Emma (31 page)

“Mr Knightley, he is
not
a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done this differently—and
me
, not at all! He would either have gloried in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities. But under neither circumstance can I claim that Knightley would behave as Frank Churchill had, nor can I find fault with him in his difference. No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”

And due to this she felt surer of her wise decision to claim Mr Knightley as her private tutor, while wondering if the difference found in Mr Churchill would equate to a delightful alteration in his lovemaking skills. Again she thought the discovery of the answer might serve her purposes quite well, if she dared risk the pursuit.

With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing Mr Churchill again, and for a longer time than hitherto, of judging of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself, of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air, or coyness should the opportunity arise, and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.

She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr Cole’s, and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr Cole.

Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs Bates as well as Mrs Goddard being able to come, and her last pleasing duty before she left the house was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner, and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise during the meal. She had provided a plentiful dinner for them. She wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it.

She followed another carriage to Mr Cole’s door, and was pleased to see that it was Mr Knightley’s, for Mr Knightley—keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence—was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.

“This is coming as you should do,” said she, “like a gentleman. I am quite glad to see you.”

He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment! For, if we had met first in the drawing room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”

“Yes, I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern. I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances.
Now
you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than anybody else.
Now
I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”

“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger. “You had no such observations within the confines of your gazebo.”

Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife, the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her—and as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.

The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr Cox’s family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax and Miss Smith, but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general, and while politics and Mr Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour.

The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply.

Mrs Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant-looking instrument—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte, and the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprise, and enquiry, and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely unexpected, that at first, by Miss Bates’ account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter. Of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.

“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs Cole, “and I was only surprised that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best, but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might choose to surprise her.”

Mrs Cole had many to agree with her. Everybody who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made, and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still listen to Mrs Cole.

“I declare, I do not know when I have heard anything that has given me more satisfaction! It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! And it was but yesterday I was telling Mr Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make anything of it, and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not anything of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.

“I was saying this to Mr Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me, only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can, and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it. We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”

Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence, and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill beside Emma.

“Why do you smile?” said she quietly.

“Nay, why do you?” he asked in similar caution.

“Me! I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich and so liberal. It is a handsome present.”

“Very.”

“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”

“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”

“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which must now be shut up in London, untouched by anybody.”

“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs Bates’ house.”

“You may
say
what you choose—but your countenance testifies that your
thoughts
on this subject are very much like mine.”

“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect, but at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”

“What do you say to Mrs Dixon?”

“Mrs Dixon! Very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs Dixon. She must know as well as her father how acceptable an instrument would be, and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprise, is more like a young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.”

“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend
Mr
Dixon in them.”

“Mr Dixon. Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the joint present of Mr and Mrs Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”

“Yes, and what you told me on that head confirmed an idea which I had entertained before. I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with
her
, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right, but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her choosing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance, there it would have been all enjoyment.

“As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse. In the summer it might have passed, but what can anybody’s native air do for them in the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in hers. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are.”

“And upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being very decided.”

“And he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that? A water party, and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”

“He did. I was there—one of the party.”

“Were you really? Well! But you observed nothing of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you. If I had been there, I think I should have made some discoveries.”

“I dare say you would, but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr Dixon caught her. It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that was too general a sensation for anything of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries.”

The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others, but when the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, “The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr and Mrs Dixon.”

“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells.”

“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr Dixon is a principal in the business.”

“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgement along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love. You are quite persuasive in all your arguments.”

“You speak in circles, sir! I assure you that I merely followed your reasoning as a guide to my own argument on the subject,” Emma assured him, feeling a blush at his forward interpretation of her collaborative wonderings.

“Very well, then, for I have other arguments to put to you for your persuasion. Perhaps they will be met with similar agreeableness,” said he.

There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real, he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, though she desperately wished to continue her speculation towards intimate discovery, but other subjects took their turn, and the rest of the dinner passed away. The dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation, a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news and heavy jokes.

The ladies had not been long in the drawing room, before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend, and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior, but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend.