by Joan Aiken
— All in all, it was a horrible excursion. And the culminating point of discomfort and shame was reached after Frank announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse — who, wherever she is, presides — to say that she demands from each of you, either one thing very clever; 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, who had been happily unconscious of all the nuances under the conversation hitherto, “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 everybody’s assent.
“Ah, but ma’am!” cried Emma. “There may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number — only three at once.”
Miss Bates did not immediately catch Emma’s meaning, but Jane, blushing scarlet, sprang up and walked a short distance away from the group. Then, mastering herself, she came back and sat down.
Frank tried to catch her eye, but she would not look at anybody.
Mrs Elton was now speaking in a high, affronted voice.
“Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at everybody’s service. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but really I must be allowed when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr Churchill; pass Mr E, Jane, and myself.”
“Shall we walk, Augusta?” said her husband.
“With all my heart! Come Jane, take my other arm.”
Jane shook her head, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
“Happy couple!” said Frank. “How well they suit! Marrying, as they did, upon an acquaintance formed in a public place! It is only by seeing women in their own homes 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!”
He was looking straight at Jane, who icily replied, “A hasty, imprudent attachment may arise; but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. It can be only weak, irresolute characters who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience — an oppression — for ever.” He made no reply. “Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “Shall we join Mrs Elton?”
Miss Bates quietly agreed; as they walked away from the group, Jane heard Frank’s voice behind her raised in what sounded like decidedly forced and false merriment.
The sight of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful one; though the ride back with the angry Eltons was a hardship to be endured, as much as possible, in silence.
“I was mistaken in that young man — quite mistaken! A puppy! An insufferable puppy! What he can see in Emma Woodhouse! Though she herself is no better! Who could tolerate her unpardonable rudeness to your aunt, my dear Jane? Quite unpardonable. But no more than might be expected —”
Jane, too, thought Emma had been unpardonable. But Miss Bates herself said tolerantly, “Oh, well you know, I do run on. I am a talker, I know I am a talker. And Miss Woodhouse — and her father — so kind as they are, always — so many attentions as we are always receiving from them — indeed, Miss Woodhouse must often find me very tiresome. I should try to hold my tongue more often than I do, I should indeed.”
“Now!” cried Mrs Elton, when Jane and her aunt were dropped at their own door, “I wish you all to come round to the vicarage this evening.” Oh, no, thought Jane. “I will not take no for an answer, mark my words!” went on Mrs Elton. “Such a tiresome day as this has been, such sad, tiresome company. But a quite, pleasant evening, among true friends — now do, Miss Bates, do, my dear Jane, say that you will come! Otherwise, you know, Mr E and I must be thrown upon one another’s company, and we are both out of spirits. Is not that so, Mr E? Help me to persuade them — and you must bring your mother too, bring dear old Mrs Bates — will not that be charming, Mr E?”
“Yes,” said he grumpily, in a tone wholly lacking conviction. Jane, with sinking heart, saw there was to be no escape.
Chapter 17
On the day following the excursion to Box Hill, Jane woke with a sick sensation of sorrow and loss, and the usual symptoms that accompanied one of her acute headaches — a constriction as of an iron band clamped across her forehead, nausea, an inability to eat or swallow, and impaired vision that made it painful to look towards light. She would have been glad to remain all day in bed, yet there were many things she must do.
The first was a letter to Frank. — She penned a brief note to him, breaking off their engagement — she felt it to be a source of repentance and misery to both. She asked for the return of her letters. She sent back his ring. — Next she wrote to Mrs Smallridge, the great friend of Mrs Elton’s sister’s friend Mrs Bragge, accepting her offer of a post as governess to the four little Smallridges. Thirdly, she wrote to Colonel and Mrs Campbell, informing them of her decision. Fourthly, a note to Rachel Dixon, congratulating her upon her happiness …
Having reached this last beginning, however, she was obliged to stop. Tears blinding her vision, she laid her head down upon the pillow; but the pain in her temples was too severe; standing up again, she began to pace about the shaded room.
Aunt Hetty put her head round the door. Heads had been poking round it all morning: Mrs Elton, Mrs Cole, Mrs Goddard and Mrs Cox, to inquire how she did and to congratulate her upon her fine new post. This time, it seemed, it was Miss Woodhouse.
“Miss Woodhouse!” gasped Jane, who was barely able to articulate. “What in the world does she want with us?” Has she not done us enough mischief? was what she felt inclined to say. “I cannot see her. I can see nobody.”
Frank, she knew, was back in Richmond; he had left yesterday evening, directly after the return from the picnic, by chaise, because his horse had a cold; Mr Elton had learned this from the ostler at the Crown.
“Well,” said Aunt Hetty, hesitating in the doorway, “I will tell Miss Woodhouse that you are laid down upon the bed.”
“Tell her what you choose,” said Jane, and recommenced her desperate pacing to and fro. Through the door she heard Emma’s voice: “Ah, madam, you will be very sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and Mrs Campbell be sorry to find she has engaged herself before their return?” The voice did sound sincerely sympathetic; can she be wishing to atone for her hateful behaviour? thought Jane. But it is too late, by far too late.
“Ay, and what are we to do with the pianoforte, you will be thinking! Our dear Colonel Campbell will have to decide about that, Jane says. It will be for him to say.”
Shortly afterwards, Emma was heard to take her leave; and Jane’s headache becoming even more agonizing, she was forced to lie down with a cold compress upon her brow and Aunt Hetty’s smelling salts at hand; neither of which remedies afforded her any relief whatsoever.
The following day brought news from Richmond of a startling nature. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs Churchill. Mr Weston’s loquacity being almost as unbridled as that of Miss Bates, this information was not slow in spreading all over the village. Mrs Cole brought word of it to the Bateses. — A sudden seizure, of a completely different nature from anything foreboded by her general state, had carried the unfortunate lady off after a short struggle. Frank Churchill’s redoubtable aunt was no more.
For Jane this news seemed bizarre, almost unreal. Her headache, even after two days, was still very severe; she suffered from nervous fever, and Mr Perry, who had been called in, strongly doubted the possibility of her being able to keep her engagement with Mrs Smallridge at the time originally proposed. Mr Perry, indeed, suggested that Jane had undertaken more than she was equal to. “But what, then, can I do?” said Jane piteously. “I must work, I must earn my living.”
It seemed strange to reflect that the news
of Mrs Churchill’s death, had it arrived last week, would have opened to her such a very different prospect. For it was well understood that the lady’s husband, of a good-humoured, pliant disposition, was completely different from his wife; that there would be no difficulty, not the least in the world, about reconciling Mr Churchill to Frank’s marrying any young lady he chose; the chief obstacle to matrimony was suddenly removed. If it had only happened last week! She had lost Frank Churchill; she had lost a delightful, sweet-natured, intelligent young man who had seemed, at the commencement, to love her most sincerely.
“But matters are far better as they have fallen out,” resolved Jane, trying to find a cool spot on her pillow. “We should never have suited; that fact was becoming abundantly plain. He will be better off with Emma Woodhouse — and I heartily wish them joy of each other.” So she told herself, trying to suppress the agonizing doubts, the sharp misgiving that persisted in telling her she had thrown away something of inestimable value.
Emma Woodhouse, meanwhile, appeared to be sincerely contrite, either for her vulgar and illtimed flirtation with Mr Churchill, or her heartless rudeness to Miss Bates; or both; kind messages continued to flow in from her daily. Could she not take Miss Fairfax for a ride in her carriage? Would Miss Fairfax not come up to Hartfield for a day and sit in the garden? Would Miss Fairfax accept some arrowroot — some calves-feet jelly — some fine old Constantia wine? All offers were refused, all gifts were returned immediately, despite Miss Bates’s pleas and protests. Jane felt that, just then, she could not endure to receive anything from Emma Woodhouse, in whatever spirit it was sent. — Developing a hunger for fresh air and solitude, Jane left her bed, went out of doors, and walked about the meadows outside Highbury, careless of who might see her.
Meantime — and this formed the most acute point in Jane’s scale of suffering — she had heard nothing from Frank. No acknowledgment of her note — nor of a second note, repeating the burden of the first — no return of her letters to him. Nothing. She hated him, she never wished to hear his voice again — but why did he not reply? She had resolved never to think about him, but this total severance was a kind of torture; she had never expected that it would be so bad. Had he forgotten her trivial existence, in the press of family business? Were the uncle and nephew removed to Yorkshire? What had become of him?
For ten days Jane subsisted on such scraps of gossip as percolated from Randalls, and these were now necessarily few. Mrs Weston, now very near her lying-in, did not venture from the house, and her solicitous husband remained close by her. But it was presently rumoured that Frank and his uncle had removed to friends at Windsor; next, that they would in due course return to Enscombe.
Then, on the tenth day, Jane, weary and depressed, having taken one of her now habitual solitary rambles in the pastures between Highbury and Donwell, was returning homewards, when she heard the sound of hoofs in the lane and, over the top of the hedgerow, saw the countenance of Frank Churchill. — At the same instant he caught sight of her, and pulled up his horse.
“Jane — Jane!” he called urgently. “Jane!”
She would have turned and fled, but there was nowhere she could flee to; the field was a large one, and she was halfway across it.
Next moment Frank, having consigned his horse’s reins to a very untrustworthy-looking elder-bush, was forcing his way through the hedge. It was thick; he had quite a struggle. Then he was racing across the grass to Jane — caught hold of her hand — and, despite considerable resistance, pulled her into his arms.
“My darling girl! Now I can truly call you mine — in the face of all Highbury!” He laughed, looking about; not a soul, not a roof, was visible.
“Now I can kiss you if I wish and no human being on earth can raise any objection.”
“But wait — wait —” she was fending him off — “I wrote to you. I wrote twice. Did you not receive my letters? I said —”
“I know what you said. The engagement was a source of repentance and misery to us both; you dissolved it. Do you think those words have not been etched in fire on my heart?”
“Then why — why — did you never reply?”
“I did, I did! Wait till I tell you. Oh, I am such a stupid, careless dog! When we are married, you will have to manage all our business affairs. Your dreadful letter reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it immediately; but, from the confusion of the time, and all the tasks that were falling to me just then, my answer, instead of being sent off with all the business letters of that day, somehow became locked up in my writing-desk. I had written to refuse your rupture, to tell you that all secrecy could now be at an end, that my uncle consented to our engagement, that all would now be well with us; I had written in deep contrition and shame to apologise for my disgraceful — my outrageous behaviour — born of frustration and impatience — I had written to declare my deep, undying love and beg you to reconsider. Here is that letter. I have it with me now. Would you wish to read it?”
“I think, perhaps, I do not need to,” she said, smiling a little, looking up into his face.
“I do not deserve you, Jane. Indeed I don’t. I am well aware of that! But — to hear that you had engaged yourself to this terrible Mrs Smallridge! To know that within two weeks you were to leave Highbury — to remove yourself entirely out of my reach — oh, that was purgatory indeed!”
“So your uncle knows about us?” she asked wonderingly, almost unbelievingly.
“He knows — he entirely approves — he only waits to make your acquaintance. Poor man! I think — when he grows accustomed to his new state of loneliness and liberty — he may be a changed creature, and will be very glad of such angelic company as yours. If you can consider making your home with him at Enscombe —”
“Oh,” said Jane, laughing and colouring, “that is far too distant a prospect as yet to be considered.”
She looked up at Frank.
He was not Matt Dixon. He was not Mr Knightley. (With an internal smile at herself she acknowledged that she must now renounce that childish daydream once and for all.) But he was a dear, kind fellow, he was himself, and he loved her. And she loved him too; yes, she did, in spite of all. Together they would do well enough.
Slowly, hand-in-hand, they walked across to the field gate and Frank, in the lane, reclaimed his horse.
“Have you told your father and stepmother yet?” she asked.
“No, I am on my way there now. My first errand was to you. I would have claimed you in the presence of your family (and no doubt also that of Mrs Cole, Mrs Goddard, Mrs Cox, and Mrs Elton) but I am very glad that it has fallen out this way. I would be happy to keep our love a private thing between us two for just a little longer. If you do not object?”
“You really enjoy keeping it a secret,” she said smiling. “You are a born conspirator, I believe. And what about Miss Woodhouse? When is she to know? Will it not be a severe shock to her?”
“No,” said Frank seriously, “there, I believe you wrong Miss Woodhouse. I believe that she has been party to our secret for a very long time — almost since my first visit to Highbury. — Once I almost told her. Yes, yes, I know she flirted with me scandalously, but I am quite sure, and always have been, that with her it was only a game — otherwise I would never have dared carry it to the lengths I did. Miss Woodhouse has never been in love with me. Where her heart is, I cannot pretend to say. Maybe she will never marry?”
Jane thought fleetingly of Knightley, but said nothing, and Frank went on, “Next time we meet, it will be as acknowledged promessi sposi. Will not that be conventional and dull? Let us part here, now, like Romeo and Juliet, on this corner, hoping that we are unobserved. Goodbye, my dearest, dearest heart. I am the happiest man in Highbury this day, I believe!”
“Why not in all Surry?” Jane called after him mockingly as he rode off, and he turned, kissing his hand, to catch the startled eye of Mr Elton, coming out of the churchyard gate.
Chapter 18
Considerable placating of Mrs Elton had been necessary. In producing explanations of why she had first accepted the position offered by Mrs Smallridge, and then suddenly declined it, Jane had been obliged to acquaint Mrs Elton with some of the true facts of the case. Far from being offended, the lady was then all interest and eagerness, especially as she believed that she was the only one in Highbury entrusted with the secret.
“Do you not think, Miss Woodhouse,” she now gaily exclaimed, “that our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered? Do you not think her cure does Perry the highest credit?” And, under her breath to Jane, “We do not say a word of any assistance that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from Windsor! Oh, no! Perry shall have all the credit.”
Mrs Elton’s opinion of Frank Churchill as a puppy seemed to have been rapidly modified.
Mr Elton soon came in search of his wife; he seemed hot and out of spirits. “Hunting for Knightley all over town! Not even a message! Forgot our appointment entirely! I found his servant William Larkins who said his master seemed strangely out of humour these days, he could hardly ever get speech of him. Very extraordinary!”
Emma declared that she must be going. She, Jane thought, seemed unwontedly lively; in a fine glow of humour. Meeting Jane’s eye she smiled with such significance that Jane accompanied her down the stair. Emma had, Jane knew, been told her own news privately by the Westons; she was relieved that it seemed to have been so cordially received.
Indeed, on the stairway, Emma said, clasping Jane’s hand, “I am very, very happy for you. In fact, had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to ask questions, to speak more openly than would have been strictly correct. I feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.”