Jane Fairfax, Page 3

  “No; but, the thing is, Jane is so dull!” declared Emma roundly. “She does not talk about things that interest me. And the only games she knows are so babyish — like this one. Hide-and-seek! Or running races — such games are only fit for boys, I think.”

  “But would you not like to learn your lessons with her?” suggested Miss Taylor. “Lessons, I believe, are better not learned alone, but in company. Perhaps if you did so, you would have more things to talk about. You would come to know her better, and like her better.”

  “Oh no, I am very sure I should not! I should not like that plan at all! Once we were used to take music lessons together but Signor Negretti said —”

  The voices died away along the laurel walk.

  Jane sat petrified in the tree for a few minutes, then scrambled down, stiff-legged, and ran trembling away in the opposite direction. She felt quite sick and breathless; bewildered, too, with pain, as if some organ, her heart perhaps, had been dragged bodily from its proper site. She would, unthinking, have made her way directly homewards, but, by chance, encountered the other two, face to face, while crossing the carriage-sweep.

  “Why, there she is, after all! In what clever place were you hiding, Jane? We quite thought we had searched everywhere!”

  “She must have been in the hay-loft,” asserted Emma. “But we had agreed that was to be out of bounds.”

  Jane said neither yes or no to this, but murmured in a low tone that she must go home; she had seen the stable-clock, it was late, Aunt Hetty would be growing anxious.

  “Are you ill, child? You seem so pale?” said Miss Taylor, troubled, a little, by something in her manner.

  “Oh — Jane is always pale!” cried Emma. “It is nothing out of the common.”

  Jane declared, stiffly and gruffly, that she was not ill, not the least bit; she dared say no more. Without another look or word she turned and trudged off down the driveway, between the gates.

  “What a queer, abrupt little creature,” said Miss Taylor, puzzled, looking after her. “But — I suppose — no one has had time to teach her deportment —”

  “She is very dull,” repeated Emma. “And selfish; she only wants to play the games that she is good at, not what other people enjoy. — But, Miss Taylor, never mind about Jane! May I come and see you unpack your boxes?”

  “Of course, my dear, you may.”

  Jane, when she arrived home, gave no account to her aunt and grandmother of the conversation she had overheard, merely explained that Miss Taylor, the new governess, had arrived, that she appeared a kind, pleasant lady, that Emma seemed ready to like and trust her.

  “I am very glad to hear that,” observed old Mrs Bates. “Poor little Emma! She is said to be somewhat hard to please. It is very fortunate for her that she has had you to keep her company during her lonely days.”

  Jane made no answer to this, but endeavoured to eat her dinner. It was soon remarked, however, that she had no appetite, and, soon afterwards, upon her falling into a severe fit of shivering, which rapidly increased to tears and nervous fever, she was put to bed by her anxious relatives, and Mr Perry the apothecary summoned. — This was to be the first of a series of acute headaches accompanied by violent sickness which would at intervals, from that time on, afflict Jane for many years of her life. None of the usual remedies, eagerly applied by Mr Perry or her aunt, were of the least efficacy to the sufferer, who lay prostrate for three days, tossing and turning wretchedly upon her narrow cot in the small stuffy chamber where, since it was shared with her aunt, she could at no time be certain of any privacy. — She could not even weep in peace.

  Listeners hear no good of themselves, she thought. Well, Aunt Hetty has often told me that; and now I can see that it is true. I hope that I never, ever, have the misfortune to overhear anything, ever again. Very dull! Very dull! Emma Woodhouse thinks that I am very dull. But, if she thought so, why then did she offer to be friends with me in the first place? She did not have to. I am sure I would never have asked it.

  Poor Jane’s sore, sensitive mind was not, at that juncture, capable of comprehending the fact that Emma, in distress and bewilderment after the first true calamity in her secure and cherished life, was crippled by misery and temporarily incapable of justice or kindness: such a conclusion would, in any case, be far above a child’s understanding. The only thing clear to Jane was a sense of utter betrayal, of having the ground cut from under her feet.

  “And I will never, never,” she said to herself, turning wretchedly away from her aunt’s hopeful proffer of custard-pudding, “I will never, ever again, make such a promise to anybody; nor trust any other person, no, not in the whole of my life.”

  “Do try just a mouthful of the pudding, dear; you have taken nothing for so long!”

  “No, thank you, Aunt Hetty.”

  The pudding was sorrowfully withdrawn, and Jane lay staring at the blank wall, deaf to the pleas of her aunt, while in her ears, over and over again, she heard the receding echo of that other voice and its illusory promise: “We’ll be friends for ever, shall we not? And tell each other all our secrets. And love each other always!”

  The Knightley brothers, George and John, who inherited the Donwell Abbey estate, about a mile outside Highbury, were old and valued friends of the Woodhouse family. John, the younger brother, was just now away at university, reading law, but George, his father’s death occurring shortly before he attained his majority, had succeeded to the not inconsiderable property and its responsibilities; he, therefore, lived at home in the Abbey, looking after his lands. Having been acquainted with the Woodhouse girls from birth, he was regarded by them in the light of an elder brother, and so regarded himself; he was prepared to counsel, reprimand, or rejoice, as occasion offered; and entered with the fullest sympathy into their distress at the loss of their mother, having himself so recently suffered a similar bereavement; and he lost no time in establishing a friendly alliance with their new governess in order to promote the welfare of the girls in any way that might occur to him.

  “Emma,” said he to Miss Taylor, “has a great need of more company and more competition; she is far too apt to consider herself the pinnacle of perfection, since Isabella, being sweet-natured and so much the elder (and far from Emma’s intellectual equal), has always given way to her; Emma can wind Isabella round her little finger. Do you not agree, Miss Taylor, that Emma ought to have other children to play with, and to learn with?”

  “It might be better, undoubtedly,” replied the new governess with some hesitation. “But there is so little choice, in this neighbourhood.”

  “There are the Cox girls.”

  A doubtful, troubled expression passed over Miss Taylor’s countenance.

  “Emma dislikes them exceedingly. And I must confess I should be sorry to see the dear child acquire any of their pert mincing ways.”

  “Well then, the Martin sisters.”

  “Farmers’ daughters? I do not think Mr Woodhouse would agree —”

  “They are decent, wholesome children,” said he impatiently. “Emma could come to no possible harm amongst them.”

  “Oh, I am sure not! But she herself is so very reluctant also —”

  “Well, then, how about little Jane Fairfax? Her family are unexceptionable, and she is a quiet, thoughtful, well-behaved small person; very forward at her lessons, I understand from Mrs Pryor; she would give Emma some healthy rivalry —”

  “Oh, I agree.” Miss Taylor looked even more troubled. “But, for some reason, Jane and dear Emma do not seem to get on well together. Where the fault may lie, I cannot pretend to say. You know how unaccountable children can be, Mr Knightley. And Emma — a sweet and most engaging child but she can at times be a little wilful — seems to have set her face absolutely against having Jane here, either to play or to share instruction — except for the piano lessons, of course, but those in any case Jane receives by herself. And when she comes for them, or to practise, she slips in and out as silently as a little ghost. You
know that it can be difficult trying to persuade Emma into a course that she has set her mind against —”

  “Say rather, impossible! In fact she has you, too, under her thumb! Well,” he said, “I shall see what I can do myself to remedy the situation.”

  Mr John Knightley had, some four years previously, with the cordial sanction of Mrs Woodhouse, taught Isabella to ride upon the old grey pony which had been the childhood pet and companion of the Donwell Abbey boys. This faithful friend had long since been laid to rest, but Mr Knightley took pains to search out and buy a pair of gentle, well-behaved ponies from one of his tenant farmers, and now proposed to Emma that he should teach her, in her turn, to ride.

  “For I have often heard you grumble about the tedium and familiarity of all the walks around Highbury: down Vicarage Lane and back; along Donwell Lane and back; over the Common Field; whereas, in the saddle, you could venture a great deal farther afield and see much more.”

  Emma was quite enraptured at the plan.

  “Oh yes, yes! Dear Mr Knightley, when can I start? — Does Papa agree?” she added as an afterthought.

  Mr Woodhouse, in his present melancholy and enfeebled condition, had, in fact, been exceedingly difficult to convince as to the advantages of the proposed scheme. “Poor dear little Emma tired so very soon; and, just supposing the horse took fright and she was thrown? that did not bear thinking of; horses were such unaccountable, restless, nervous, fidgety beasts; he was sure he should be cast into a wretched state of anxiety and distress of spirits all the while that the lesson was taking place.”

  But Mr Knightley was able to assure his elderly friend that the pony in question was one of the most aged, peaceful creatures imaginable, with a pace that seldom accelerated beyond a slow walk; also that, since it was of diminutive stature, no possible risk from falling off it was to be apprehended. “It would merely be like falling off a chair, my dear sir.” And he engaged to fetch in Miss Bates and Mrs Goddard to sit with Mr Woodhouse and allay his anxieties with their cheerful conversation each time that a riding lesson was in progress.

  So far, very good; and Emma was, in truth, so eager to commence learning without delay that she even agreed to make use of her sister Isabella’s old riding habit, while waiting for a new one of her own to be made; the broadcloth skirts were accordingly pressed out, and Miss Taylor escorted her pupil to the paddock where the lessons were to take place, Emma chattering gaily all the way.

  “When I have learned to ride, Miss Taylor — can you ride, by the by?”

  “Yes, my love; I was brought up in Wales, you see, where almost everybody has to be able to ride, because the villages are so very far apart —”

  “Then Mr Knightley can lend us his mare and we can go exploring to Burgh Heath and Box Hill and a great many pleasant places. Highbury is so dull! James can come with us on one of the carriage horses —”

  “Hardly as far as those places, I think, my dear; however, we shall see!”

  These grandiose projects, unfortunately, were destined for speedy extinction when Emma discovered, to her deep dismay, that Jane Fairfax was to be her companion in riding instruction.

  “For two can learn as fast as one,” said Mr Knightley briskly. “A great deal faster, in fact; since one will learn from the other’s mistakes. William Larkins is going to lift you up on to Dapple, Emma, while I lead Jane up and down on Ginger. Hold yourself a little more upright, Jane; you lean forward too far. There, that is capital. No: do not hold on to your pony’s mane; it was not put there by Nature as a handle. Very good, Emma; the left knee just a trifle farther back, shoulders well dropped, chin high.”

  As the first lesson proceeded, it began to appear that Jane, thin, but naturally wiry and active, and most eagerly bent on pleasing her teacher, would prove a better pupil than Emma, who, at this stage of her development, tended somewhat to plumpness and sloth; she was, furthermore, decidedly out of humour at finding that she was not to be the only and favoured pupil. Towards the end of the lesson, taking advantage of a moment when Mr Knightley and William Larkins were changing places, she contrived to give her mount a kick which set it into a lumbering trot; then, sliding from the saddle, she tumbled herself on to the grass and lay there looking piteous, until Miss Taylor ran to her assistance, followed at a slower pace by Mr Knightley.

  “Don’t concern yourself, ma’am, there is nothing amiss, I saw exactly what happened. You will take many a worse toss than that, Emma, before you are done! Come, jump up and let me mount you again; you should always get back into the saddle directly after coming off.”

  Emma, however, declared that she was badly shaken and bruised, and had had quite enough; somewhat tearfully she demanded to be taken home. And on the way back to Hartfield she remained unwontedly silent. But the account that she rendered to her father of the incident was enough to evoke his complete ban on all further essays into equitation. “He could not endure,” he said, “to picture the continual danger that his darling might be undergoing; his nerves could not support the anguish of apprehension; and, after all, what possible need could there be for dear Emma to ride on horseback? There were quite sufficient dry walks around Highbury to serve anybody’s need for exercise; he himself saw no occasion ever to venture beyond the shrubbery of his own garden, except once in a way to take tea with Mrs Goddard; Emma was far better off within the precincts of Hartfield, which were neither muddy in winter nor dusty in summer; people should remain upon their own estates; all this gadding about the countryside for pleasure was a thing quite unknown in his childhood and highly undesirable, a product of the new century, a most ill-conceived restlessness. Emma could always use the carriage, after all, if she had a real need to go farther afield. It had been obliging of Mr Knightley to offer the lessons, but he had known from the start that the scheme would not answer; it certainly would not answer; and his doubts had been abundantly justified.”

  Mr Knightley, deeply chagrined, sold one pony and continued to give little Jane lessons on the other. Proving an apt pupil, she soon developed into a capable horsewoman.

  “And it has done wonders for Jane’s colds,” her grateful aunt told Mr Knightley. “For Jane was used to be such a delicate child, you know, my dear sir, we were in continual dread about her; as soon as she stepped out of doors she would begin sneezing, and her sore throats were our despair; but since taking all this exercise with you, Mr Knightley, no such thing! she has become another creature, why, when she comes back from a ride, her cheeks are positively pink, and she chatters on in a manner you would scarcely credit; we were used to hope, you know, that Jane and little Emma Woodhouse would be great friends, but,” (with a sigh) “the difference in their situations, I suppose … Well, as I was saying, in the general way Jane, you may not be aware, is rather silent, not a talkative child, not like myself, I am rather a talker, you know, my tongue runs on, but after one of her rides with you, Jane chatters on in a manner you would — which is so very —; and her having learned to ride may, I dare say, stand her in excellent stead, for she is bound, poor thing, to earn her living as a governess, circumstanced as she is, we see no help for it; and if she can ride horseback, why then, should she be fortunate enough to obtain a good position with a superior household, she would be able to accompany her charges on horseback, if that should be required of her.”

  Accepting defeat after the episode of the riding lessons, Mr Knightley gave up his attempts to inculcate a friendship between Jane Fairfax and Emma Woodhouse.

  From that time on, it was rare for the two girls to exchange half a dozen words in the course of a year; Emma took care to keep herself removed from Jane’s path on music-lesson days, Jane came and went as softly as a ghost; and if, by chance, the two encountered one another in the village, each one would keep to her own side of the street, and pretend that the other was not there.

  Chapter 2

  When Jane Fairfax attained the age of eight, it became her proud duty to run along, every morning, to the post office, past the Crown
Inn, and the butcher’s shop, and Ford’s the draper’s, and the baker, and the blacksmith, to fetch the mail. Very seldom was there much to bring back, for the Bates ladies were growing old, and had few correspondents, beyond some second cousins in Shropshire who rarely found occasion to put pen to paper. But the morning air and exercise was thought salutary for Jane, who had recently begun to grow apace, continually requiring to have the tucks taken out of Isabella Woodhouse’s cast-off pelisses, but who, if left to her own volition, would probably have spent the major part of her time indoors, practising the piano up at Hartfield.

  One breakfast-time she returned in triumph waving a large white envelope.

  “Who in the world can it be from?” puzzled old Mrs Bates, peering over the rims of her spectacles. “It is, to be sure, a hand that I do recollect to have seen before, but I cannot at this time recall precisely when or where. Open the seal with great care, Hetty, so that you do not tear any of the writing inside.”

  The letter, fortunately, was not a long one, for it was read and exclaimed over so many times during the next few days, by the Bates ladies and their friends and neighbours, that there was hardly time for any other occupation.

  “Mrs and Miss Bates have had a very kind, friendly offer,” said Mr Knightley, reporting on the matter to Mr Woodhouse. “They discussed it with Mr Pryor; and he advised them that they should have no hesitation at all in accepting, after he had talked it over with me. And I have said the same thing to Miss Bates. It would be decidedly for the child’s material advantage. I knew that you would be most cordially interested, my dear sir, since you have given such notable help in the matter of music lessons.”

  “Ay, so I have; poor Mary wished it, and I have always continued to carry out her wishes. The music lessons will be of sovereign value to the poor girl in time to come. But what precisely was the offer, Mr Knightley?”

  “Yes, what was it?” demanded Isabella eagerly, while Emma cried out with sparkling eyes, “Has somebody left Jane Fairfax a fortune, Mr Knightley?”