Kabanata Kabanata 42 · 第42章

After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.

Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification

of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such

importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at

present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again

restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’

coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,

whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the

situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might

eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of

all her neighbours was by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal

of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all

wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought

at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing

need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the

Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the

autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was

to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the

idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see

what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had

agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more

of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be

done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the

bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic

parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but

feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.

Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and

sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go

together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it

was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing

but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must

already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it

could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain

to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an

arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an

arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of

being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and

the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of

secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr.

Weston’s temper.

“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably.

“But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without

numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its

own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not

leave her out.”

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was

growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to

pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing

into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,

before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured

on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were

inadequate to such an attack.

“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather

for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What

are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.

Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful

exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”

“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may

be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are

ripening fast.”

If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,

for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like

it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was

famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:

but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt

the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again

and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely

gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment

as she chose to consider it.

“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your

day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”

“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom

I would wish to meet you.”

“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady

Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”

“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to

give any other invitations.”

“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid

of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.

Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.

Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”

“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in the world

whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and

that one is—”

“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.

“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such

matters myself.”

“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one

preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you like.

Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her

aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting

the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”

“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on

Miss Bates in my way home.”

“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is

to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I

shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging

on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be

more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be

no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your

gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under

trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out

of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural

and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”

“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the

table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of

gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is

best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating

strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”

“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the bye,

can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be

sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to

inspect anything—”

“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”

“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely

clever.”

“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and

would spurn any body’s assistance.”

“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on

donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I

really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I

conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so

many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at

home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in

winter there is dirt.”

“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane

is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however,

if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing

to be as much to your taste as possible.”

“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.

Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the

warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes,

believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in

the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please

me.”

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He

wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;

and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat

would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the

specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at

Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him

for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for

two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go

very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear

girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp

now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house

again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton,

and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all

to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning.

He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind

and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining

out.”

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The

invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like

Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment

to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of

pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over

to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which

could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say

that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no

time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to

Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was

settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing

exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was

safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of

this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the

Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was

happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what

had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not

to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on

purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all

the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and

sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she

was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and

look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more

particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds

which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with

the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed

the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,

characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens

stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with

all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance

of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance

had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike

it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many

comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought

to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect

for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted

in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had;

but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them

neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These

were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it

was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the

strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank

Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,

in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was

very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or

talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or

spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always

wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather

for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly

the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely

superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very

scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of

strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple

Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly

different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their

way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to

cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering

strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no

longer—must go and sit in the shade.”

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by

Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to

inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears

of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to

overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation,

a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received

notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs.

Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it

fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an

acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful,

charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every

thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with

immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she

positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax

continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any

thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge

before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an

acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was

astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at

last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a

removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the

gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The

pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a

scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly

followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of

limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the

river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing;

nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,

which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an

approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,

as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a

charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The

considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,

gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a

mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well

clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed

and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the

river making a close and handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,

English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without

being oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and

towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet

distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and

Harriet!—It was an odd tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There

had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and

turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant

conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been

sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;

but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its

appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading

flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She

joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in

looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of

agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These

are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without

being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him.

It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of

Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was

most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.

The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they

were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.

Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself

uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing

that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to

coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better,

that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s

state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such

sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable

dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,

that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented

coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;

she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see

what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as

far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at

any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.

Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part

of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by

him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,

that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise

and variety which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s

entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,

shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been

prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the

kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly

well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he

would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance

to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was

slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was

begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few

moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the

house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly

in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet

Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse

was the very person she was in quest of.

“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am

gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is,

nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and

I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any

body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to

the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not

be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I

am gone?”

“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury

alone?”

“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty

minutes.”

“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my

father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be

round in five minutes.”

“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for

_me_ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard

others!”

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That

can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the

carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”

“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; 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 shew me, will be to let me

have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into

her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched

her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was

grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of

being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and

to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,

even towards some of those who loved her best.

“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into

the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of

their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only

accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank

Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had

forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston

would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who

had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a

temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had

lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming,

till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how

late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have

come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing

like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like

heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was

intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the

slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.

“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.

“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be

spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be

going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I

came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s

state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of

humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be

his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often

the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some

refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the

dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.

“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him

hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and

muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all

her attention to her father, saying in secret—

“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man

who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy

temper will not mind it.”

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came

back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like

himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their

employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.

He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,

at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking

over views in Swisserland.

“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall

never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my

sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem.

I shall do something to expose myself.”

“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to

Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave

England.”

“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for

her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I

assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I

shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I

want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating

eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I

could.”

“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few

hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”

“_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do

not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in

every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate

person.”

“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and

eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice

of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you

nearly on a par with the rest of us.”

“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”

“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not

Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want

of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”

“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”

“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”

“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”

“Then pray stay at Richmond.”

“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of

you all there without me.”

“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your

own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.

With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others

took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and

disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it

was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short

final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank

Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,

that his last words to Emma were,

“Well;—if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”

She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from

Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.