Emma (41 page)

Poor Jane Fairfax!
thought Emma.
You have not deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited! The kindness and protection of Mrs Elton! ‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax’. Heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about ‘Emma Woodhouse’-ing me! But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!

Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated with a “dear Miss Woodhouse”. The change on Mrs Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs Elton, nor, under Mrs Elton’s guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.

She looked on with some amusement. Miss Bates’ gratitude for Mrs Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies—the most amiable, affable, delightful woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprise was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing! She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.

“She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she. “To choose to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to choose the mortification of Mrs Elton’s notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real, generous affection.”

Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months, the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months, but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—it all came from her—Mrs Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist, but still she had declined it!

“She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere. She is
not
to be with the
Dixons
. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she consent to be with the Eltons? Here is quite a separate puzzle.”

Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs Elton, Mrs Weston ventured this apology for Jane.

“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but as a constant companion must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to.”

“You are right, Mrs Weston,” said Mr Knightley warmly, “Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But”—with a reproachful smile at Emma—“she receives attentions from Mrs Elton, which nobody else pays her.”

Emma felt that Mrs Weston was giving her a momentary glance, and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied, “Such attentions as Mrs Elton’s, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs Elton’s invitations I should have imagined anything but inviting.”

“I should not wonder,” said Mrs Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change.”

Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again, and after a few minutes silence, he said, “Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs Elton does not talk
to
Miss Fairfax as she speaks
of
her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us, we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted. We cannot give anybody the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner, and that, face to face, Mrs Elton treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness.”

“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say. Or so she inclined herself to believe she thought of Little Henry and not the roil of jealousy.

“Yes,” he replied, “anybody may know how highly I think of her.”

“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she hurried on. “And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprise some day or other.”

Mr Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered, “Oh! Are you there? But you are miserably behind-hand. Mr Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.”

He stopped. Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on, “That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall never ask her.”

Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest, and was pleased enough to exclaim, “You are not vain, Mr Knightley. I will say that for you.”

He seemed hardly to hear her, he was thoughtful—and in a manner which showed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, “So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”

“No, indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! No, upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane anybody. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.”

Mr Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprise. I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”

Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,” said she, “and you soon silenced Mr Cole, I suppose?”

“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint, I told him he was mistaken, he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.”

“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you ‘Knightley’—what can she do for Mr Cole? And so I am not to be surprised that Jane Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs Elton. I have no faith in Mrs Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word or deed, or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement and offers of service, that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”

“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr Knightley. “I do not accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control, but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be— And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no thought beyond.”

“Well, Mrs Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do you say now to Mr Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”

“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of
not
being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.” 

Chapter Sixteen

Everybody in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr Elton was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for him and his lady, and invitations flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.

“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word, we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day! A woman with fewer resources than I have need not have been at a loss.”

No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs Bates, Mrs Perry, Mrs Goddard and others were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon show them how everything ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.

Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.

The persons to be invited required little thought. Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr Knightley. So far it was all of course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth, but this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it.

She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.

It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home—and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.

Since her last conversation with Mrs Weston and Mr Knightley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been. Mr Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs Elton which nobody else paid her.

“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful. Of the same age—and always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend. She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will show her greater attention than I have done.”

Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy. The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day of this party. His professional engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.

She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother.