Chapter XII

Mr. Knightley was to dine with them – rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Em m a’s sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circum stance of the late disagreem ent between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.

She hoped they m ight now becom e friends again. She thought it was tim e to m ake up. Making-up indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Concession m ust be out of the question; but it was tim e to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it m ight rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when he cam e into the room she had one of the children with her – the y oungest, a nice little girl about eight m onths old, who was now m aking her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arm s. It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arm s with all the uncerem oniousness of perfect am ity. Em m a felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help say ing, as he was adm iring the baby,

“What a com fort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.

As to m en and wom en, our opinions are som etim es very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”

“If y ou were as m uch guided by nature in y our estim ate of m en and wom en, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in y our dealings with them , as y ou are where these children are concerned, we m ight alway s think alike.”

“To be sure – our discordancies m ust alway s arise from m y being in the wrong.”

“Yes,” said he, sm iling – “and reason good. I was sixteen y ears old when y ou were born.”

“A m aterial difference then,” she replied – “and no doubt y ou were m uch m y superior in j udgm ent at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty y ears bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”

“Yes – a good deal nearer.”

“But still, not near enough to give m e a chance of being right, if we think differently.”

“I have still the advantage of y ou by sixteen y ears’ experience, and by not being a pretty y oung wom an and a spoiled child. Com e, m y dear Em m a, let us be friends, and say no m ore about it. Tell y our aunt, little Em m a, that she ought to set y ou a better exam ple than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”

“That’s true,” she cried – “very true. Little Em m a, grow up a better wom an than y our aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited. Now, Mr.

Knightley, a word or two m ore, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I m ust say that no effects on m y side of the argum ent have y et proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”

“A m an cannot be m ore so,” was his short, full answer.

“Ah! – Indeed I am very sorry. – Com e, shake hands with m e.”

This had j ust taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley m ade his appearance, and “How d’y e do, George?” and “John, how are y ou?”

succeeded in the true English sty le, bury ing under a calm ness that seem ed all but indifference, the real attachm ent which would have led either of them , if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other.

The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of com fortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party m ade two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightley s; their subj ects totally distinct, or very rarely m ixing – and Em m a only occasionally j oining in one or the other.

The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose tem per was by m uch the m ost com m unicative, and who was alway s the greater talker. As a m agistrate, he had generally som e point of law to consult John about, or, at least, som e curious anecdote to give; and as a farm er, as keeping in hand the hom e-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next y ear, and to give all such local inform ation as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose hom e it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachm ents were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as m uch equality of interest by John, as his cooler m anners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness.

While they were thus com fortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enj oy ing a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.

“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few m om ents, her busy labours for som e one of her five children – “How long it is, how terribly long since y ou were here! And how tired y ou m ust be after y our j ourney ! You m ust go to bed early, m y dear – and I recom m end a little gruel to y ou before y ou go. – You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Em m a, suppose we all have a little gruel.”

Em m a could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightley s were as unpersuadable on that article as herself; – and two basins only were ordered. After a little m ore discourse in praise of gruel, with som e wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,

“It was an awkward business, m y dear, y our spending the autum n at South End instead of com ing here. I never had m uch opinion of the sea air.”

“Mr. Wingfield m ost strenuously recom m ended it, sir – or we should not have gone. He recom m ended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s throat, – both sea air and bathing.”

“Ah! m y dear, but Perry had m any doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to m y self, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told y ou so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it alm ost killed m e once.”

“Com e, com e,” cried Em m a, feeling this to be an unsafe subj ect, “I m ust beg y ou not to talk of the sea. It m akes m e envious and m iserable; – I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if y ou please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard y ou m ake one inquiry about Mr. Perry y et; and he never forgets y ou.”

“Oh! good Mr. Perry – how is he, sir?”

“Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not tim e to take care of him self – he tells m e he has not tim e to take care of him self – which is very sad – but he is alway s wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a m an in such practice any where. But then there is not so clever a m an any where.”

“And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they ? do the children grow?

I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see m y little ones.”

“I hope he will be here to-m orrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about m y self of som e consequence. And, m y dear, whenever he com es, y ou had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”

“Oh! m y dear sir, her throat is so m uch better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent em brocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have been apply ing at tim es ever since August.”

“It is not very likely, m y dear, that bathing should have been of use to her – and if I had known y ou were wanting an em brocation, I would have spoken to –

“You seem to m e to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Em m a,

“I have not heard one inquiry after them .”

“Oh! the good Bateses – I am quite asham ed of m y self – but y ou m ention them in m ost of y our letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.

Bates – I will call upon her to-m orrow, and take m y children. – They are alway s so pleased to see m y children. – And that excellent Miss Bates! – such thorough worthy people! – How are they, sir?”

“Why, pretty well, m y dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a m onth ago.”

“How sorry I am ! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autum n. Mr. Wingfield told m e that he has never known them m ore general or heavy – except when it has been quite an influenza.”

“That has been a good deal the case, m y dear; but not to the degree y ou m ention. Perry say s that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in Novem ber. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season.”

“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except –

“Ah! m y poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is alway s a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have y ou forced to live there! so far off! – and the air so bad!”

“No, indeed – we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to m ost others! – You m ust not confound us with London in general, m y dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from alm ost all the rest. We are so very airy ! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town; – there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have m y children in: but we are so rem arkably airy ! – Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of

Brunswick Square decidedly the m ost favourable as to air.”

“Ah! m y dear, it is not like Hartfield. You m ake the best of it – but after y ou have been a week at Hartfield, y ou are all of y ou different creatures; y ou do not look like the sam e. Now I cannot say, that I think y ou are any of y ou looking well at present.”

“I am sorry to hear y ou say so, sir; but I assure y ou, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from any where, I am quite well m y self; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little m ore tired than usual, from their j ourney and the happiness of com ing. I hope y ou will think better of their looks to-m orrow; for I assure y ou Mr. Wingfield told m e, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that y ou do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her ey es with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.

“Middling, m y dear; I cannot com plim ent y ou. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.”

“What is the m atter, sir? – Did y ou speak to m e?” cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own nam e.

“I am sorry to find, m y love, that m y father does not think y ou looking well – but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as y ou know, that y ou had seen Mr. Wingfield before y ou left hom e.”

“My dear Isabella,” – exclaim ed he hastily – “pray do not concern y ourself about m y looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling y ourself and the children, and let m e look as I chuse.”

“I did not thoroughly understand what y ou were telling y our brother,”

cried Em m a, “about y our friend Mr. Graham ’s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prej udice be too strong?”

And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that m om ent very happy to assist in praising.

“That sweet, am iable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley. – “It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a m om ent accidentally in town! What happiness it m ust be to her good old grandm other and excellent aunt, when she com es to visit them ! I alway s regret excessively on dear Em m a’s account that she cannot be m ore at Highbury ; but now their daughter is m arried, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Cam pbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful com panion for Em m a.”

Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,

“Our little friend Harriet Sm ith, however, is j ust such another pretty kind of y oung person. You will like Harriet. Em m a could not have a better com panion than Harriet.”

“I am m ost happy to hear it – but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accom plished and superior! – and exactly Em m a’s age.”

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of sim ilar m om ent, and passed away with sim ilar harm ony ; but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel cam e and supplied a great deal to be said – m uch praise and m any com m ents – undoubting decision of its wholesom eness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the m any houses where it was never m et with tolerable; – but, unfortunately, am ong the failures which the daughter had to instance, the m ost recent, and therefore m ost prom inent, was in her own cook at South End, a y oung wom an hired for the tim e, who never had been able to understand what she m eant by a basin of nice sm ooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.

“Ah!” said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his ey es on her with tender concern. – The ej aculation in Em m a’s ear expressed, “Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of y our going to South End. It does not bear talking of.” And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rum ination m ight suffice to restore him to the relish of his own sm ooth gruel.

After an interval of som e m inutes, however, he began with, “I shall alway s be very sorry that y ou went to the sea this autum n, instead of com ing here.”

“But why should y ou be sorry, sir? – I assure y ou, it did the children a great deal of good.”

“And, m oreover, if y ou m ust go to the sea, it had better not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to hear y ou had fixed upon South End.”

“I know there is such an idea with m any people, but indeed it is quite a m istake, sir. – We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least

inconvenience from the m ud; and Mr. Wingfield say s it is entirely a m istake to suppose the place unhealthy ; and I am sure he m ay be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and fam ily have been there repeatedly.”

“You should have gone to Crom er, m y dear, if y ou went any where. –

Perry was a week at Crom er once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he say s, and very pure air. And, by what I understand, y ou m ight have had lodgings there quite away from the sea – a quarter of a m ile off – very com fortable. You should have consulted Perry.”

“But, m y dear sir, the difference of the j ourney ; – only consider how great it would have been. – An hundred m iles, perhaps, instead of forty.”

“Ah! m y dear, as Perry say s, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not m uch to chuse between forty m iles and an hundred. – Better not m ove at all, better stay in London altogether than travel forty m iles to get into a worse air. This is j ust what Perry said. It seem ed to him a very ill-j udged m easure.”