.”

“
I say nothing of which I
am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impudence. “I saw you first in
February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my
accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I
saw you first in February.” And then whispering, “Our companions
are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any
nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am
ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say,
that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly.
Miss Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of
Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most
distinct.

“
Is Miss Woodhouse sure
that she would like to hear what we are all thinking
of?”

“
Oh! no, no” —cried Emma,
laughing as carelessly as she could— “Upon no account in the world.
It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let
me hear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will
not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr.
Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid of
knowing.”

“
It is a sort of thing,”
cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which I should not have thought
myself privileged to inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon
of the party—I never was in any circle—exploring parties—young
ladies—married women—”

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband;
and he murmured, in reply,

“
Very true, my love, very
true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but some ladies say any
thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due
to you.”

“
It will not do,” whispered
Frank to Emma; “they are most of them affronted. I will attack them
with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss
Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what
you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very
entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of
you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either
one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or
repeated—or two things moderately clever—or three things very dull
indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.”

“
Oh! very well,” exclaimed
Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull
indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say
three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I?
(looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every
body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”

Emma could not resist.

“
Ah! ma’am, but there may
be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be limited as to
number—only three at once.”

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of
her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it
burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that
it could pain her.

“
Ah! well—to be sure. Yes,
I see what she means, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to
hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would
not have said such a thing to an old friend.”

“
I like your plan,” cried
Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a
conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”

“
Low, I am afraid, sir,
very low,” answered his son, “but we shall be indulgent—especially
to any one who leads the way.”

“
No, no,” said Emma, “it
will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him
and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.”

“
I doubt its being very
clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too much a matter of fact,
but here it is. What two letters of the alphabet are there, that
express perfection?”

“
What two letters! express
perfection! I am sure I do not know.”

“
Ah! you will never guess.
You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never guess. I will tell you. M.
and A. Em-ma. Do you understand?”