الفصل الفصل 13 · 第13章

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 acquaintance 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 every thing.

The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that

Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th 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, and as they walked on

slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the

rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, 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 shewed 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, &c. 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 to-day—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 to-morrow 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 her’s,

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 inquire 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 chuse 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 any thing

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 good-will 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 good-will 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 judgment are for ever 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.

Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in

spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of

shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his

eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness

of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his

own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it

was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was

severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes

of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of

being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very

white world in a very short time.

Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The

preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of

his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,

which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated

nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the

whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his

discontent.

“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he

asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as

this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most

agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest

absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing

people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying

comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an

evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we

should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing

than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of

the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view

or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter

that he can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in

another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said

and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.

Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and

four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering

creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had

at home.”

Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no

doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true, my

love,” which must have been usually administered by his travelling

companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any

answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being

quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to

talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening

her lips.

They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.

Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma

thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all

obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities

indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different

account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while

dressing, and the answer had been, “Much the same—not better.”

“_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently, “was not so

pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was _my_ answer.”

His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of

sentiment as he answered.

“Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling you that

when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I did the very last thing

before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,

by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had

flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew

had been given her in the morning.”

Emma smiled and answered—“My visit was of use to the nervous part of

her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it

is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you

probably heard.”

“Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”

“He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow

morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is

impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party

to-day!”

“Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every moment.”

This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really

estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay

when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,

and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.

“What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin for

carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold

with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have

rendered a gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced

and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way

unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very

cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha!

snows a little I see.”

“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good deal of

it.”

“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable; and

extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin

yesterday, and prevent this day’s party, which it might very possibly

have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been

much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite

the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body

invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the

worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house once for a week.

Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not

get away till that very day se’nnight.”

Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but

said only, coolly,

“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”

At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much

astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other feelings. Harriet

seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.

“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every thing in the

greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs. Weston

indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so

hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where

small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.

Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten

comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances,

fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me,

(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your

approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large

parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.”

“I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine with

any body.”

“Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had

been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be

paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great

enjoyment.”

“My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed through

the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.”