第 二十 章 · 第20章

Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s youngest

daughter.

The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ——regiment of infantry, and Miss

Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest;

but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him

dying in action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief

soon afterwards—and this girl.

By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on

losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the

consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had

seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her

being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up

with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what

nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and

warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.

But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change

to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded

Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and

farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe

camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which

he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the

death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing

in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took

notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a

girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long

visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years

old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a

real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of

undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and

from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and

had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time

to time.

The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the

very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making

independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of

Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay and

appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all

his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be

supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.

Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known

nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent

education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed

people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of

discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in

London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the

attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were

equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or

nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the

care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself;

but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor

mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil

day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;

and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the

rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of

home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering

suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this

might soon be over.

The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell

in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the

circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and

acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen

by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by

the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till

the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so

often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to

what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the

affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as

soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled,

while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.

This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be

yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path

of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had

fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty

should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she

had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire

from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,

peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.

The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a

resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no

exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and

for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this

would be selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps

they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted

the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such

enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still,

however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not

hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since

the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have

completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging

in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame

and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances,

to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be

discharged with tolerable comfort.

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her

aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not

told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to

Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with

those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,

whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double,

or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that

they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the

recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she

was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect

novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put

up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the

freshness of a two years’ absence.

Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like

through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and

less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a

difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was

because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she

wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been

eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in

which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But “she could never

get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was

such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she

pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she

was made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been always

imagined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were the

same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other.”

These were her reasons—she had no better.

It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by

fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any

considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and

now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’

interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and

manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.

Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself

the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as

almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall;

her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium,

between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed

to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all

this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them

altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very

pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and

eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she

had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and

delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty,

of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in

honour, by all her principles, admire it:—elegance, which, whether of

person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be

vulgar, was distinction, and merit.

In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with

twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering

justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When

she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;

when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she

was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible

to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every

well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly

probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so

naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more

pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.

Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s

affections from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her

imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be

simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been

unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his

conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives,

might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to

divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon

beginning her career of laborious duty.

Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,

as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury

afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that

she could wish to scheme about for her.

These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed

herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane

Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and

errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she

is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with

her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its

usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome

as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to

admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of

exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how

small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of

new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s

offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the

thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an

affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off

in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides,

which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting

at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed

determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously

reserved.

If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved

on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed

bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own

value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It

was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or

distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown

away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There

probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr.

Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other,

or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve

thousand pounds.

The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill

had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a

little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma

procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”—“She believed he

was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”—“He was

generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man

of information?”—“At a watering-place, or in a common London

acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were

all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than

they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his

manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.