Bab Bab 41 · 第41章

In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon

Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The

Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use

to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her

grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was

again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was

likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she

were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save

herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her

will.

Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had

certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing

to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in

his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.

Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his

mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,

discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many

were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,

Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with

Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of

intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration

on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself

to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any

of Emma’s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the

suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and

Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look,

at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed

somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not

help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations

which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,

“Myself creating what I saw,”

brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of

private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill

and Jane.

He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend

his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he

joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,

like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the

weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates

and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on

reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of

visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in

and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;

and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons

listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s

most obliging invitation.

As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on

horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.

“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what

became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”

Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever

had any such plan.”

“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”

“Me! impossible!”

“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was

certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was

extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she

thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You

must remember it now?”

“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”

“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must have

dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you

were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”

“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about Perry and a

carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he

can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”

“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it from

nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston’s having

mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with

all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of

it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I

dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone

through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.

Perry.”

“It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should have had such

a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you

should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and

his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what

will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little

premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!

And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your

dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are

absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”

Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to

prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of

Mr. Weston’s hint.

“Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain

to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject,

there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean

to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest

dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge

that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself

mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as

ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only

thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should

have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning

because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember

grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had

been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to

Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I

do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;

she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go

beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that

I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having

never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing

before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and

now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not

like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the

least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly

remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, indeed!”

They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss

Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he

thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had

involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy

with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen

waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank

Churchill the determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her

intently—in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between them into

the hall, and looked at neither.

There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be

borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round

the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,

and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and

persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on

which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea

passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.

“Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind

him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away

their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is

it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated

rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters

one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”

Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was

quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much

disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words

for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The

quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,

who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.

Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in

lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the “poor

little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter

near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.

Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight

glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to

Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them

all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little

apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile

pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and

buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of

looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after

every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell

to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.

The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there

was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise

ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could

all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion

of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must

be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed

to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for

gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper

game on Frank Churchill’s part.

With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm

and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a

short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and

demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly

entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to

appear to censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank

Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it to

her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing

warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”

It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without

feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed

over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate

civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity

to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment

for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to

be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his; her

comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the

superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was

evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed

more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, “I did not

know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away the letters with even

an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word

that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the

attack, and turned towards her aunt.

“Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken

a word—“I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be

going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking

for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good

night.”

Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had

preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table;

but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr.

Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed

towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was

afterwards looking for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it

was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted,

Mr. Knightley could not tell.

He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what

he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his

observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious

friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her

in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was

his duty.

“Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the

poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw

the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining

to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”

Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true

explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she

was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.

“Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant nothing; a mere

joke among ourselves.”

“The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and Mr.

Churchill.”

He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather

busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in

doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless

interference. Emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed

to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to

her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome

interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather

than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.

“My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do you think

you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the

gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”

“Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.—Why

do you make a doubt of it?”

“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or

that she admired him?”

“Never, never!” she cried with a most open eagerness—“Never, for the

twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could

it possibly come into your head?”

“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between

them—certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be

public.”

“Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can

vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry

to check you in your first essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no

admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which

have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings

rather of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to

explain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is

capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far

from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in

the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I

can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s

indifference.”

She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which

silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have

prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his

suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a

circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet

hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much

irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute

fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost

every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty

leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.