“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston;
I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I
should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain.
I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells
me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You
would not think it to look at him, but he is bilious—Mr.
Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the
means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma,
we must consider this. I am sure, rather than
run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would
stay a little longer than you might wish. You
will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly
safe, you know, among your friends.”
“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all
for myself; and I should have no scruples of staying
as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account.
I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I
am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable
with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know;
but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be
sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at
your usual time—and the idea of that would
entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise
me not to sit up.”
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side:
such as that, if she came home cold, she would be
sure to warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she
would take something to eat; that her own maid should
sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should
see that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.
CHAPTER VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his
father’s dinner waiting, it was not known at
Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his
being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at
himself with a very good grace, but without seeming
really at all ashamed of what he had done. He
had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal
any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money
unspent, to improve his spirits. He was quite
as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing
him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but
certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they
are done by sensible people in an impudent way.
Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not
always folly.—It depends upon the character
of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
not a trifling, silly young man. If he
were, he would have done this differently. He
would either have gloried in the achievement, or been
ashamed of it. There would have been either
the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a
mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No,
I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.”
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing
him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of
judging of his general manners, and by inference,
of the meaning of his manners towards herself; of
guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to
throw coldness into her air; and of fancying what
the observations of all those might be, who were now
seeing them together for the first time.
