Emma (54 page)

Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her, but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr Frank Churchill’s going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.

What Mr Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected, and that Mr Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early. But that Mr Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.

There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs Churchill’s importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her, one was everything, the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates’ saying, “Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become of that? Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now. ‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business here. Let it stay, however,’ said she, ‘give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him, he will settle for me, he will help me out of all my difficulties.’ And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”

Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte, and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough, and with a repetition of everything that she could venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.

Chapter Nine

Emma’s pensive meditations as she walked home were not interrupted, but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father. Mr Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual, said, “I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you anything to send or say, besides the ‘love’, which nobody carries?”

“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”

“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.”

Emma was sure he had not forgiven her, he looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again, though she had given up the possibility of more. No longer did she care about the
more
. If she could have him as her friend again, she would count it as a gain never to be abused again. Should
more
be offered, in time, she would take hold of the gift and be grateful for each stolen moment.

While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going, her father began his enquiries.

“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely? And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter? I dare say they must have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs and Miss Bates, Mr Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them!”

Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise, and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr Knightley, hoping to see some kindness there, some promise that he had not forsaken her utterly.

It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured. He looked at her with a glow of regard. Her heart quickened its pace to be so soothed with a favourable answer. She was warmly gratified—and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part. He took her hand. Whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips—when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go. Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive and again her pulse rose, but this time for some unseen dread. He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.

The intention, however, was indubitable, and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more. It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature. She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity. And yet if he had improved his regard of her, would he not have seen the deed through? Would he not have pressed a kiss to her knuckles? Perhaps by dropping her hand so readily he meant to convey that while they could move on in harmony, it would not be as before. Not as dear an association. Not as intimate. She could hardly fathom the meaning and yet her mind tangled with the possibilities of his unspoken communication—whatever it could be.

He left them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. And again she worried over the meaning there.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier. It would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr Knightley, if he would hear it. Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better time—and to have had longer notice of it would have been pleasanter. They parted thorough friends, however. She could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion, if that was all that was recovered. He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!

In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr Knightley’s going to London—and going so suddenly, and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad—Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified. It supplied a very useful check, interested without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpected blow.

“I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintances are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”

The following day brought news from Richmond to throw everything else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from anything foreboded by her general state had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs Churchill was no more.

On this, Emma had no certainty on how to feel. On the one hand, she had no true knowledge of the woman but that which was conveyed through subjective correspondence to Mr and Mrs Weston, and that which was conveyed through Mr Churchill’s musing. On the other, Mr Churchill would no longer be required to leave Highbury at a moment’s notice. But it set an odd sensation to tumble about her middle. If he should stay, and presumably he would—why would he not, when so charitable a society existed upon his whim and his father welcomed him eagerly to stay?—Emma could not say how she should receive the news.

Should she be pleased to have him linger as a distraction from the intense effect Mr Knightley had on her—not entirely welcome nor unwelcome—or should she be bothered as she would forever bear witness to Mr Knightley’s clear displeasure with the man? Either seemed equally favourable while remaining unfavourable. And again there were appearances to keep.

It was felt as such things must be felt. Everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow, tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends, and in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die, and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. Clearly, Emma was not the only one at a loss for how to proceed. In one point Mrs Churchill was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.

Poor Mrs Churchill! No doubt she had been suffering a great deal, more than anybody had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr Churchill do without her? Mr Churchill’s loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr Churchill would never get over it.

Even Mr Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! Poor woman, who would have thought it!” and resolved that his mourning should be as handsome as possible, and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.

How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion—then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody, an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into anything by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was that the nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. Whatever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs Churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr Churchill was better than could be expected, and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet, good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma’s side.

It was a more pressing concern to show attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in anyone at Highbury, who wished to show her kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness, and the person whom she had been so many months neglecting was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her, wanted to show a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration.

She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write, and when Mr Perry called at Hartfield the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs Smallridge’s at the time proposed.

Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder, confined always to one room. He could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned, they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them.

Emma listened with the warmest concern, grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good, and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr Perry’s decided opinion in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note—‘
Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.’