“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley.
“Has he been here on this occasion—or
has he not?”
“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma.
“There was a strong expectation of his coming
soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing;
and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”
“But you should tell them of the letter, my
dear,” said her father. “He wrote
a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her,
and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She
shewed it to me. I thought it very well done
of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you
know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his
uncle, perhaps—”
“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty.
You forget how time passes.”
“Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well,
I could not have thought it— and he was
but two years old when he lost his poor mother!
Well, time does fly indeed!—and my memory
is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good,
pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great
deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from
Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th—and began,
`My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on;
and it was signed `F. C. Weston Churchill.’—
I remember that perfectly.”
“How very pleasing and proper of him!”
cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley.
“I have no doubt of his being a most amiable
young man. But how sad it is that he should not
live at home with his father! There is something
so shocking in a child’s being taken away from
his parents and natural home! I never could
comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him.
To give up one’s child! I really never
could think well of any body who proposed such a thing
to any body else.”
“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills,
I fancy,” observed Mr. John Knightley coolly.
“But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have
felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John.
Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man,
than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he
finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or
other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is
called society for his comforts, that is, upon the
power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with
his neighbours five times a week, than upon family
affection, or any thing that home affords.”
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection
on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up;
but she struggled, and let it pass. She would
keep the peace if possible; and there was something
honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits,
the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted
her brother’s disposition to look down on the
common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom
it was important.—It had a high claim to
forbearance.
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. Emma’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 circumstance of the late disagreement between
Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
invitation.
