Jane Austen and her works

by Sarah Tytler

IV.

There are to be two expeditions to Box Hill, the one having given rise to the other. Mrs. Elton has organised an “exploring” picnic for her brother and sister, the Sucklings, of Maple Grove, with their barouche-landau. Emma and the Westons are to have something of the same description, but very different—quiet, unpretending, and elegant, in contrast to the fuss, ostentation, and regular eating and drinking of the first.

What is Emma’s disgust to find that Mr. Weston, in his incorrigible good nature, has proposed to unite the two parties, since Mrs. Elton had been deprived of the company of the Sucklings. Chagrin or no chagrin, Emma has to submit; and Mrs. Elton is impatient to settle about the pigeon pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse overthrows all calculation, and threatens a delay of weeks.

“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” Mrs. Elton appeals, with her characteristic freedom, to the Squire of Donwell. “Such weather for exploring!”

“You had better explore Donwell,” suggests the forbearing gentleman; “that may be done without horses. Come and eat my strawberries; they are ripening fast.”

If he has spoken in jest, he has to act in earnest, for the proposal is caught at with delight. Not only so; Mrs. Elton elects herself queen of the feast. “I am lady patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring my friends with me.”

But the host is quite capable of repelling aggression. “I hope you will bring Elton,” he says, with courteous calmness; “but I will not trouble you to give any other invitation.”

Oh, he need not be afraid of delegating power to her. She is no young lady on preferment. Married women may be safely authorised. It is her party. Leave it all to her; she will invite the guests.

“No,” he calmly replies; “there is but one married woman in the world whom I can allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is——”

“Mrs. Weston, I suppose?” interrupts the mortified Mrs. Elton.

“No—Mrs. Knightley; and till she is in being I will manage matters myself.”

Was ever rebuff better given, with equal judgment and moderation? In spite of her pushing self-assertion Mrs. Elton has to subside into a mere guest, with the comfort, however, of telling everybody that she has originated the party—that Knightley has given it to gratify her.

Mrs. Elton has insisted it is to be a morning scheme—quite a simple thing. She is to wear a large bonnet, and bring one of her little baskets hanging on her arm. They are to walk about the gardens, and gather the strawberries themselves, sit under trees, and have a table spread in the shade—everything as natural and simple as possible. Is not that his idea?

“Not quite;” he puts down her officiousness and affectation with quiet, well-bred humour. His idea of the simple and the natural would be to have the table spread in the dining-room; when they were tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there should be cold meat in the house.

She wishes she had a donkey, the thing would be for them all to come on donkeys—Jane, Miss Bates, and herself, with her cara sposa walking by. In country life a donkey is a sort of necessary; in summer there is dust and in winter there is dirt.

No doubt Mr. Knightley keeps his countenance while he assures her Donwell Lane is never dusty, and at that season of the year it is dry. “Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it; you can borrow Mrs. Cole’s.”

One reason for Mr. Knightley’s declining to make his guests dine out of doors is, that he hopes to persuade Mr. Woodhouse to accompany Emma; and Mr. Woodhouse, who has not been at Donwell for two years, is open to persuasion.

In fact, everybody accepts his or her invitation, and as happy events—like sad ones—do not come singly, the lame horse recovers, so the party to Donwell is settled for the one day and the excursion to Box Hill for the next.

Mr. Weston, in the innocence of his heart, proposes to get his son Frank over from Richmond to attend both parties, and Mr. Knightley is obliged to say he will be glad to see the young man.

On a bright June day Mr. Woodhouse is safely driven over in the carriage, with one window down, to join in the al fresco party, by sitting in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey where a fire has burnt all the morning, with Mrs. Weston to bear him company.

The few words representing Donwell Abbey have the usual effect of Jane Austen’s spare but graphic, and perfectly unaffected, unlaboured descriptions. The house and grounds, under the brooding heat of the midsummer day, lie before us. The Abbey is an ample and irregular building, low-lying, with all the old neglect of “prospect,” but having abundance of “timber” in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance has rooted up. There are extensive gardens, stretching down to meadows washed by a stream. We can understand Emma Woodhouse’s “honest pride and complacency” in her connection with the present and future proprietor of Donwell Abbey.

There is an unaccountable delay in the arrival of Frank Churchill, who was to have come on horseback, and some fears as to his horse are entertained.

In the meantime Mrs. Elton picks strawberries and talks for everybody—not excepting Miss Bates.

At last, when the various groups are resting on the seats in the shade, Emma cannot help overhearing Mrs. Elton urging on Jane Fairfax the acceptance of a situation as governess, offered to her through the Sucklings of Maple Grove.

Miss Fairfax is replying that she cannot fix on any arrangement till the return of the Campbells from Ireland.

Mrs. Elton is declining to be put off, and insisting on returning an answer in the affirmative by the next post.

Emma wonders how Jane can bear it, and even Jane looks vexed, speaks pointedly, and proposes to walk farther.

It is hot, and insensibly the company gather under the “delicious” shelter of a short avenue of limes, stretching beyond the gardens, and leading to nothing, unless to a view over a low stone wall, with high pillars, giving the appearance of an approach to the house where none had ever existed. The author objects to the sham, but expatiates—for her—on the view:—the distant bank, well clothed with wood—the Abbey Mill Farm, and its meadows—the river, making a curve around them. Jane Austen adds the short, significant sentence:—“It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright without being oppressive.”

In this walk, Emma is amused to find Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith leading the way. It is an odd tête-à-tête, but Emma is glad to see it, and to meet Mr. Knightley’s smile when she joins the couple, and finds him giving Harriet information on modes of agriculture. The smile seems to say—“These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”

The cold repast is over, and still Frank Churchill does not put in an appearance. His father and mother are anxious, but take refuge in attributing his absence to some nervous attack of his aunt’s. Emma looks at Harriet. That young lady is learning self-restraint; she behaves very well, betraying no emotion.

The party go out again to see some old fish-ponds, and, perhaps, to get as far as the clover, which is to be cut to-morrow.

Emma makes up her mind to remain indoors with her father. He has been very well entertained hitherto with the books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos and shells brought out of the cabinets for his amusement. He has shown them all to Mrs. Weston; he will show them over again to Emma. The occupation is not so engrossing to Emma as to her father; she strolls into the hall, where she meets Jane Fairfax, coming quickly from the gardens, with a look of escape about her.

Jane hurriedly begs Emma to make her excuses if she should be missed. It is late. She ought to be at home. She does not want to say anything about going to give trouble. But will Miss Woodhouse kindly say, when the others come in, that she is gone?

Certainly, Emma says; but she remonstrates on Jane Fairfax’s walking to Highbury alone.

It will not hurt her; she walks fast; she will be at home in twenty minutes.

Emma, who never forgets what is due to herself and others when she can render her neighbour a service, offers her father’s servant; wishes to order the Hartfield carriage.

“Thank you, thank you!” Jane says, but resolutely declines, adding with agitation, “For me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others.”

Emma’s really kind heart is touched. She entreats to be allowed to lend the carriage, and urges that the heat is cause sufficient, since Jane is fatigued already.

Some of the bonds which fetter Jane’s spirit give way; she and Emma are nearer being friends at that moment than they have ever been before. Jane confides so far in her companion: “I am fatigued,” she owns, “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 has not another word to say, and is full of commiseration, when the words that burst from Jane at parting, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!” betray the continued endurance the poor girl has to practise, even with some of those who love her best.

Jane has not been gone for a quarter of an hour, and Emma and her father have only reached the views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill enters the room. His father and mother were right. A nervous seizure which had attacked Mrs. Churchill was the cause of his delay. He had almost given up the idea of coming, and if he had known how late he must be, and what he should have to suffer from the heat of the weather, he would not have started.

This is not like a speech which could come from the gallant Frank Churchill; but he continues to rail at the heat and at his own sufferings—sitting at the greatest possible distance from the small remnant of Mr. Weston’s fire, and looking deplorable—though Emma takes it upon her to assure him, somewhat exasperatingly, perhaps, that he will soon be cooler if he will sit still.

As soon as he is cooler he will go back again. He could ill be spared, only such a point had been made of his coming. They will all be going presently. He has met one of the party as he came—madness in such weather.

Emma can come to no other conclusion than that Frank Churchill is out of humour. Some people are always cross when they are hot. Eating and drinking often cures such incidental complaints. She obligingly recommends him to take some refreshment, and points out the dining-room door.

No, he is not hungry; eating would only make him hotter; but he thinks better of it and goes off, muttering something about spruce beer.[60]

Emma is glad she has done being in love with him; but Harriet has a sweet temper.

He comes back with his good manners, if not his good spirits, restored, enters into the Woodhouses’ occupation, but announces, apropos of sketches and Switzerland, that he hopes soon to go abroad. He wants a change. He is sick of England.

He is sick of prosperity, his lively companion tells him; but she does not think he is so miserable as when he arrived. Let him eat and drink a little more. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of madeira and water, and he will do very well.

No, he will sit by her; she is his best cure.

They are going to Box Hill to-morrow. It is not Switzerland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of a change.

No, certainly not; he will go home in the cool of the evening.

But he may come back again in the cool of the morning.

No, it would not be worth while. If he came he would be cross.

Then pray let him stay at Richmond.

But if he does, he will be crosser still. He could never bear to think of them all enjoying themselves without him.

He must settle these difficulties, and choose his own degree of crossness. She will press him no more.

Chaff was not a slang word early in the century. But how charmingly Jane Austen can chaff by the lips of more than one of her heroines! And what arch, sweet, perfectly womanly and ladylike chaff it is!

Frank Churchill[61] is very wrong, and yet there is a grain of excuse for him when he says to Emma at parting, “Well, if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”

Emma smiles her acceptance of the concession, very nearly as indefensibly.

There is another fine day for Box Hill; but though the scenery is much admired, the excursion somehow is not successful.

There is a want of spirit and a want of union which cannot be got over. The Eltons walk by themselves, Mr. Knightley takes charge of Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, Frank Churchill escorts Emma and Harriet. Mr. Weston tries in vain to bring everybody together, and make the thing harmonious.

At first it is downright dulness to Emma, for Frank Churchill is actually stupid, and, of course, Harriet is no better. They are both insufferable. It would have been well if they had continued dull, though Emma flatters herself it is a great deal better when they all sit down together, and Frank grows talkative and gay, making Emma his first object; while she, glad to be enlivened, and not sorry to be flattered, affords him every encouragement, in forgetfulness, it must be confessed, of what Harriet’s feelings may be. But then Harriet is the most placid of human beings, the most confiding of friends.

Emma means nothing: she even believes that he means nothing; but in the opinion of most people present only one English word, “flirtation,” could describe their behaviour. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively” might be the report sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Yet it is really because Emma is less—not more—happy than usual, that she lays herself open to the imputation.

Frank Churchill piles up his compliments, and Emma parries them merrily. The rest of the company fall into silence, as if to constitute themselves an audience for the genteel comedy, until Emma objects aloud to talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.

“They shall talk,” Frank ordains. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am desired by Miss Woodhouse to say that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”

There is a little flutter of amusement here, and indignation there.

Mr. Knightley’s answer is most distinct, and most to the purpose: “Is Miss Woodhouse sure she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”

“Oh, no! no!” cries Emma, laughing as carelessly as she can; “upon no account in the world. Let me hear anything rather than what you are thinking of.”

“It will not do,” whispers 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,” exclaims 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, sha’n’t I?” (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on everybody’s assent). “Do not you all think I shall?”

Emma cannot resist. “Ah, ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to the number—only three at once.”

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of the manner, does not immediately catch the meaning; but when it bursts on her, it cannot anger, though a slight blush shows that it can 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.”

Mr. Weston volunteers a conundrum, which is not very clever, but which he is sure Emma will not guess. “What two letters stand for perfection?—‘M’ and ‘A’—Em—ma.”

It may be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma finds a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it.

Mr. Knightley says, gravely, “This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up everybody else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon.”

Mrs. Elton is swelling with resentment. “I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I must really be allowed to judge when to speak, and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill! pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us?”

“Yes, yes, pray pass me,” adds her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness. “I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”

“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.”

Jane declines, and the husband and wife walk off.

“Happy couple!” says Frank Churchill, as soon as they are out of hearing; “how well they suit one another! Very lucky, marrying, as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place. They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks, at Bath.” Then, suddenly becoming serious, he volunteers his emphatic opinion that there can be no knowledge of a person’s disposition in such circumstances, finishing with the sentence, “How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”

Jane Fairfax wishes to speak. “Such things do occur, undoubtedly.” She is stopped by a cough.

“You were speaking?” said Frank Churchill.

She recovers her voice. “I was only going to observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise, but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean that it can be only weak, irresolute characters (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.”

He makes no answer, merely looks and bows in submission, then resumes his flirtation with Emma, more furiously than before. Will she choose a wife for him? He is sure he will like anybody fixed on by her. He is in no hurry. Emma may adopt her, educate her.

“And make her like myself!” cries the heedless Emma.

By all means, if she can.

She undertakes the commission in high glee. He shall have a charming wife.

He only stipulates for two things. She must be lively, and she must have hazel eyes. He will go abroad for a couple of years, and when he returns he will come to her for a wife.

This jesting commission appeals to Emma’s special weakness. Will not Harriet be the very creature described—barring the liveliness and the hazel eyes—either sops of personal flattery thrown in for Emma herself, whose appetite for that commodity is not small, or words spoken at random? Might not Harriet be in his thoughts when he referred the education of his wife to Emma?

“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”

Miss Bates is ready, so is Mr. Knightley; it seems, to use a homely expression, that their absence will be better than their company.

Yet, after the rest of the party are gone, the pitch to which the young man’s spirits rise becomes almost unpleasant to Emma. She is fairly tired of fun and flattery. She welcomes the appearance of the servants and the ordering of the carriages.

But Emma is not to escape without the rebuke she deserves. She finds Mr. Knightley seeking to speak with her where nobody can hear. He says, “‘Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do—a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps; but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not thought it possible.’

“Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. ‘Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I daresay she did not understand me.’

“‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.’

“‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better creature in the world; but you must allow that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.’

“‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge, and were she prosperous I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave her every harmless absurdity to take its chance. I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and if she live to old age must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour—to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too, and before others, many of whom (certainly some) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma, and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will, tell you truths while I can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will, some time or other, do me greater justice than you can do now.’”

Nothing can be juster, manlier, more faithful than the remonstrance. It goes straight to Emma’s heart. Mr. Knightley is quite mistaken in imagining that she cannot appreciate it at its true worth. In the middle of her contrition and distress, she is eager to show him that she feels no sullenness. Not the least of her vexation is occasioned by her having failed, in the hurry of the moment, to acknowledge the true friendship of his tone, and by their having exchanged no friendly leave-taking.

How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates; how could she have exposed herself to such an ill opinion in any one she valued, and then to suffer him to go without one word of gratitude and common kindness?

Truly, Emma is candid, good, and gracious, in spite of her worst faults, when these are contrasted with the intolerable flippancy, the selfish heartlessness of some so-called heroines. We are sorry for her as she drives away with Harriet, the tears stealing down Emma’s cheeks in the comparative privacy of such companionship.

That scene at Box Hill, with its lights and shades, its apparent comedy and hidden tragedy, its diversity of characters and feelings so finely indicated, is the best in the book.

“Who breaks—pays.” Emma has, next morning, as the inevitable result of her regardless folly the day before, to face a host of wretched reflections. Girl-like, she is in haste to atone, as if atonement were always easy or possible. She will go that very day to the Bateses, and, though she cannot speak out her compunction, she will, from this time henceforth, do all that is in her power to make up for her offence, by lavishing friendly kindness on the family.

She fears for a moment she is to be refused admittance, but it is only Jane Fairfax who is retreating from the visitor. The mother and daughter are as civil and humble as usual, though it pains Emma to recognise, at first, that Miss Bates is less cheerful and easy in her volubility.

But Emma’s special friendliness soon reconciles the good old lady to herself and all the world. Emma hears the present trouble poured forth in the usual jumble of ideas and sentences. The substance is that Jane has suddenly made up her mind to accept the situation Mrs. Elton hunted up for her.

Emma is sincerely interested, and sorry for them all, and expresses her feelings earnestly.

“So very kind,” replies the grateful Miss Bates, “but you are always kind.”

This is certainly heaping coals of fire on Emma’s head. She hastens to ask where Miss Fairfax is going.

“To Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—to have the charge of three little girls—delightful children.”

Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove; but unfortunately Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry, and Jane is to leave in a fortnight.

On Emma’s return home, she finds Mr. Knightley with her father, looking in upon him before leaving for London, and wishing to learn if they have any messages for John and Isabella, with whom he is going to spend a few days.

Emma had not heard of the visit, though Mr. Knightley says he had been thinking of it for some time; and she is certain he has not forgiven her, he looks so unlike himself.

As they stand talking, Mr. Woodhouse begins to inquire for Mrs. Bates and her daughter, with whom Emma has been—she is so attentive to them.

At this peculiarly mal apropos praise, Emma’s colour rises, while she looks at Mr. Knightley and shakes her head.

It seems as if he instantly understands all that has been passing in her heart. He looks at her with a glow of regard, he takes her hand—she is not sure afterwards that she did not offer it, but he takes it, presses it, and is certainly on the point of carrying it to his lips, when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly lets it go.

He would have judged better, she thinks, if he had not stopped, but she can at least recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It speaks such perfect amity. The next moment he is gone.

The following day brings news from Richmond which throws everything else into the shade. An express had arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill. The great Mrs. Churchill (the tyrannical rich woman who has demanded such deference from both husband and nephew) is no more.

Jane Austen has a most pertinent reflection on the event and some of its consequences. “It was felt as such things must be felt. Everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.”

Emma soon begins to consider that now an attachment on Frank’s part to Harriet Smith will have nothing to encounter.

Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, is feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man—to be persuaded into anything by his nephew.

Harriet again behaves admirably, and betrays no agitation. Emma is delighted to have this evidence of her friend’s strengthened character.

In the interval, before anything can be known of Frank Churchill’s future, Emma longs to do the little she can to compensate for her neglect of Jane Fairfax, and for the idle, unworthy fancies of which she begins to feel thoroughly ashamed. But Jane is not so accessible to advances as her aunt is. Emma would have Jane spend a day at Hartfield before she quits Highbury, and writes to invite her. The invitation is refused, and a message sent that “Miss Fairfax is not well enough to write.”

Mr. Perry, in visiting the Woodhouses, confirms the accounts of Jane Fairfax’s illness. She is seriously indisposed, suffering from headaches, with nervous fever, and her appetite is gone. He doubts the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time fixed. He is uneasy about Jane Fairfax, though there are no absolutely alarming symptoms. Her present home is unfavourable to a nervous disorder.

Emma’s regrets and self-reproaches increase. She is eager to be useful; she writes again, with the greatest tact and feeling she can command, and proposes to take Jane for a drive, at any hour she will name.

Once more a verbal message is returned:—“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.”

Emma thinks her note deserves more, but cannot be angry under the circumstances. She would have tried personal persuasion, but only Miss Bates comes to the carriage door to excuse her niece.

Hearing of Mr. Perry’s recommendation of nourishing food, Emma returns home, and calling the housekeeper, despatches some arrowroot of very superior quality, with a most friendly note to Miss Bates. In half an hour the arrowroot is returned with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but “dear Jane” would not be satisfied till it was sent back. It is a thing she cannot take, and she insists on her aunt saying that her niece is not in want of anything.

Such obduracy is unconquerable, and when Emma hears that Jane Fairfax had been wandering about the meadows at some distance from Highbury on the afternoon of the day on which she declined carriage exercise, Emma is forced to see that Jane is resolved to receive no kindness from her. She is sorry and mortified, but she has the comfort of thinking Mr. Knightley would have understood and appreciated her motives.

Ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s death, Mr. Weston comes himself one morning to Hartfield to beg Emma to accompany him to Randalls. Mrs. Weston is not ill, but she has something very particular to say to her friend. He will not tell beforehand what has happened, but on the road he is led into such explanations as “The most unaccountable business;” “she will break it to you better than I can.”

At the last words Emma stops short in terror. Something must have happened in Brunswick Square (where Isabella lives). Which of them is it? She must hear at once.

It is only on his solemnly assuring her that what has occurred has nothing to do with the name of Knightley that she is relieved, and walks on. “Who is that gentleman on horseback?” she asks, speaking in order to keep up a conversation on indifferent topics.

It is one of the Otways. Not Frank. She will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.

Has his son been with them, then?

Oh, yes! Did she not know? Well, never mind.

Mrs. Weston looks ill, and much disturbed, and no sooner is she left alone with Emma than the girl begs affectionately to be informed what unpleasant event has befallen her friends.

“Have you no idea?” said Mrs. Weston, in a trembling voice.

Emma does guess it has to do with Mr. Frank Churchill.

She is right, Mrs. Weston confesses, resuming her work, and fixing her eyes upon it. He had been there that morning on a most extraordinary errand. He came to speak to his father—to announce an attachment.

Emma thinks first of herself and then of Harriet.

“More than an attachment—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 consternation. Jane Fairfax! Mrs. Weston is not serious. She does not mean it?

“You may well be amazed,” returns Mrs. Weston, steadily averting her eyes; “you may well be amazed.”

There had 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.

Emma scarcely hears what is said. Her mind is divided between two overwhelming ideas—her own former conversations with him about Jane Fairfax, and poor Harriet. “Well,” she exclaims at last, “this is a circumstance I must think of at least half a day before I can comprehend it. What! engaged to her all the winter, before either of them came to Highbury?”

“It has hurt me very much,” said Mrs. Weston; “it has hurt his father equally; some part of his conduct we cannot excuse.”

Emma cannot pretend to misunderstand the speaker’s meaning. On the contrary, she is eager and glad to remove this load from the Westons’ minds. In a few words she explains that Frank Churchill’s attentions to her have not produced the effect his father and mother feared. It seems too good news to be true; but Emma confirms her assertions of indifference by owning there was a time when she did like him, but that time soon passed—why, she cannot tell, and she has not cared about him for the last three months.

Mrs. Weston kisses her, and cries with joy and thankfulness. On this point she and her husband have been wretched. They had warmly wished the match, and heartily believed in a mutual attachment. They have been miserable on Emma’s account.

Emma is grateful for her escape, but she is by no means inclined to excuse the offender. She turns, with her usual frankness and fervour, to protest against his conduct. “What right had he to come among us with affections and faith engaged, and manners so very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please—as he certainly did—to distinguish any young woman, as he certainly did, while he really belonged to another? 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.”

Now that Mrs. Weston’s mind is so agreeably relieved, she seeks to find an apology for the delinquents.

Emma will not even listen to a reminder of his many good qualities. “Mrs. Smallridge, too!” she is exclaiming; “Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her even to think of such a measure!”

But Mrs. Weston is able to clear her stepson on this point—he knew nothing of it. There had been misunderstandings. Jane had taken a private resolution, which had somehow come round to Frank only the day before; it had determined him to come forward at once, own all to his uncle, and throw himself on his kindness. Had Mrs. Churchill lived there could hardly have been a hope of the family’s consent; with her influence gone everything had been easy. Frank was off with the morning light to Highbury, went straight to the Bateses, and then came on to his father’s. He had to return immediately to his uncle, but was to write in full to his stepmother.

Emma remarks dryly, she supposes they will immediately get reconciled to the idea, and she wishes the couple happy. But she will always think it a very abominable system of hypocrisy, deceit, espionage, and treachery. They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable.

Mrs. Weston congratulates herself that she has always thought so highly of Jane Fairfax, she can never have said ill of her to Frank.

Emma, smarting under her own consciousness, can only say her friend is in luck. But she is able to set worthy Mr. Weston’s mind at rest at once, by congratulating him, without the smallest difficulty, on having the loveliest and most accomplished young woman in England for his daughter-in-law.

“Harriet! poor Harriet!” There is the next torment. How is Emma to break such news a second time to her friend? Mr. Knightley’s words begin to sound prophetic—“Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith.”

There is no necessity for farther solicitude on Jane Fairfax’s behalf. Her days of insignificance and evil are over. Now Emma can comprehend why her late offers of assistance and regard have been repulsed. In Jane’s eyes she has been a successful rival. In that light an airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield store-room must have proved poison.

But Harriet. Frank Churchill’s engagement is to be still kept a strict secret during the family’s period of mourning for Mrs. Churchill; however, there must be an explanation, on Harriet’s account.

Emma is reflecting Mrs. Weston’s agitation on her own behalf, when Harriet comes in, with the eager exclamation, “Is not this the oddest news that ever was about Jane Fairfax?” Mr. Weston has told her as the greatest secret. “How very odd!”

Harriet’s behaviour is so extremely odd, that Emma does not know what to make of it. She may spare her pity, if Harriet’s self-command has reached this height. Harriet is even asking, with the utmost coolness, if Miss Woodhouse had ever guessed that Mr. Frank Churchill was in love with Miss Fairfax?

“Never!” protests Emma; “you may be sure of that. If I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”

“Me!” cries Harriet, colouring; “why should you caution me? You do not think that I care about Mr. Frank Churchill?”

If it is not Frank, who can it be? Is Emma to suppose——?

But Harriet is quite ready to explain herself in the middle of her agitation. They have agreed not to name him; but he is so infinitely superior to everybody else, that Harriet does not see how she could have been thought to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! Harriet does not know who would look at him in the presence of the other. And she has received the encouragement from Emma herself, when it would have seemed too much presumption almost, to dare to think of him—that more wonderful things had happened—there had been matches of greater disparity.

“Harriet,” cries Emma, “let us understand each other now, without the possibility of further mistake—are you speaking of Mr. Knightley?”

To be sure she is—she never could have an idea of anybody else.

Emma brings herself to ask, has Harriet any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning her affection?

“Yes,” replies Harriet modestly, but not fearfully, “I must say I have.”

Emma is silent, in the bitterness of her heart. Why is it so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley than with Mr. Churchill? Why is the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a return of her love? There can only be one explanation—it darts through Emma’s mind with the swiftness of an arrow’s flight—Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself.

Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, lies bare before her. How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling has been her behaviour! And if she has acted improperly by Harriet, she may have done still worse by Mr. Knightley. He had said she had been no friend to Harriet Smith. She may prove to have been his worst enemy, if it be possible that his association with Harriet can bring him to demean himself to make a girl, so inferior to him in every respect, his wife.

But Emma must not make Harriet suffer for her fault. Emma is always courageous in taking upon herself the heaviest penalty for her misdoings.

She gently questions Harriet as to her reason, besides the assurance Emma has given her, under a misconception, of Mr. Knightley’s growing regard for her. And as Harriet, with great naïveté, brings forward the different proofs—from his dancing with her at the ball at the Crown, down to his seeking her out, and walking with her at his own party at Donwell, including the change in his tone, his increased kindness, the pains he takes to ascertain her opinions in conversation, even to an effort to discover whether her affections are still disengaged, Emma, sick at heart, is compelled to admit there is some truth in what Harriet alleges. Emma herself has been struck with the additional notice which Mr. Knightley bestows on Harriet Smith, and several times lately he has praised her cordially to Emma.

If one could go so far as to conceive Mr. Knightley choosing a partner for life so inferior to him in understanding, as well as in every other desirable recommendation, then it might be that he would marry Harriet, though the vision of her as the mistress of Donwell Abbey humbles Emma for its master’s sake even more than for her own. If she had only not brought the two together; if she had but left Harriet to marry the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy in the line of life to which she belonged—in which she ought to have remained. Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith! It is a union to distance every wonder of the kind. The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax becomes commonplace and threadbare—presents no disparity by comparison. Such elevation on Harriet’s side—such debasement on Mr. Knightley’s. It is impossible. And yet it is very far from impossible. Is it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Is it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who will seek him?

Still Emma can be honourably fair to Harriet, and gentle with her. But she does faintly suggest that Mr. Knightley may be paying attention to Harriet with Mr. Martin’s interest in view.

But Harriet rejects the suggestion with such spirit—she hopes she knows better now than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of it—and so holds Emma to her former advice to observe the gentleman’s behaviour, and let it be the rule of hers (Harriet’s); that, though it requires a great exertion, Emma brings herself to say Mr. Knightley is the last man in the world who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling more for her than he really did.

In return for the guarded speech, Harriet could have worshipped her reluctant friend.

Emma seeks to weigh her regard for Mr. Knightley—to ascertain its beginning and strength. Till she was threatened with its loss, she had never known how much her happiness was dependent upon him. She had long been first with him, for there was only Isabella to compete with her in his affections; and she had been aware that she came before her sister with him. She had known she was dear to him; and in her self-confident security, and her delusions and fancies, she had never so much as suspected that to be first and dearest with Mr. Knightley, or to have another woman supplant her, constituted the fulness or the blankness, the gladness or the sadness, of her lot.

Tried as Emma is, her good sense does not forsake her; she will not believe in her own and Mr. Knightley’s loss, so long as unbelief is possible. To continue to discuss the matter with Harriet is intolerable. She contrives to keep Harriet away from Hartfield.

A visit from Mrs. Weston is a distraction to Emma’s cares, though it is no longer of the importance it would have been before the last miserable discovery.

Mrs. Weston comes with the news of the Westons’ visit to the Bateses. Very great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady, while the innocent satisfaction and delight of her grandmother and aunt had been almost touching.

Jane Fairfax had spoken with energy to Mrs. Weston on the misery she had suffered during the concealment for so many months. This was one of her expressions:—“I will not say that since I have entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments, but I can say that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour.”[62]

She had added:—“After all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. The fortunate turn that everything has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be. Do not imagine, madam, that I was taught wrong. I shall dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.”

Emma is softened. “Poor girl! her affection must have overpowered her judgment.”

Mrs. Weston’s communications increase Emma’s esteem, compassion, and sense of past injustice to Jane Fairfax. To all her other regrets and sources of self-reproach is added the sense of having missed, by a feeling of jealousy, the friendship with Jane—marked out by equality of birth, abilities, and education, which all her friends had proposed for her, and which might have been of benefit to both girls. Instead, Emma had preferred the unsuitable, humble companionship and worship of Harriet Smith; and what has come of it?