บทที่ บทที่ 15 · 第15章

Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea

he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three

companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of

the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty

and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at

last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in

very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and

Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and,

with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.

Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the

expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late

improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his

making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most

friendly smiles.

He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair,

lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing about

her, since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must

confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And

in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much

attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the

terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.

But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if

he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than

on Harriet’s—more anxious that she should escape the infection, than

that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great

earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber

again, for the present—to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture

into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and

though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its

proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude

about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no concealing

it—exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of

Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!

and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs.

Weston to implore her assistance, “Would not she give him her

support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss

Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss

Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a

promise—would not she give him her influence in procuring it?”

“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless for

herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and

yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore

throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I

some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”

Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an

address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right

of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked

and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the

purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she

thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa,

removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.

She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did

another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room

from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information

of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,

with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.

Woodhouse:

“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.

Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way

through a storm of snow.”

Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else

had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,

and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and

Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his

son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.

“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing out

in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.

Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit;

and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow

can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one

is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the

other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before

midnight.”

Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he

had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it

should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his

hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely

to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid

they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable,

that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost

good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,

calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,

every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the

consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.

“What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” was Mr.

Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.

To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her

representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of

their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.

His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being

blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full

in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for

adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was

eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at

Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all

the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.

“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she; “I

dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if

we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at

all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my

shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing

that gives me cold.”

“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most

extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing

does give you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home,

I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.”

Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.

Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could

not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;

and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had

left the room immediately after his brother’s first report of the snow,

came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to

examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty

in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour

hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—some way along the Highbury

road—the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in many places hardly

enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present,

but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its

being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with

him in there being nothing to apprehend.

To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were

scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was

immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous

constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be

appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at

Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in

returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe

to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,

Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—

“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”

“I am ready, if the others are.”

“Shall I ring the bell?”

“Yes, do.”

And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes

more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his

own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and

happiness when this visit of hardship were over.

The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such

occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.

Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of

alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the

discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was

afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella

would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.

He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together

as they could;” and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very

slow and wait for the other carriage.

Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he

did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;

so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second

carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,

and that they were to have a tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been

the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,

previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to

him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but

one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had

been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and felt sure that he

would want to be talking nonsense.

To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was

immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of

the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had

they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she

found her subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and

Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the

precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well

known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but

flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and

unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,

very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It

really was so. Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent

diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself

_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say

it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to

restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must

be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to

the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the

playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she

replied,

“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget

yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be

happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.”

“Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly mean!”—And

he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful

pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,

“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account

for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak

either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough

to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”

But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at

all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and

having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and

slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but

acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he

resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a

favourable answer.

As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his

inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,

replied,

“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself

too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can

express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last

month, to Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit

of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness

of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me,

sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such

professions.”

“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this?—Miss

Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my

existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never

cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has

fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very

sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who

can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my

honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of

you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one

else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has

been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot

really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent meant to be

insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me.”

It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of

all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely

overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence

being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he

tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—

“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting

silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”

“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having

long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect

to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you

should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther

from my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of

her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been

very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were

not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you

judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you

have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss

Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of her?”

“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you.

_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of

girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her

extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object

to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,

quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal

alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my

visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement

I received—”

“Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you have been entirely

mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my

friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common

acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake

ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might

have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,

probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you

are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I

trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at

present.”

He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite

supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually

deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,

for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If

there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate

awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the

little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage

turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,

all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another

syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good

night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under

indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to

Hartfield.

There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had

been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage

Lane—turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in

strange hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as

if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.

John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and

attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her

father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of

gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the

day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,

except herself.—But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and

it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till

the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet

reflection.