Emma (51 page)

How Jane could bear it at all was astonishing to Emma. She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal. Should not they walk? Would not Mr Knightley show them the gardens—all the gardens? She wished to see the whole extent. The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot, and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds. It led to nothing, nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the house which never had been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty. The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds, and at half a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood, and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr Weston found all the others assembled, and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr Knightley and Harriet! It was an odd tête-à-tête, but she was glad to see it. There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation.

There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm, but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom and light column of smoke ascending.

She joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc, and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, ‘These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.’

She did not suspect him. It was too old a story. Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet. They took a few turns together along the walk. The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.

The next remove was to the house. They must all go in and eat, and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears, but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare.

He had expressed himself as to coming with more than common certainty. His aunt was so much better that he had not a doubt of getting over to them. Mrs Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs Churchill that he was prevented coming. Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration. She behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen—the old Abbey fish-ponds, perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or at any rate have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again. Mr Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more, and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr Knightley had done all in his power for Mr Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals, shells and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old friend to while away the morning, and the kindness had perfectly answered. Mr Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Mrs Weston had been showing them all to him, and now he would show them all to Emma, fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant and methodical.

Before this second looking-over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly there when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden and with a look of escape. Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first, but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.

“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home? I am going this moment. My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly. I have said nothing about it to anybody. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not be missed, and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?”

“Certainly, if you wish it, but you are not going to walk to Highbury alone?”

“Yes—what should hurt me? I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes.”

“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father’s servant go with you. Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five minutes.”

“Thank you, thank you—but on no account. I would rather walk. And for
me
to be afraid of walking alone! I, who may so soon have to guard others!”

She spoke with great agitation, and Emma very feelingly replied, “That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger. You are fatigued already.”

“I am,” she answered. “I am fatigued, but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me will be to let me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all, and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful, and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!” seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.

“Such a home, indeed! Such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs Weston would be at ease.

The black mare was blameless,
they
were right who had named Mrs Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her, a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming till very late, and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how late with all his hurry he must be, he believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive, he had never suffered anything like it—almost wished he had stayed at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc, but heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.

“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.

“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be going soon, I suppose, the whole party breaking up. I met
one
as I came— Madness in such weather! Absolute madness!”

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 everything 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 Switzerland.

“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 Switzerland. You will never go to Switzerland. 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 tomorrow, 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 everything 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 tomorrow, you will join us. It is not Switzerland, 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 tomorrow morning.”

“No— It will not be worthwhile. 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. Choose 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 everybody 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 Seven

They 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 everybody 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 everybody 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, showed 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.