Bab Bab 52 · 第52章

It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as

herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by

letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!

Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without

reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there

was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her

style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It

might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only

could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.

She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was

fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without

resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,

and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was

delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to

her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was

quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on

her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very

persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a

fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was

all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick

Square.

Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could

talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense

of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted

her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much

might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the

feelings which she had led astray herself.

The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps

an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not

think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,

which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.

She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place

in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication

before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the

confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing

to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till

Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be

thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act

on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at

least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more

agitating, delight, should be hers.

She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an

hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought

to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present

situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a

_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of

prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should

attend to any thing Jane might communicate.

She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not

been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane

had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all

the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being

still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,

to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty

announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had

before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the

instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was

met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no

other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her

look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness,

animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or

manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an offered hand;

and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,

“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to

express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely without

words.”

Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the

sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,

and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her

congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.

Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which

accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.

Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every

body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped

the rencontre would do them no harm.

She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and

understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in

Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what

was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately

in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to

Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she

saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which

she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it

into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant

nods,

“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want

opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.

I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is

not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet

creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word

more. Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You

remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:

“For when a lady’s in the case,

“You know all other things give place.”

Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read——mum! a word to the

wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I want to set your

heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—_My_ representation, you see, has quite

appeased her.”

And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates’s

knitting, she added, in a half whisper,

“I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.—Oh! no; cautious as a

minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”

Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every

possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony

of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed

with,

“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is

charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest

credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my

word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had

seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was

saying something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a word of

any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young

physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.”

“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she

shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant

party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not

seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So

it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think

it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to

our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while

the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the

same party, not _one_ exception.”

Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being

diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,

she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say

every thing.

“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is impossible

to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest Jane’s prospects—that

is, I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—How is Mr.

Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little

circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so

very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to Jane!”—And from

her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton

for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of

resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now

graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it

beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,

“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that

anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth

is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me

here, and pay his respects to you.”

“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That will

be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits,

and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”

“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning to

night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some pretence or

other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always

wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without

him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—I do not

know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half

so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them

both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this

fortnight.—However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose

to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her words from

Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”

Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!

“He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from

Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep

consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”

Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton

gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”

“Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and

Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who

lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.”

“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost certain that

the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at

Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”

“Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer, which

denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.—“I do

believe,” she continued, “this is the most troublesome parish that ever

was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.”

“Your parish there was small,” said Jane.

“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject

talked of.”

“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard

you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge;

the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.”

“Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain you

have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if

we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would

produce perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that

_some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.—But hush!—not a

word, if you please.”

It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,

not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.

The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very

evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.

Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her

sparkling vivacity.

“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an

encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But

you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I

should not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been

sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal

obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”

Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.

His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent

object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and

the walk he had had for nothing.

“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found. Very

odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and

the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.”

“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been to

Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.”

“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley

to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I went

over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made

it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I

am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The

housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very

extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to

Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—Miss

Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?”

Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,

indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.

“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife

ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of

all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to

be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am

sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his

servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely

to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often

observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such

a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.

And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She

promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”

“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house,

and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not

believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what

was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get

the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it

really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley

to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious

inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”

Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all

probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.

Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards

Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.

She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to

attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her

an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,

“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you

not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to

introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might

have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been

impertinent.”

“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought

infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual

composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have been

of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by

expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more

collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very

great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those

of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not

disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could

wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for

myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your

compassion does not stand my friend—”

“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and

taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you

might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted

even—”

“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and

artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know

that I must have disgusted you.”

“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.

Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done

quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you

have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”

“Very.”

“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as

I begin to know you.”

“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here

till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”

“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma,

smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”

The smile was returned as Jane answered,

“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I

am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill

at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of

deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing

more to wait for.”

“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured of.—Oh!

if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and

open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”