Emma (23 page)

At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery, “You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs Campbell.”

“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of, for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months together—not able to come if anything was to happen. But you see, everything turns out for the best. They want her—Mr and Mrs Dixon—excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs Campbell, quite depend upon it, nothing can be more kind or pressing than their
joint
invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently, Mr Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit—I can never think of it without trembling! But ever since we had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr Dixon!”

“But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs Bates?”

“Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice, and Colonel and Mrs Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should recommend, and indeed they particularly
wish
her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.”

“I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty, is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax.”

“Oh no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain—but extremely elegant and amiable.”

“Yes, that of course.”

“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! So long ago as the seventh of November—as I am going to read to you—and has never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! So considerate! But however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her, and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.”

“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”

“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following—as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden! You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly.

“I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being anything in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do, and so I began today with my usual caution, but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me! Poor Jane is ill!’—which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first, and I make so light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my guard.

“If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr Perry. The expense shall not be thought of, and though he is so liberal and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge anything for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her.”

“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise. “My father will be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the door without enquiring after Mrs Bates, but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs Bates good morning.”

And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. Even Mr Knightley could not have been disappointed with her visit and swift departure, which added immeasurably to her great satisfaction though she cared not to explore why.

Chapter Two

Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs Bates’ youngest daughter.

The marriage of Lieutenant Fairfax of the —regiment of infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest, but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards—and this girl.

By birth she belonged to Highbury, and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there, of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connection or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.

But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax as an excellent officer and most deserving young man, and farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax before his own return to England put anything in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane’s age, and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all, and before she was nine years old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted, and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.

The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others, the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell’s power, for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all his daughter’s, but by giving her an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.

Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture, and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do, and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself, but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young, and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over.

The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr Dixon—a young man, rich and agreeable—almost as soon as they were acquainted, and was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.

This event had very lately taken place, too lately for anything to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty, though she had now reached the age which her own judgement had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification forever.

The good sense of Colonel and Mrs Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers forever, and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly, but this would be selfishness—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter’s marriage, and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances, to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with tolerable comfort.

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury, to spend perhaps her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear, and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single or double or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air for the recovery of her health than on anything else. Certain it was that she was to come, and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr Frank Churchill—must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two years’ absence.

Emma was sorry to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months! To be always doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer. Mr Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman which she wanted to be thought herself, and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But she could never get acquainted with her, she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and her aunt was such an eternal talker! And she was made such a fuss with by everybody! And it had been always imagined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were the same, everybody had supposed they must be so fond of each other. These were her reasons—she had no better.

It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any considerable absence without feeling that she had injured her, and now when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant, and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost everybody would think tall, and nobody could think very tall—her figure particularly graceful—her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this, and her face—her features—there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered. It was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise, but the skin which she had been used to cavil at as wanting colour had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it—elegance which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit.