บทที่ บทที่ 43 · 第43章

They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward

circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in

favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating

safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good

time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with

the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.

Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.

Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body

had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount

of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of

spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated

too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took

charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank

Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise

better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never

materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness

to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole

hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of

separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine

prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to

remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank

Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked

without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing

what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet

should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,

for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first

object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to

her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he

cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,

was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the

admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most

animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own

estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people

looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but

flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss

Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves

open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple

Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and

thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less

happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;

and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all,

whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious,

they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her

friend.

“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come

to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all

the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”

“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that

you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than

you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to

come.”

“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”

“It is hotter to-day.”

“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”

“You are comfortable because you are under command.”

“Your command?—Yes.”

“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,

somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own

management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always

with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command

rather than mine.”

“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a

motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always

with me. You are always with me.”

“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not

begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour

before.”

“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you

first in February.”

“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody

speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking

nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”

“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively

impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill

hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and

Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then

whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to

rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and

gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,

presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking

of?”

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great

deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr.

Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.

“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all

thinking of?”

“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no

account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt

of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all

thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,

(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be

afraid of knowing.”

“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which _I_

should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,

perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party—_I_ never was in any

circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,

“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but

some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body

knows what is due to _you_.”

“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them

affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I

am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of

knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires

something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here

are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very

entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one

thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two

things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she

engages to laugh heartily at them all.”

“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy.

‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I

shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,

shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on

every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”

Emma could not resist.

“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be

limited as to number—only three at once.”

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not

immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not

anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.

Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very

disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old

friend.”

“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my

best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”

“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be

indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”

“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.

Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me

hear it.”

“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too

much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet

are there, that express perfection?”

“What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not know.”

“Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never

guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”

Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very

indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and

enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the

rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.

Knightley gravely said,

“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston

has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body

else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.”

“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton; “_I_

really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had

an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all

pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know

who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well

at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of

place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in

summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have

witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I

have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be

allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if

you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We

have nothing clever to say—not one of us.

“Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering

consciousness; “_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss

Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for

nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”

“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.

Come, Jane, take my other arm.”

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy

couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of

hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they

did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew

each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to

any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public

place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is

only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as

they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it

is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man

has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest

of his life!”

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own

confederates, spoke now.

“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank

Churchill turned towards her to listen.

“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate

circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot

imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may

arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I

would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute

characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)

who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an

oppression for ever.”

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon

afterwards said, in a lively tone,

“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I

marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning

to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any

body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a

smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt

her, educate her.”

“And make her like myself.”

“By all means, if you can.”

“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming

wife.”

“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.

I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come

to you for my wife. Remember.”

Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every

favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?

Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.

He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could

say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.

“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”

“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was

ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall

soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of

the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I

declare—”

They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr.

Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s

spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at

last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking

quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and

quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views

beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to

give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of

collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to

have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the

quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of

this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many

ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He

looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,

“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a

privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use

it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could

you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your

wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not

thought it possible.”

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it.

It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”

“I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it

since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what

candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your

forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for

ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be

so irksome.”

“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world:

but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most

unfortunately blended in her.”

“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,

I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over

the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless

absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any

liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma,

consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk

from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must

probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was

badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she

had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have

you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at

her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of

whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment

of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from

pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can;

satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and

trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than

you can do now.”

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was

ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had

misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her

tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,

mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,

on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then

reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no

acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with

voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He

had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look

back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they

were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was

vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she

could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at

any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth

of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.

How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could

she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And

how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of

concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel

it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary

to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,

fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running

down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble

to check them, extraordinary as they were.