One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s
decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston,
who “could not stay five minutes, and wanted
particularly to speak with her.”—
He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her
how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk
it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do,
if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see
you. She must see you.”
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no, not at all—only a little
agitated. She would have ordered the carriage,
and come to you, but she must see you alone,
and that you know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can
you come?”
“Certainly. This moment, if you please.
It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a
way. But what can be the matter?—
Is she really not ill?”
“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions.
You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable
business! But hush, hush!”
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even
for Emma. Something really important seemed announced
by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured
not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father,
that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston
were soon out of the house together and on their way
at a quick pace for Randalls.
“Now,”—said Emma, when they
were fairly beyond the sweep gates,— “now
Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”
“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t
ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to
her. She will break it to you better than I can.
Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too
soon.”
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing
still with terror.— “Good God!—Mr.
Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened
in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell
me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider
how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick
Square. Which of them is it?— I charge
you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
“Upon my word, Emma.”—
“Your word!—why not your honour!—why
not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do
with any of them? Good Heavens!—What
can be to be broke to me, that does not relate
to one of that family?”
“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously,
“it does not. It is not in the smallest
degree connected with any human being of the name
of Knightley.”
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
“I was wrong,” he continued, “in
talking of its being broke to you. I should
not have used the expression. In fact, it does
not concern you— it concerns only myself,—that
is, we hope.—Humph!—In short,
my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy
about it. I don’t say that it is not a
disagreeable business—but things might
be much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall
soon be at Randalls.”
