第 二十四 章 · 第24章

The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.

Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He

had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,

till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their

walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—“He did not doubt there being very

pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always

chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,

would be his constant attraction.”—Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood

for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction

with him. They walked thither directly.

Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for

half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew

nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,

therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in

arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in

company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him

was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends

for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It

was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid

his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole

manner to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of

considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was

time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit

included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about

together for an hour or two—first round the shrubberies of Hartfield,

and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired

Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going

farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with

the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much

oftener than Emma could have supposed.

Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He

begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and

which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting

that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest

of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in

some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they

shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must

be very like a merit to those he was with.

Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it

could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily

absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a

parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had

not done him justice.

Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though

the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses

were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any

run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by

any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of

the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a

ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly

populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but such

brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for

which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established

among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately

interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of

passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed

windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,

and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no

fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No,

it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the

very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every

fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the

former good old days of the room?—She who could do any thing in

Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction

that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted

to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be

persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could

not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when

particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling

to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing,

or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s

returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a

young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to

see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the

habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit,

cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing

of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,

perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank,

bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however,

of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively

spirits.

At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and

being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma

recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had

paid it.

“Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention it. A very

successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much

obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken

me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I

was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes

would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper;

and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—but

there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I

found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that

I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an

hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.”

“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”

“Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look

ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?

Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so

pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.—A most

deplorable want of complexion.”

Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss

Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would

not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness

and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character

of her face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he

had heard many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him

nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.

Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them

all; and where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not

attempt to describe what the effect was.

“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.—At least you

admire her except her complexion.”

He shook his head and laughed.—“I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her

complexion.”

“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same

society?”

At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,

“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of

their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he

says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If

it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove

myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must

buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say

they sell gloves.”

“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will

be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because

you were Mr. Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your

popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”

They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers”

and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he

said—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,

you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_

_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of

public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in

private life.”

“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her

party at Weymouth.”

“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a

very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree

of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.—I

shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”

“Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But

her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very

reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any

body, that I really think you may say what you like of your

acquaintance with her.”

“May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so

well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a

little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.

Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,

warm-hearted woman. I like them all.”

“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is

destined to be?”

“Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.”

“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling;

“remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say

when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a

little farther off.”

“I certainly do forget to think of _her_,” said Emma, “as having ever

been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”

He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.

When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, “Did

you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?” said Frank

Churchill.

“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs to

Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.

She plays charmingly.”

“You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could

really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with

considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.—I am

excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of

judging of any body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s

admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a

man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman—engaged to

her—on the point of marriage—would yet never ask that other woman to

sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down

instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.

That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”

“Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—“Mr. Dixon is very musical,

is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,

than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”

“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a

very strong proof.”

“Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger

than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable

to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music than love—more ear

than eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.

How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”

“It was her very particular friend, you know.”

“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger

preferred than one’s very particular friend—with a stranger it might

not recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend

always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!—Poor

Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”

“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she

really did not seem to feel it.”

“So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But be

it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or

dulness of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt

it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous

distinction.”

“As to that—I do not—”

“Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s

sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human

being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she

was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”

“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all—” he

began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it is

impossible for me to say on what terms they really were—how it might

all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness

outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a

better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct

herself in critical situations, than I can be.”

“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and

women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be

intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited

her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a

little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to

take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always

was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her

reserve—I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.”

“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes very

convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,

but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”

“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction

may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an

agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of

conquering any body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss

Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think

ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and perpetual

cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea

about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something

to conceal.”

He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and

thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,

that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He

was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in

some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore

better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his

feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of

considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would

go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No,

he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to

be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved,

he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There

must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a

blockhead who wanted more.

Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking

about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking

how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he

could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small

one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he

was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to

settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not

be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no

housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no doubt he did

perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that

whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to

be allowed an early establishment.