Emma (15 page)

Mr Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, “Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.”

“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior! And exactly Emma’s age.”

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony, but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerable. But unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at Southend, a young woman hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get anything tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.

“Ah!” said Mr Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern. The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah! There is no end of the sad consequences of your going to Southend. It does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with, “I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here.”

“But why should you be sorry, sir? I assure you, it did the children a great deal of good.”

“And moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to Southend. Southend is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprised to hear you had fixed upon Southend.”

“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite a mistake, sir. We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud, and Mr Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy—and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”

“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry.”

Though it pained Emma to give her full attention to the debate, she rather chose it over the speculative looks Mr Knightley sent her—looks that suggested he might like to speak with her in private to continue their discussion regarding Harriet Smith and Emma’s plans for her betterment. She did not know why she suspected it, only she supposed it was the similarity in expression he wore now as to the one he had worn during that conversation some time past. She redoubled her efforts to listen to the back and forth of her sister and her father, looking for ways to ease the tension without injecting herself into it.

“But my dear sir, the difference of the journey, only consider how great it would have been. An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”

“Ah! My dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered, and if one is to travel, there is not much to choose between forty miles and an hundred. Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.”

Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain, and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law’s breaking out.

“Mr Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do? At my taking my family to one part of the coast or another? I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgement as well as Mr Perry. I want his directions no more than his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness, “If Mr Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of a hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to Southend as he could himself.”

“True, true,” cried Mr Knightley, with most ready interposition, “very true. That’s a consideration indeed. But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path… The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey tomorrow morning I hope, and we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.”

Emma hid her laugh behind her napkin, but she could not hide the smile that Mr Knightley saw and acknowledged with one of his own. At last! They were in agreement on one thing pertaining to the peace of the dinner table.

Mr Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions, but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.

Chapter Thirteen

There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintances with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit, perfect, in being much too short.

In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings, but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr Weston would take no denial, they must all dine at Randalls one day—even Mr Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of the party.

How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head. It hardly amounted to a doubt, nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also.

Harriet, Mr Elton and Mr Knightley, their own especial set, were the only persons invited to meet them. The hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few, Mr Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in everything.

The evening before this great event—for it was a very great event that Mr Woodhouse should dine out, on the twenty-fourth of December—had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat. Mrs Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.

Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state, and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.

She had not advanced many yards from Mrs Goddard’s door, when she was met by Mr Elton himself, evidently coming towards it. As they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to enquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces showed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together.

Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s complaint, a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, etc, and she was sorry to find from Mrs Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore throats, and had often alarmed her with them. Mr Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, “A sore throat! I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?”

Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs Goddard’s experience and care, but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject, “It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out today—and dissuade my father from venturing. But as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr and Mrs Weston. But upon my word, Mr Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues tomorrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”

Mr Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make, which was exactly the case, for though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of hers, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit. But Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to enquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.

“You do quite right,” said she, “we will make your apologies to Mr and Mrs Weston.”

But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr Elton’s only objection, and Mr Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing, Mr Elton was to go, and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment, never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.

Well,
said she to herself,
this is most strange!
After I had got him off so well, to choose to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind! Most strange indeed! But there is I believe in many men, especially single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that anything gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr Elton. A most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet, but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! He can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.

Soon afterwards Mr Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting, in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs Goddard’s for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report, and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.

After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with, “I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works.”

“Mr Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma, “but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good temper and goodwill in Mr Elton as one cannot but value.”

“Yes,” said Mr John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems to have a great deal of goodwill towards you.”

“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment. “Are you imagining me to be Mr Elton’s object?”

“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma, and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now.”

“Mr Elton in love with me! What an idea!”

“I do not say it is so, but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”

“I thank you, but I assure you, you are quite mistaken. Mr Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more.” And she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgement are forever falling into, and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.