Emma (55 page)

Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better, but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality showed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage and drove to Mrs Bates’ in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not do. Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—and everything that message could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success. Jane was quite unpersuadable, the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.

Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers, but almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see anybody—anybody at all—Mrs Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs Cole had made such a point—and Mrs Perry had said so much—but except them, Jane would really see nobody.

Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs Eltons, the Mrs Perrys, and the Mrs Coles, who would force themselves anywhere. Neither could she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative. Jane would hardly eat anything, Mr Perry recommended nourishing food, but everything they could command—and never had anybody such good neighbours—was distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly to an examination of her stores, and some arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent back, it was a thing she could not take—and moreover, she insisted on her saying that she was not at all in want of anything.

When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt—putting everything together—that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from
her
. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action and inequality of powers, and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend. But she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found anything to reprove. On the contrary, he would see Miss Fairfax’s inability to accept her sincerity as a significant lack of forgiveness—a character trait he would not overlook lightly. And thus she was appeased within herself that she had done all and above the expectations anyone could possibly set for her. And so she was quite satisfied.

Chapter Ten

One morning, about ten days after Mrs Churchill’s decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr Weston, who could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her. He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately to say, unheard by her father, “Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning? Do, if it be possible. Mrs Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”

His distinct unease translated any number of worries to Emma. “Is she unwell?”

“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you
alone
, and that you know”—nodding towards her father—“Humph! Can you come?”

Emma laid a hand upon his arm to soothe him. “Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter? Is she really not ill?”

“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”

To guess what all this meant was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks, but as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father that she would take her walk now, she and Mr Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

“Now,” said Emma unable to keep the insistence from her voice, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates, “now, Mr Weston, do let me know what has happened.”

“No, no,” he gravely replied. “Don’t ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma, it will all come out too soon.”

“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror. “Good God! Mr Weston, tell me at once. Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”

“No, indeed you are mistaken.”

“Mr Weston, do not trifle with me. Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it? I charge you by all that is sacred not to attempt concealment.”

“Upon my word, Emma.”

“Your word! Why not your honour! Why not say upon your honour that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens! What can be to be
broken
to me that does not relate to one of that family?”

“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley.”

Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.

“I was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being
broken
to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you—it concerns only myself, that is, we hope. Humph! In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse. If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.”

Emma found that she must wait, and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern—something just come to light of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family, something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off! This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.

“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view.

“I do not know. One of the Otways. Not Frank, it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is halfway to Windsor by this time.”

“Has your son been with you, then?”

“Oh, yes—did not you know? Well, well, never mind.”

For a moment he was silent, then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, “Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls. “Well, my dear,” said he, as they entered the room, “I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.” And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room, “I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”

Mrs Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased, and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, “What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred, do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be.”

“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs Weston in a trembling voice. “Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?”

“So far as that it relates to Mr Frank Churchill, I do guess.”

“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly”—resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up—“he has been here this very morning on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprise. He came to speak to his father on a subject, to announce an attachment—”

She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, then of Harriet. Either notion quite unnerved her, though the one would be unwelcome and the other quite fortuitous. But here it was, to be revealed in an instant. Had he resolved to move on from Emma in favour of Harriet? Had it been easily done—so as to pique her sensibilities with the speed in which he did so—or with regret as he focused on a worthy wife in Harriet? She should wish it so, she convinced herself. The loss of an admirer did not compare to the gain of a friend’s happiness.

“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs Weston, “an engagement—a positive engagement. What will you say, Emma—what will anybody say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged, nay, that they have been long engaged!”

Emma even jumped with surprise, and horror-struck, exclaimed, “Jane Fairfax! Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”

“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover. “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from everybody. Not a creature knowing it but themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his. It is so wonderful that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it. I thought I knew him.”

Emma scarcely heard what was said. Her mind was divided between two ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax, and poor Harriet, and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.

“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself, “this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What! Engaged to her all the winter—before either of them came to Highbury?”

“Engaged since October, secretly engaged. It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally.
Some
part
of his conduct we cannot excuse.”

Emma pondered a moment, then replied, “I will not pretend
not
to understand you, and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me as you are apprehensive of.”

Mrs Weston looked up, afraid to believe, but Emma’s countenance was as steady as her words.

“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast of my present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs Weston. This is the simple truth.”

Mrs Weston kissed her with tears of joy, and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than anything else in the world could do.

“Mr Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so. Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”

“I have escaped, and that I should escape may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit
him
, Mrs Weston, and I must say that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
very
disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another? How could he tell what mischief he might be doing? How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him? Very wrong, very wrong indeed.”

“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”

Emma only gathered more steam as she warmed towards her argument. The longer his deeds—or misdeeds—settled upon her mind, the harsher his poor behaviour appeared. “And how could
she
bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! To look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent it. That is a degree of placidity which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”

Or perhaps there had been resentment and it was for this reason Emma’s attempts at friendship had not been tolerated. More! That they had not been given a chance of success. Emma owned she had made errors in their acquaintance, but now it seemed she was responsible for all Mr Churchill’s foolery as well!

“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma, he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them, and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”