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Title: Emma



Author: Jane Austen



Release date: August 1, 1994 [eBook #158]

                Most recently updated: August 15, 2025



Language: English



Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger





*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMMA ***









Emma



by Jane Austen





Contents



 VOLUME I.

 CHAPTER I.

 CHAPTER II.

 CHAPTER III.

 CHAPTER IV.

 CHAPTER V.

 CHAPTER VI.

 CHAPTER VII.

 CHAPTER VIII.

 CHAPTER IX.

 CHAPTER X.

 CHAPTER XI.

 CHAPTER XII.

 CHAPTER XIII.

 CHAPTER XIV.

 CHAPTER XV.

 CHAPTER XVI.

 CHAPTER XVII.

 CHAPTER XVIII.



 VOLUME II.

 CHAPTER I.

 CHAPTER II.

 CHAPTER III.

 CHAPTER IV.

 CHAPTER V.

 CHAPTER VI.

 CHAPTER VII.

 CHAPTER VIII.

 CHAPTER IX.

 CHAPTER X.

 CHAPTER XI.

 CHAPTER XII.

 CHAPTER XIII.

 CHAPTER XIV.

 CHAPTER XV.

 CHAPTER XVI.

 CHAPTER XVII.

 CHAPTER XVIII.



 VOLUME III.

 CHAPTER I.

 CHAPTER II.

 CHAPTER III.

 CHAPTER IV.

 CHAPTER V.

 CHAPTER VI.

 CHAPTER VII.

 CHAPTER VIII.

 CHAPTER IX.

 CHAPTER X.

 CHAPTER XI.

 CHAPTER XII.

 CHAPTER XIII.

 CHAPTER XIV.

 CHAPTER XV.

 CHAPTER XVI.

 CHAPTER XVII.

 CHAPTER XVIII.

 CHAPTER XIX.









VOLUME I









CHAPTER I





Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and

happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of

existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very

little to distress or vex her.



She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,

indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister’s marriage,

been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother had

died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance

of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman

as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.



Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s family, less as a

governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly

of Emma. Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even

before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,

the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any

restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they

had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,

and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s

judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.



The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the power of having

rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too

well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to

her many enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so

unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with

her.



Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any

disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor’s

loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this

beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any

continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father

and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to

cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after

dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she

had lost.



The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was

a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and

pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with

what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and

promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want

of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her

past kindness—the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had

taught and how she had played with her from five years old—how she had

devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how nursed

her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of

gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,

the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed

Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a

dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such

as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing

all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and

peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of

hers—one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had

such an affection for her as could never find fault.



How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her friend was going

only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the

difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a

Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and

domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual

solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her.

He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.



The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had

not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;

for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind

or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though

everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable

temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.



Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being

settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily

reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled

through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from

Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,

and give her pleasant society again.



Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,

to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and

name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were

first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many

acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but

not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for

even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but

sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,

and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He

was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was

used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.

Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was

by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor could

ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a

match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor

too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able

to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he

was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for

herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she

had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and

chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but

when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had

said at dinner,



“Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that

Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”



“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a

good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a

good wife;—and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for

ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her

own?”



“A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a house of her own?

This is three times as large.—And you have never any odd humours, my

dear.”



“How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us!—We

shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay wedding

visit very soon.”



“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could

not walk half so far.”



“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage,

to be sure.”



“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a

little way;—and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our

visit?”



“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we have

settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last

night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going

to Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only

doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing,

papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you

mentioned her—James is so obliged to you!”



“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not

have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am

sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken

girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always

curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you

have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock

of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an

excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor

to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes

over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will

be able to tell her how we all are.”



Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and

hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through

the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The

backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards

walked in and made it unnecessary.



Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not

only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly

connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived

about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,

and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their

mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after

some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were

well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr.

Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which

always did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and

her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr.

Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley,

to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must

have had a shocking walk.”



“Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I

must draw back from your great fire.”



“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not

catch cold.”



“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”



“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain

here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at

breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”



“By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what

sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my

congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you

all behave? Who cried most?”



“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ’Tis a sad business.”



“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say

‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it

comes to the question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it

must be better to have only one to please than two.”



“Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome

creature!” said Emma playfully. “That is what you have in your head, I

know—and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”



“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, with

a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”



“My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.

Knightley to mean _you_. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only

myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know—in a

joke—it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”



Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults

in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and

though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it

would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him

really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by

every body.



“Emma knows I never flatter her,” said Mr. Knightley, “but I meant no

reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons

to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be

a gainer.”



“Well,” said Emma, willing to let it pass—“you want to hear about the

wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved

charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:

not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that

we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting

every day.”



“Dear Emma bears every thing so well,” said her father. “But, Mr.

Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am

sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for.”



Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles. “It is

impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion,” said Mr.

Knightley. “We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could

suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s

advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s

time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to

her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow

herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor

must be glad to have her so happily married.”



“And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,” said Emma, “and a

very considerable one—that I made the match myself. I made the match,

you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in

the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,

may comfort me for any thing.”



Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly replied, “Ah! my

dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for

whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more

matches.”



“I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for

other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such

success, you know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry

again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who

seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied

either in his business in town or among his friends here, always

acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful—Mr. Weston need not spend

a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr.

Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a

promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the

uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the

subject, but I believed none of it.



“Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss Taylor and I met

with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted

away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from

Farmer Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the

match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this

instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off

match-making.”



“I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’” said Mr. Knightley.

“Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately

spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring

about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But

if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it,

means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, ‘I

think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were

to marry her,’ and saying it again to yourself every now and then

afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit? What are

you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that can be

said.”



“And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?—I

pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, depend upon it a lucky guess is

never merely luck. There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor

word ‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so

entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures;

but I think there may be a third—a something between the do-nothing and

the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given

many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might

not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield

enough to comprehend that.”



“A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,

unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their

own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than

good to them, by interference.”



“Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others,” rejoined

Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. “But, my dear, pray do not

make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one’s family

circle grievously.”



“Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.

Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in

Highbury who deserves him—and he has been here a whole year, and has

fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have

him single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their hands

to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same

kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is

the only way I have of doing him a service.”



“Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good

young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to shew

him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.

That will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so

kind as to meet him.”



“With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,” said Mr. Knightley,

laughing, “and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better

thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish

and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a

man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.”









CHAPTER II





Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,

which for the last two or three generations had been rising into

gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on

succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed

for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,

and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by

entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.



Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his

military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great

Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was

surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and

who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would

offend.



Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her

fortune—though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate—was

not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the

infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off

with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce

much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had

a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing

due to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;

but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had

resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother, but

not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s

unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.

They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison

of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at

once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.



Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,

as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of

the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he

was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.

From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy

had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his

mother’s, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.

Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young

creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge

of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some

reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they

were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the

care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort

to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.



A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and

engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in

London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which

brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,

where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful

occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty

years of his life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time,

realised an easy competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little

estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for—enough to

marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according

to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.



It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his

schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it

had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could

purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;

but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were

accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained

his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every

probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had

never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,

even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful

a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the

pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be

chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.



He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;

for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his

uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume

the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,

therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance. His father

had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and

governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to

imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear,

and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in

London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine

young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was

looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and

prospects a kind of common concern.



Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively

curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little

returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit

his father had been often talked of but never achieved.



Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a

most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not

a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea

with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the

visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and

the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his

new mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in

Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had

received. “I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank

Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very

handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw

the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his

life.”



It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,

formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing

attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most

welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation

which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most

fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate

she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial

separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and

who could ill bear to part with her.



She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without

pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui,

from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble

character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would

have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped

would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and

privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance

of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female

walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and circumstances, which would

make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the

evenings in the week together.



Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.

Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction—her more

than satisfaction—her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,

that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize

at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her

at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away

in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her

own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh,

and saying, “Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.”



There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of ceasing to

pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.

The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by

being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which

had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach could

bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be

different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as

unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade

them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as

earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He had been at the

pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr.

Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were

one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and upon being applied to,

he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias

of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with

many—perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an

opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence

every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;

and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.



There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being

seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.

Woodhouse would never believe it.









CHAPTER III





Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to

have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes, from

his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune,

his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own

little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much

intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of late

hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any acquaintance

but such as would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him,

Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in

the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many

such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some of the

chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what he

preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to

company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could

not make up a card-table for him.



Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and

by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege

of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the

elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles

of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.



After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were

Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at

the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and

carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for

either James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it

would have been a grievance.



Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old

lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille. She lived with her

single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all the

regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward

circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree

of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.

Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having

much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to

make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into

outward respect. She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her

youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was

devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a

small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and

a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal

good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved

every body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to

every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and

surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good

neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The

simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful

spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to

herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly

suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless

gossip.



Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a seminary, or an

establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of

refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant

morality, upon new principles and new systems—and where young ladies

for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but a

real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable

quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where

girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into

a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs.

Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for Highbury

was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and

garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about

a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with

her own hands. It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now

walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman,

who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself entitled to

the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly owed much to

Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her

neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win

or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.



These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to

collect; and happy was she, for her father’s sake, in the power;

though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the

absence of Mrs. Weston. She was delighted to see her father look

comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things

so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that

every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had

fearfully anticipated.



As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the

present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most

respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most

welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew

very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her

beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no

longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.



Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed

her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and somebody had

lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of

parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.

She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and

was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young

ladies who had been at school there with her.



She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort

which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a

fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of

great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much

pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to

continue the acquaintance.



She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s

conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not

inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk—and yet so far from pushing,

shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly

grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by

the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had

been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.

Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes, and all those

natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of

Highbury and its connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed

were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just parted, though

very good sort of people, must be doing her harm. They were a family of

the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a

large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very

creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought highly of

them—but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the

intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and

elegance to be quite perfect. _She_ would notice her; she would improve

her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her

into good society; she would form her opinions and her manners. It

would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly

becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and powers.



She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and

listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the

evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which

always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and

watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to

the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the common

impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of

doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a

mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of

the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped

oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the

early hours and civil scruples of their guests.



Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were in sad warfare.

He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his

youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him

rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality

would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their

health made him grieve that they would eat.



Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he

could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might

constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer

things, to say:



“Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs. An egg

boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Serle understands boiling an egg

better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body

else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of

our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a

_little_ bit of tart—a _very_ little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts. You

need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the

custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a glass of wine? A

_small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think it

could disagree with you.”



Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visitors in a much

more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular

pleasure in sending them away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was

quite equal to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage

in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much

panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with

highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which

Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken

hands with her at last!









CHAPTER IV





Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled thing. Quick

and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging,

and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance

increased, so did their satisfaction in each other. As a walking

companion, Emma had very early foreseen how useful she might find her.

In that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her father never

went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of the ground sufficed

him for his long walk, or his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs.

Weston’s marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She had

ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet

Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk,

would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every respect,

as she saw more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all her

kind designs.



Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful

disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be

guided by any one she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was

very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of

appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want

of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.

Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the

young friend she wanted—exactly the something which her home required.

Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could

never be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a different

sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston was

the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.

Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful. For Mrs.

Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.



Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who

were the parents, but Harriet could not tell. She was ready to tell

every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain. Emma

was obliged to fancy what she liked—but she could never believe that in

the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth. Harriet

had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and believe just

what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.



Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the

school in general, formed naturally a great part of the

conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of

Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole. But the Martins occupied

her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with

them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe

the many comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her

talkativeness—amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and

enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much

exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having “_two_ parlours, two very good

parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s

drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived

five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of

them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch

cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it

should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome

summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to

drink tea:—a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen

people.”



For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate

cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings

arose. She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and

daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it

appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was

always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing

something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.

Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little

friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were

not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.



With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and

meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,

and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to

speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry

evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very

good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in

order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was

of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his

shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.

She was very fond of singing. He could sing a little himself. She

believed he was very clever, and understood every thing. He had a very

fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his

wool than any body in the country. She believed every body spoke well

of him. His mother and sisters were very fond of him. Mrs. Martin had

told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was

impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,

whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she

_wanted_ him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.



“Well done, Mrs. Martin!” thought Emma. “You know what you are about.”



“And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send

Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever

seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three

teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with

her.”



“Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of

his own business? He does not read?”



“Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he has read a good

deal—but not what you would think any thing of. He reads the

Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the

window seats—but he reads all _them_ to himself. But sometimes of an

evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of

the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read the

Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The

Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I

mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he

can.”



The next question was—



“What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”



“Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him very plain at

first, but I do not think him so plain now. One does not, you know,

after a time. But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now

and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to

Kingston. He has passed you very often.”



“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having

any idea of his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,

is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are

precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to

do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest

me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.

But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense,

as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.”



“To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed

him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”



“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man. I know,

indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well. What do you imagine

his age to be?”



“He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the

23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—which is very odd.”



“Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is

perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as

they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would

probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort

of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it

might be very desirable.”



“Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!”



“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are

not born to an independence. Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune

entirely to make—cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever

money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of

the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his

stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may

be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised

any thing yet.”



“To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no

indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks

of taking a boy another year.”



“I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does

marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife—for though his

sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected

to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you

to notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly

careful as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a

gentleman’s daughter, and you must support your claim to that station

by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people

who would take pleasure in degrading you.”



“Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at Hartfield,

and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any

body can do.”



“You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I

would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be

independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you

permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to

have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if

you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you

may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted

with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer’s daughter,

without education.”



“To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any body

but what had had some education—and been very well brought up. However,

I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours—and I am sure I shall

not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have a great

regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and should be very

sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well educated as me. But

if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not

visit her, if I can help it.”



Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no

alarming symptoms of love. The young man had been the first admirer,

but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no

serious difficulty, on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly

arrangement of her own.



They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the

Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at

her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was

not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few

yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye

sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very

neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had no

other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen, she

thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet’s

inclination. Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily

noticed her father’s gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.

Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.



They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be

kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,

and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to

compose.



“Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very odd! It was quite a

chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls. He did not

think we ever walked this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls

most days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.

He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot

it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd we should happen to meet!

Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think

of him? Do you think him so very plain?”



“He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but that is nothing

compared with his entire want of gentility. I had no right to expect

much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so

very clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a

degree or two nearer gentility.”



“To be sure,” said Harriet, in a mortified voice, “he is not so genteel

as real gentlemen.”



“I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been

repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you

must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin. At

Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred

men. I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in

company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very

inferior creature—and rather wondering at yourself for having ever

thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin to feel that now?

Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his awkward

look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to

be wholly unmodulated as I stood here.”



“Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such a fine air

and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the difference plain enough.

But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!”



“Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to

compare Mr. Martin with _him_. You might not see one in a hundred with

_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley. But he is not the

only gentleman you have been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston

and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_. Compare their

manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; of being

silent. You must see the difference.”



“Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is almost an old

man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty.”



“Which makes his good manners the more valuable. The older a person

grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not

be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or

awkwardness becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later

age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.

Weston’s time of life?”



“There is no saying, indeed,” replied Harriet rather solemnly.



“But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a completely gross,

vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of

nothing but profit and loss.”



“Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.”



“How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the

circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.

He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing

else—which is just as it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to

do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a very

rich man in time—and his being illiterate and coarse need not disturb

_us_.”



“I wonder he did not remember the book”—was all Harriet’s answer, and

spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be

safely left to itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her

next beginning was,



“In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are superior to Mr.

Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more gentleness. They might be

more safely held up as a pattern. There is an openness, a quickness,

almost a bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in _him_,

because there is so much good-humour with it—but that would not do to

be copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding

sort of manner, though it suits _him_ very well; his figure, and look,

and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any young man were to

set about copying him, he would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I

think a young man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as

a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and gentle. He

seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of late. I do not know

whether he has any design of ingratiating himself with either of us,

Harriet, by additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are

softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to

please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?”



She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from

Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled,

and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.



Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young

farmer out of Harriet’s head. She thought it would be an excellent

match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her

to have much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every body

else must think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any

body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had

entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet’s coming to

Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of

its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suitable, quite the

gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of

any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.

He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient

income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known

to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him

as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any

deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.



She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful

girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was

foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet’s there could be little

doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual

weight and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a

young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He was reckoned

very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,

there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense

with:—but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin’s riding

about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered

by Mr. Elton’s admiration.









CHAPTER V





“I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr.

Knightley, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but

I think it a bad thing.”



“A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?—why so?”



“I think they will neither of them do the other any good.”



“You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with

a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have

been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very

differently we feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This

will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.

Knightley.”



“Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing

Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle.”



“Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he

thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were speaking of it only

yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there

should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr.

Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You

are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a

companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a

woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to

it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is

not the superior young woman which Emma’s friend ought to be. But on

the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an

inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She

means it, I know.”



“Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years

old. I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times

of books that she meant to read regularly through—and very good lists

they were—very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes

alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she drew up

when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did her judgment so much

credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made

out a very good list now. But I have done with expecting any course of

steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requiring

industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the

understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely

affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.—You never could persuade her

to read half so much as you wished.—You know you could not.”



“I dare say,” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “that I thought so

_then_;—but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma’s omitting

to do any thing I wished.”



“There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as _that_,”—said

Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had done. “But I,”

he soon added, “who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must

still see, hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest

of her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being able

to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was

always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since

she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In

her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits

her mother’s talents, and must have been under subjection to her.”



“I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_

recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s family and wanted another

situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to

any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.”



“Yes,” said he, smiling. “You are better placed _here_; very fit for a

wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself

to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might

not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to

promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on

the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and

doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a

wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.”



“Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a good wife to

such a man as Mr. Weston.”



“Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and

that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne.

We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness

of comfort, or his son may plague him.”



“I hope not _that_.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not

foretell vexation from that quarter.”



“Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma’s

genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the

young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.—But

Harriet Smith—I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the

very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows

nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing. She is a

flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned.

Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any

thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful

inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that _she_

cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of

conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just

refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and

circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s

doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl

adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in

life.—They only give a little polish.”



“I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you do, or am more

anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.

How well she looked last night!”



“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very

well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s being pretty.”



“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect

beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”



“I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom

seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial

old friend.”



“Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! regular features,

open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,

and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!

There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her

glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health;’

now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of

grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”



“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her

all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,

that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome

she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies

another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of

Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”



“And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not

doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little faults, she is an

excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder

sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be

trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no

lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred

times.”



“Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be an angel, and

I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and

Isabella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind

affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not

quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of having their

opinions with me.”



“I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;

but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,

you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s

mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any

possible good can arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a

matter of much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but supposing any

little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be

expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly

approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a

source of pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province to

give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this

little remains of office.”



“Not at all,” cried he; “I am much obliged to you for it. It is very

good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often

found; for it shall be attended to.”



“Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about

her sister.”



“Be satisfied,” said he, “I will not raise any outcry. I will keep my

ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Isabella

does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest;

perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one

feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her!”



“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently, “very much.”



“She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just

nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she

cared for. It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love

with a proper object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some

doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts

to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.”



“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her

resolution at present,” said Mrs. Weston, “as can well be; and while

she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any

attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr.

Woodhouse’s account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma,

though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you.”



Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own

and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as much as possible. There were wishes

at Randalls respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have

them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon

afterwards made to “What does Weston think of the weather; shall we

have rain?” convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise

about Hartfield.









CHAPTER VI





Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fancy a proper

direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good

purpose, for she found her decidedly more sensible than before of Mr.

Elton’s being a remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;

and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his

admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of

creating as much liking on Harriet’s side, as there could be any

occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton’s being in the

fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. She had no

scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so

warmly, that she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little

time would not add. His perception of the striking improvement of

Harriet’s manner, since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of

the least agreeable proofs of his growing attachment.



“You have given Miss Smith all that she required,” said he; “you have

made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful creature when she came

to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are

infinitely superior to what she received from nature.”



“I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted

drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints. She had all the

natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself. I have

done very little.”



“If it were admissible to contradict a lady,” said the gallant Mr.

Elton—



“I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have

taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before.”



“Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much superadded

decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!”



“Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with a disposition

more truly amiable.”



“I have no doubt of it.” And it was spoken with a sort of sighing

animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She was not less pleased

another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish of hers,

to have Harriet’s picture.



“Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?” said she: “did you

ever sit for your picture?”



Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,

with a very interesting naïveté,



“Oh! dear, no, never.”



No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,



“What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would

give any money for it. I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.

You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great

passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and

was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one cause or

another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost venture,

if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such a delight to have her

picture!”



“Let me entreat you,” cried Mr. Elton; “it would indeed be a delight!

Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in

favour of your friend. I know what your drawings are. How could you

suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your

landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable

figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?”



Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that to do with taking

likenesses? You know nothing of drawing. Don’t pretend to be in

raptures about mine. Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face. “Well, if

you give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try

what I can do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a

likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the

eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch.”



“Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth—I have

not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray attempt it. As you will do it,

it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession.”



“But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. She thinks

so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe her manner of

answering me? How completely it meant, ‘why should my picture be

drawn?’”



“Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. But still

I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.”



Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;

and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the

earnest pressing of both the others. Emma wished to go to work

directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various

attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that

they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her many

beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths,

pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had

always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in

drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as

she would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in almost every

style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had she

approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad to

command, and ought not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as

to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not

unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for

accomplishment often higher than it deserved.



There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished, perhaps the

most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had

there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two

companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A

likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be

capital.



“No great variety of faces for you,” said Emma. “I had only my own

family to study from. There is my father—another of my father—but the

idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could only

take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston

again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my

kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I asked her.

There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure!—and

the face not unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she

would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have me draw her

four children that she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my

attempts at three of those four children;—there they are, Henry and

John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of

them might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have them

drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making children of three

or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be very easy to take

any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are

coarser featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is my

sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he was sleeping on

the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as you would

wish to see. He had nestled down his head most conveniently. That’s

very like. I am rather proud of little George. The corner of the sofa

is very good. Then here is my last,”—unclosing a pretty sketch of a

gentleman in small size, whole-length—“my last and my best—my brother,

Mr. John Knightley.—This did not want much of being finished, when I

put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take another likeness. I

could not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had

really made a very good likeness of it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite

agreed in thinking it _very_ like)—only too handsome—too flattering—but

that was a fault on the right side”—after all this, came poor dear

Isabella’s cold approbation of—“Yes, it was a little like—but to be

sure it did not do him justice. We had had a great deal of trouble in

persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great favour of; and

altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I never would finish

it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to every

morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then

forswear ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet’s sake, or rather

for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case _at_

_present_, I will break my resolution now.”



Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and

was repeating, “No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as

you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,” with so interesting a

consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better

leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the

declaration must wait a little longer.



She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a

whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley’s, and was

destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable

station over the mantelpiece.



The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not

keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of

youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no

doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every

touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze

and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to

it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her

to employ him in reading.



“If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness

indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen

the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.”



Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace.

She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing

less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready

at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the

progress, and be charmed.—There was no being displeased with such an

encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost

before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and

his complaisance were unexceptionable.



The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough

pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want

of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant

to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more

height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its

being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its

destined place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the

beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with

as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton’s very promising

attachment was likely to add.



Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,

entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.



“By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the

party.”



The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,

took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the

picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased,

but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every

criticism.



“Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she

wanted,”—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the least suspecting that

she was addressing a lover.—“The expression of the eye is most correct,

but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of

her face that she has them not.”



“Do you think so?” replied he. “I cannot agree with you. It appears to

me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a

likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.”



“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley.



Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly

added,



“Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider,

she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—which in short

gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know.

Proportions, fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of

such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!”



“It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as

your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so

well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she

seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her

shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.”



“But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.

Look at the tree.”



“But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.”



“You, sir, may say any thing,” cried Mr. Elton, “but I must confess

that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out

of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any

other situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of

Miss Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot

keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.”



The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a

few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London;

the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose

taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all

commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr.

Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in

the fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr.

Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.

“Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should

he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was

impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on

such an errand.”



“He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—she would not give

him such a troublesome office for the world,”—brought on the desired

repetition of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes settled

the business.



Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give

the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its

safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of

not being incommoded enough.



“What a precious deposit!” said he with a tender sigh, as he received

it.



“This man is almost too gallant to be in love,” thought Emma. “I should

say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of

being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet

exactly; it will be an ‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he does

sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could

endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.

But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.”









CHAPTER VII





The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh occasion

for Emma’s services towards her friend. Harriet had been at Hartfield,

as usual, soon after breakfast; and, after a time, had gone home to

return again to dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked

of, and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something

extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half a

minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she got back to

Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there an hour before, and

finding she was not at home, nor particularly expected, had left a

little parcel for her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on

opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the two songs

which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this

letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct proposal

of marriage. “Who could have thought it? She was so surprized she did

not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very good

letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he really loved her

very much—but she did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she

could to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—” Emma was half-ashamed

of her friend for seeming so pleased and so doubtful.



“Upon my word,” she cried, “the young man is determined not to lose any

thing for want of asking. He will connect himself well if he can.”



“Will you read the letter?” cried Harriet. “Pray do. I’d rather you

would.”



Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was surprized. The

style of the letter was much above her expectation. There were not

merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have

disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and

unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of

the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment,

liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She paused over it,

while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a “Well,

well,” and was at last forced to add, “Is it a good letter? or is it

too short?”



“Yes, indeed, a very good letter,” replied Emma rather slowly—“so good

a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his

sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I

saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if

left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;

no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a

woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural

talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen in hand,

his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes,

I understand the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a

certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning

it,) than I had expected.”



“Well,” said the still waiting Harriet;—“well—and—and what shall I do?”



“What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this

letter?”



“Yes.”



“But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course—and

speedily.”



“Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me.”



“Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. You will

express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is no danger of your

not being intelligible, which is the first thing. Your meaning must be

unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and

concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will

present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded. You need

not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his

disappointment.”



“You think I ought to refuse him then,” said Harriet, looking down.



“Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any

doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been

under a mistake. I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you

feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer. I had imagined you

were consulting me only as to the wording of it.”



Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:



“You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.”



“No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do? What would you

advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to

do.”



“I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do

with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.”



“I had no notion that he liked me so very much,” said Harriet,

contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her

silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that

letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,



“I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as

to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to

refuse him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’ she ought to say ‘No’

directly. It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful

feelings, with half a heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and

older than yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I

want to influence you.”



“Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but if you would

just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I do not mean that—As you

say, one’s mind ought to be quite made up—One should not be

hesitating—It is a very serious thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’

perhaps.—Do you think I had better say ‘No?’”



“Not for the world,” said Emma, smiling graciously, “would I advise you

either way. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you

prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most

agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you

hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this

moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive

yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion. At this

moment whom are you thinking of?”



The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, Harriet turned away

confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the letter was

still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about without

regard. Emma waited the result with impatience, but not without strong

hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—



“Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as

well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really

almost made up my mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?”



“Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just

what you ought. While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings to

myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no hesitation

in approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have

grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the

consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the smallest

degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not

influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could

not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am

secure of you for ever.”



Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her

forcibly.



“You could not have visited me!” she cried, looking aghast. “No, to be

sure you could not; but I never thought of that before. That would have

been too dreadful!—What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not

give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any

thing in the world.”



“Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it

must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good society.

I must have given you up.”



“Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me

never to come to Hartfield any more!”



“Dear affectionate creature!—_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!—_You_

confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I

wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it. He must

have a pretty good opinion of himself.”



“I do not think he is conceited either, in general,” said Harriet, her

conscience opposing such censure; “at least, he is very good natured,

and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard

for—but that is quite a different thing from—and you know, though he

may like me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must

confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if one comes

to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at all,

_one_ is so very handsome and agreeable. However, I do really think Mr.

Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and

his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but as

to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any consideration.”



“Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We will not be

parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or

because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter.”



“Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.”



Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a “very

true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish

manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that

her husband could write a good letter.”



“Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always

happy with pleasant companions. I am quite determined to refuse him.

But how shall I do? What shall I say?”



Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and

advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of

her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any

assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every

sentence. The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had

such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace

her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much

concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of

what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious

that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the

young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been

accepted after all.



This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. The business

was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather low all the evening, but

Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them

by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the

idea of Mr. Elton.



“I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,” was said in rather a

sorrowful tone.



“Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet. You

are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to

Abbey-Mill.”



“And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy

but at Hartfield.”



Some time afterwards it was, “I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much

surprized if she knew what had happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for

Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a

linen-draper.”



“One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher

of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an

opportunity as this of being married. Even this conquest would appear

valuable in her eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she

is quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can hardly be

among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are

the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained

themselves.”



Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that

people should like her so much. The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly

cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards

the rejected Mr. Martin.



“Now he has got my letter,” said she softly. “I wonder what they are

all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is unhappy, they will be

unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it so very much.”



“Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully

employed,” cried Emma. “At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing

your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful

is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,

allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.”



“My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.”



“Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my dear little modest

Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street till

just before he mounts his horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this

evening, his solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family,

it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party those

pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm

prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy

their imaginations all are!”



Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.









CHAPTER VIII





Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been

spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a

bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in every

respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible

just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or

two to Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that she should

return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.



While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.

Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his

mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and

was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of

his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr.

Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his

short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies

and civil hesitations of the other.



“Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not

consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma’s advice and

go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had

better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony,

Mr. Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.”



“My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.”



“I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to

entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my

three turns—my winter walk.”



“You cannot do better, sir.”



“I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am

a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides,

you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.”



“Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think

the sooner _you_ go the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open

the garden door for you.”



Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being

immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more

chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more

voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.



“I cannot rate her beauty as you do,” said he; “but she is a pretty

little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her

disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good

hands she will turn out a valuable woman.”



“I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be

wanting.”



“Come,” said he, “you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you

that you have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl’s

giggle; she really does you credit.”



“Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had

been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where

they may. _You_ do not often overpower me with it.”



“You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?”



“Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she

intended.”



“Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps.”



“Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!”



“Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would.”



Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said

nothing. He presently added, with a smile,



“I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I

have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of

something to her advantage.”



“Indeed! how so? of what sort?”



“A very serious sort, I assure you;” still smiling.



“Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in love with her?

Who makes you their confidant?”



Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having dropt a hint.

Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew

Mr. Elton looked up to him.



“I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith will soon

have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable

quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this

summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and

means to marry her.”



“He is very obliging,” said Emma; “but is he sure that Harriet means to

marry him?”



“Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? He came to

the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it. He knows

I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I believe,

considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I

thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I

thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice

altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered

(especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line of society

above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear

better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the

purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every

thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed doing in

the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son

and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to

me that he could afford it; and that being the case, I was convinced he

could not do better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent

him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he

would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house

thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened

the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not

allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not

appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be

at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without

thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.”



“Pray, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, who had been smiling to herself

through a great part of this speech, “how do you know that Mr. Martin

did not speak yesterday?”



“Certainly,” replied he, surprized, “I do not absolutely know it; but

it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?”



“Come,” said she, “I will tell you something, in return for what you

have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was

refused.”



This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.

Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he

stood up, in tall indignation, and said,



“Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the

foolish girl about?”



“Oh! to be sure,” cried Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man

that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always

imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her.”



“Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the

meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is

so; but I hope you are mistaken.”



“I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.”



“You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is your

doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”



“And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not

feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man,

but I cannot admit him to be Harriet’s equal; and am rather surprized

indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he

does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever

got over.”



“Not Harriet’s equal!” exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and

with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, “No, he is not

her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in

situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are

Harriet Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any

connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of

nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and

certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as

parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a

girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too

young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she

can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely

ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good

tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on

his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him.

I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better;

and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do

worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to

trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of

disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led aright

and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on

her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now) that there

would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck. Even _your_

satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you

would not regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her

being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, ‘Even Emma, with

all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.’”



“I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say

any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all

his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate

friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man

whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you

should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you

mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair.

You are not just to Harriet’s claims. They would be estimated very

differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest

of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in

society.—The sphere in which she moves is much above his.—It would be a

degradation.”



“A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a

respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!”



“As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may

be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay

for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with

whom she is brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father

is a gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very

liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or

comfort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me; that

she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I apprehend, will

deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin.”



“Whoever might be her parents,” said Mr. Knightley, “whoever may have

had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of

their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.

After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs.

Goddard’s hands to shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs.

Goddard’s line, to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends

evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough.

She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a

friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition

beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.

She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given

it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would

never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not

being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling

to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to

conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it

he had encouragement.”



It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this

assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject

again.



“You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are

unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well are not so

contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl, but she

has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have

her understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point,

however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and

good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them,

they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she

is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine

people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more

philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed;

till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome

faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of

being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from

among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is

not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough

sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a

great readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much

mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such

temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”



“Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost

enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply

it as you do.”



“To be sure!” cried she playfully. “I know _that_ is the feeling of you

all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man

delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his

judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to

marry, she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen, just

entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at

because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let

her have time to look about her.”



“I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,” said Mr. Knightley

presently, “though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now

perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet. You will

puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a

claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good

enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of

mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations

too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so

fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may

chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very

fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity—and most

prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they

might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be

revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable,

and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry

greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of

consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs.

Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is

a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate, and

is glad to catch at the old writing-master’s son.”



“We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there

can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more

angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is

impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must

prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having

refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will

not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I

assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do. His

appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she

ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that

before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him. He was

the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and

altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great

assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him

disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen

are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance

with Harriet.”



“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” cried Mr.

Knightley.—“Robert Martin’s manners have sense, sincerity, and

good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility

than Harriet Smith could understand.”



Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was

really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She

did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better

judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;

but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,

which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him

sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.

Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt

on Emma’s side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was

thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.



“Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; and I hope it

will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known

to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it

is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as

a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it

will be all labour in vain.”



Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,



“Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,

and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make

an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as any

body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is

as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s.

He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite

wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved

moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does

not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great

animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are

intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.”



“I am very much obliged to you,” said Emma, laughing again. “If I had

set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Harriet, it would have been very

kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to

myself. I have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope to

equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”



“Good morning to you,”—said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was

very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was

mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he

had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the

affair, was provoking him exceedingly.



Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more

indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his. She did not always

feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that

her opinions were right and her adversary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He

walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She

was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time and

the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet’s

staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility

of the young man’s coming to Mrs. Goddard’s that morning, and meeting

with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread

of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and when

Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any such

reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which

settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.

Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which

woman’s friendship and woman’s feelings would not justify.



He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered

that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither

with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite

of Mr. Knightley’s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on

such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger,

she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished

resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. He certainly

might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever

done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent, inconsiderate

disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be rather attentive

than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due

allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all

interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course

thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel a

doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable prudence

might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming degree

of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.



Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not

to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been

telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great

delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child,

and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was

coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and

found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to

London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the

whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.

Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it

was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much

to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not

do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_

_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would

not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very

enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly

precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very

sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr.

Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great

spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal

more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,

“that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but

she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should

think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton

had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness.”









CHAPTER IX





Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with

herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual

before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave

looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not

repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more

justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next

few days.



The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.

Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common

sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half

sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s

feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and

steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was

soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise remembered,

than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage

to the latter.



Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great deal of

useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few

first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much

easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination

range and work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge

her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary

pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she

was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing

all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin

quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with

ciphers and trophies.



In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are

not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written

out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint

of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many

more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as

Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of

the first order, in form as well as quantity.



Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the

girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting

in. “So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young—he

wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.”

And it always ended in “Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.”



His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did

not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had

desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,

something, he thought, might come from that quarter.



It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects of Highbury

in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one

whose assistance she asked. He was invited to contribute any really

good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she

had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his

recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most

earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe

a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their

two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at

last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known

charade,



My first doth affliction denote,

    Which my second is destin’d to feel

And my whole is the best antidote

    That affliction to soften and heal.—





made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some

pages ago already.



“Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?” said she;

“that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be

easier to you.”



“Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his

life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse”—he

stopt a moment—“or Miss Smith could inspire him.”



The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration. He called

for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table

containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed

to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his

manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.



“I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,” said he. “Being my

friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,

but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it.”



The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could

understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it

easier to meet her eye than her friend’s. He was gone the next

moment:—after another moment’s pause,



“Take it,” said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards

Harriet—“it is for you. Take your own.”



But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never

loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.



To Miss——





CHARADE.





My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,

    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

Another view of man, my second brings,

    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!



But ah! united, what reverse we have!

    Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;

Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,

    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.



    Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,

    May its approval beam in that soft eye!





She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through

again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then

passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,

while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope

and dulness, “Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse

charades. _Courtship_—a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This

is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly—‘Pray, Miss Smith,

give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Approve my charade and my

intentions in the same glance.’



May its approval beam in that soft eye!





Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the

justest that could be given.



Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.





Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much in

love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the

benefit of this; I think this would convince you. For once in your life

you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade

indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon

now.”



She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,

which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the

eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions.



“What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an idea—I

cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find

it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is

it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was—and who could be the young

lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?



And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.





Can it be Neptune?



Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!





Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one

syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it. Oh!

Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?”



“Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking

of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a

friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.



For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.



My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,

    Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.





That is _court_.



Another view of man, my second brings;

    Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!





That is _ship_;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.



But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!

    Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown.

Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,

    And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.





A very proper compliment!—and then follows the application, which I

think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in

comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of

its being written for you and to you.”



Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the

concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not

speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel.

Emma spoke for her.



“There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,”

said she, “that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton’s intentions. You

are his object—and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I

thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now,

it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my

wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet,

just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen that

has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and

Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its

eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very happy. I

congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an

attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a

connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you every thing

that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix

you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to

me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance

which can never raise a blush in either of us.”



“Dear Miss Woodhouse!”—and “Dear Miss Woodhouse,” was all that Harriet,

with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they did

arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear

to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as

she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.



“Whatever you say is always right,” cried Harriet, “and therefore I

suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not

have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton,

who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about _him_. He

is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss ———.’

Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant for me?”



“I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a

certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the

play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by

matter-of-fact prose.”



“It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure, a

month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The strangest things do take

place!”



“When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they do indeed—and

really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so

evidently, so palpably desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of

other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.

You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one

another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying

will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be a

something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right

direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.



The course of true love never did run smooth—





A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that

passage.”



“That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, of all people,

who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very

handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,

quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body

says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;

that he has more invitations than there are days in the week. And so

excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has

ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back

to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!—The two Abbots and

I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he

was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look

through herself; however, she called me back presently, and let me look

too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he

looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.”



“This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your friends may be, must

be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we

are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to

see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives

every assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same

country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will

be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the

common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the

respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy

them.”



“Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you. You

understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the

other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never have

made any thing like it.”



“I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it

yesterday.”



“I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read.”



“I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.”



“It is as long again as almost all we have had before.”



“I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such

things in general cannot be too short.”



Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory

comparisons were rising in her mind.



“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have

very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is

any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you

must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like

this.”



Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s

prose.



“Such sweet lines!” continued Harriet—“these two last!—But how shall I

ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss

Woodhouse, what can we do about that?”



“Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare

say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will

pass between us, and you shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall

chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me.”



“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful

charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good.”



“Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should

not write it into your book.”



“Oh! but those two lines are”—



—“The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and for private

enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,

because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its

meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases, and a

very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend

upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better

than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities,

or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can

be no possible reflection on you.”



Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so

as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a

declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree

of publicity.



“I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,” said she.



“Very well,” replied Emma; “a most natural feeling; and the longer it

lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming: you

will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him

so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any

thing that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of

gallantry towards us all!—You must let me read it to him.”



Harriet looked grave.



“My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.—You

will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too

quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning

which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little

tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not

have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me

than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has

encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over

this charade.”



“Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please.”



Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the

recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of “Well, my dears, how does

your book go on?—Have you got any thing fresh?”



“Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh. A

piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose,

by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied

it in.”



She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and

distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every

part as she proceeded—and he was very much pleased, and, as she had

foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.



“Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very true.

‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can

easily guess what fairy brought it.—Nobody could have written so

prettily, but you, Emma.”



Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, and a very

tender sigh, he added,



“Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother

was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can

remember nothing;—not even that particular riddle which you have heard

me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are

several.



Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,

    Kindled a flame I yet deplore,

The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,

Though of his near approach afraid,

    So fatal to my suit before.





And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clever all

the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it.”



“Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the

Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.”



“Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.



Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.





The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being

christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall have her here

next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what

room there will be for the children?”



“Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room she always

has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—just as usual, you

know. Why should there be any change?”



“I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was here!—not since

last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a

lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away

from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss

Taylor here!”



“She will not be surprized, papa, at least.”



“I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized when I

first heard she was going to be married.”



“We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is

here.”



“Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed tone)—she is

coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing.”



“It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it seems a case of

necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and we

ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time

they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be

taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim

this Christmas—though you know it is longer since they were with him,

than with us.”



“It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be

anywhere but at Hartfield.”



Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s claims on his

brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat

musing a little while, and then said,



“But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so

soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to

stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well.”



“Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I do

not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her

husband.”



This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse

could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits affected

by the idea of his daughter’s attachment to her husband, she

immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.



“Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my

brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the

children. We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I wonder

which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?”



“Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be

to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet.”



“I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not.”



“Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the

eldest, he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,

is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe, that

the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I

thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They

are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will

come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit

of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives

were only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough with

them very often.”



“He appears rough to you,” said Emma, “because you are so very gentle

yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not

think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they

misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an

affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate

father. The children are all fond of him.”



“And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a

very frightful way!”



“But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. It is such

enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of

their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other.”



“Well, I cannot understand it.”



“That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot

understand the pleasures of the other.”



Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in

preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, the hero of this

inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away; but Emma could

receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in

his the consciousness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and

she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible

reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made

up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest

degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give

way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his

dining with him—had made such a point of it, that he had promised him

conditionally to come.



Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend

on their account; her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged—she

re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the

paper from the table, she returned it—



“Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;

thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have

ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection. Your friend will not

take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first

eight lines.”



Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked

rather doubtingly—rather confused; said something about

“honour,”—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open

on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively. With the

view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,



“You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must

not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman’s

approbation while he writes with such gallantry.”



“I have no hesitation in saying,” replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating

a good deal while he spoke; “I have no hesitation in saying—at least if

my friend feels at all as _I_ do—I have not the smallest doubt that,

could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking at

the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it as

the proudest moment of his life.”



After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think

it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a

sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to

laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and

the sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.









CHAPTER X





Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to

prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the

morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who

lived a little way out of Highbury.



Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane

leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street

of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of

Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then,

about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and

not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had

no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by the

present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no possibility

of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing

eyes.—Emma’s remark was—



“There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these

days.”—Harriet’s was—



“Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There are the yellow

curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.”



“I do not often walk this way _now_,” said Emma, as they proceeded,

“but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get

intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of

this part of Highbury.”



Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and

her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and

probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.

Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.



“I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think of any

tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire

about of his housekeeper—no message from my father.”



She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of

some minutes, Harriet thus began again—



“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or

going to be married! so charming as you are!”—



Emma laughed, and replied,



“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;

I must find other people charming—one other person at least. And I am

not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little

intention of ever marrying at all.”



“Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”



“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be

tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the

question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather

not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to

marry, I must expect to repent it.”



“Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—



“I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall

in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been

in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever

shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a

situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;

consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much

mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never,

never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always

first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my father’s.”



“But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!”



“That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I

thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly—so satisfied—so

smiling—so prosing—so undistinguishing and unfastidious—and so apt to

tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry

to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any

likeness, except in being unmarried.”



“But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dreadful!”



“Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty

only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public! A single

woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable

old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of

good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and

pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so much

against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first;

for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour

the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very

small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and

cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too

good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very

much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor. Poverty

certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if she had

only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away

sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a great charm.”



“Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you

grow old?”



“If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great

many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more

in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s

usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they

are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read

more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for

objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the

great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil

to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the

children of a sister I love so much, to care about. There will be

enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation

that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and

every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a

parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and

blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a niece with me.”



“Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you must have seen her

a hundred times—but are you acquainted?”



“Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to

Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of conceit

with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people

half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does about Jane

Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter

from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go

round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of

a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears

of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she

tires me to death.”



They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were

superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the poor

were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her

counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,

could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic

expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had

done so little; entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and

always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In

the present instance, it was sickness and poverty together which she

came to visit; and after remaining there as long as she could give

comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of

the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,



“These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make

every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but

these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how

soon it may all vanish from my mind?”



“Very true,” said Harriet. “Poor creatures! one can think of nothing

else.”



“And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,” said

Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended

the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them

into the lane again. “I do not think it will,” stopping to look once

more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still

greater within.



“Oh! dear, no,” said her companion.



They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was

passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma

time only to say farther,



“Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good

thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion

has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that

is truly important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we

can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to

ourselves.”



Harriet could just answer, “Oh! dear, yes,” before the gentleman joined

them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the

first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit

he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about what

could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to

accompany them.



“To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,” thought Emma;

“to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of

love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the

declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.”



Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon

afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one

side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had

not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet’s habits of

dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,

they would both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately

stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing

of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the

footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would

follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired; and by the time

she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the

comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from

the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to

fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and talk

to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would

have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without

design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead,

without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however,

involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather slow; and

she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently in a

conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with

animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,

having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw

back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged

to join them.



Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;

and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was

only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday’s party at

his friend Cole’s, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton

cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beet-root, and

all the dessert.



“This would soon have led to something better, of course,” was her

consoling reflection; “any thing interests between those who love; and

any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart. If I

could but have kept longer away!”



They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage

pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the

house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot,

and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off

short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged

to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself

to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.



“Part of my lace is gone,” said she, “and I do not know how I am to

contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I

hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to

stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or

string, or any thing just to keep my boot on.”



Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could

exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house

and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage. The room they

were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards;

behind it was another with which it immediately communicated; the door

between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to

receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged

to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr.

Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained

ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she

hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the

adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It

could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and

make her appearance.



The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most

favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of

having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to

the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told

Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them;

other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing

serious.



“Cautious, very cautious,” thought Emma; “he advances inch by inch, and

will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure.”



Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her

ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been

the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading

them forward to the great event.









CHAPTER XI





Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma’s power

to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her

sister’s family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation,

and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest;

and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be

expected—she did not herself expect—that any thing beyond occasional,

fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They

might advance rapidly if they would, however; they must advance somehow

or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more

leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the

less they will do for themselves.



Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent

from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual

interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had

been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays

of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it

was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by

their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not

be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and

who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in

forestalling this too short visit.



He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little

of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some

of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;

the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John

Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of

nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of

such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and

variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion

which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have

endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the

feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that

in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her

little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and

attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,

which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the

children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in

themselves or in any restless attendance on them.



Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle,

quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate;

wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so

tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher

ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a

fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or

any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited

also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health,

over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves,

and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be

of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper,

and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.



Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;

rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private

character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being

generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He

was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to

deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection;

and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that

any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme

sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and

quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an

ungracious, or say a severe thing.



He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong

in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to

Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have

passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister,

but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without

praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal

compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all

in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful

forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience

that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and

fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or

sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr.

John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and

generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often

for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the pain of

apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The

beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest

feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass

away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and

composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a

sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield

since she had been there last.



“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor—It is a grievous business.”



“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her!

And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss to you both!—I have been so

grieved for you.—I could not imagine how you could possibly do without

her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”



“Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not know but that the

place agrees with her tolerably.”



Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any

doubts of the air of Randalls.



“Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my

life—never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”



“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.



“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the

plaintive tone which just suited her father.



Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—“Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”



“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they

married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,

have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,

either at Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most

frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston

is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy

way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body

must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought

also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our

missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which

is the exact truth.”



“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped

it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not

be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all

easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of

the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and

now you have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”



“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse—“yes, certainly—I cannot deny

that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty

often—but then—she is always obliged to go away again.”



“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.—You quite

forget poor Mr. Weston.”



“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has

some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of

the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the

claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for

Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of

putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”



“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.—

“Are you talking about me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a

greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for

the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of

Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to

slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is

nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very

best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your

brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his

flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter—and ever

since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing

that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that

there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could

not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.—If any body

can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”



“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.









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. 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.



She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time

to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly had not been

in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had. Concession must be

out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had

ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration

of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the

children with her—the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months

old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to

be danced about in her aunt’s arms. 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 arms with

all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends

again; and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and

then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring

the baby,



“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and

nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;

but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”



“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and

women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings

with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might

always think alike.”



“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the

wrong.”



“Yes,” said he, smiling—“and reason good. I was sixteen years old when

you were born.”



“A material difference then,” she replied—“and no doubt you were much

my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the

lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal

nearer?”



“Yes—a good deal _nearer_.”



“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we

think differently.”



“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by

not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,

let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little

Emma, that she ought to set you a better example 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 Emma, grow up a better

woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.

Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good

intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects

on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know

that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”



“A man cannot be more so,” was his short, full answer.



“Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with me.”



This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John

Knightley made his appearance, and “How d’ye do, George?” and “John,

how are you?” succeeded in the true English style, burying under a

calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment 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 comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and

the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his

daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally

distinct, or very rarely mixing—and Emma only occasionally joining in

one or the other.



The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally

of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,

and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had

generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some

curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the

home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next

year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being

interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest

part of his life, and whose attachments 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 much equality of interest by John, as his cooler

manners 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 comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying 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 moments, her busy labours for some one of her

five children—“How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!

And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early,

my dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I

will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all

have a little gruel.”



Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both

the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as

herself;—and two basins only were ordered. After a little more

discourse in praise of gruel, with some 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, my dear, your spending the autumn at South

End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air.”



“Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—or we should not

have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for

the weakness in little Bella’s throat,—both sea air and bathing.”



“Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any

good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though

perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use

to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once.”



“Come, come,” cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, “I must

beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;—I

who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear

Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet;

and he never forgets you.”



“Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?”



“Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he

has not time to take care of himself—he tells me he has not time to

take care of himself—which is very sad—but he is always wanted all

round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice

anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man 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 my little ones.”



“I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask

him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,

you had better let him look at little Bella’s throat.”



“Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much 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 embrocation of Mr.

Wingfield’s, which we have been applying at times ever since August.”



“It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use

to her—and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have

spoken to—



“You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,” said Emma, “I

have not heard one inquiry after them.”



“Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—but you mention them

in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs.

Bates—I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.—They are

always so pleased to see my children.—And that excellent Miss

Bates!—such thorough worthy people!—How are they, sir?”



“Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a

bad cold about a month ago.”



“How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been

this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more

general or heavy—except when it has been quite an influenza.”



“That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you

mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy

as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it

altogether a sickly season.”



“No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly

except—



“Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a

sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a

dreadful thing to have you 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 most others!—You must not confound us with London in

general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very

different from almost 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 my children in: but

_we_ are so remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of

Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air.”



“Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it—but

after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different

creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I

think you are any of you looking well at present.”



“I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those

little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely

free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were

rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a

little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of

coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I

assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever

sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you

do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,” turning her eyes with

affectionate anxiety towards her husband.



“Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley

very far from looking well.”



“What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?” cried Mr. John

Knightley, hearing his own name.



“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking

well—but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have

wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before

you left home.”



“My dear Isabella,”—exclaimed he hastily—“pray do not concern yourself

about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and

the children, and let me look as I chuse.”



“I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,”

cried Emma, “about your 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 prejudice 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

moment very happy to assist in praising.



“That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!” said Mrs. John Knightley.—“It is so

long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment

accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old

grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always

regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot be more at

Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.

Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a

delightful companion for Emma.”



Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,



“Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty

kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a

better companion than Harriet.”



“I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so

very accomplished and superior!—and exactly Emma’s age.”



This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar

moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not

close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied

a great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—undoubting

decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe

Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met with

tolerably;—but, unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter

had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most prominent, was in

her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never

had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth

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 eyes on her

with tender concern.—The ejaculation in Emma’s ear expressed, “Ah!

there is no end of the sad consequences of your 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 rumination might suffice to restore

him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some

minutes, however, he began with,



“I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,

instead of coming here.”



“But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did the children a

great deal of good.”



“And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been

to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprized to

hear you had fixed upon South End.”



“I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite

a mistake, sir.—We all had our health perfectly well there, never found

the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is

entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may

be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air,

and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly.”



“You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.—Perry

was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the

sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And,

by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from

the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have

consulted Perry.”



“But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only consider how

great it would have been.—An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty.”



“Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else

should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to

chuse between forty miles and an hundred.—Better not move at all,

better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a

worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very

ill-judged measure.”



Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had

reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her

brother-in-law’s breaking out.



“Mr. Perry,” said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, “would do

as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why does he make it

any business of his, to wonder at what I do?—at my taking my family to

one part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of

my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.—I want his directions no more than

his drugs.” He paused—and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only

sarcastic dryness, “If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and

five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater

expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as

willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.”



“True, true,” cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition—“very

true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling

you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the

right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive

any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of

inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly

the present line of the path.... The only way of proving it, however,

will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow

morning I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me

your opinion.”



Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his

friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been

attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;—but the soothing

attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the

immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the

other, prevented any renewal of it.









CHAPTER XIII





There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John

Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning

among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over

what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had

nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.

It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.



In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their

mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,

there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no

denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was

persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of

the party.



How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he

could, but as his son and daughter’s carriage and horses were actually

at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on

that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long

to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for

Harriet also.



Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the

only persons invited to meet them;—the hours were to be early, as well

as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being

consulted in every thing.



The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that

Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent

by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with

a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.

Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma

called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with

regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:

Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of,

and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which

excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not

speak of her loss without many tears.



Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard’s

unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much

Mr. Elton’s would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at

last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a

most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had

not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s door, when she was met by

Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on

slowly together in conversation about the invalid—of whom he, on the

rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he

might carry some report of her to Hartfield—they were overtaken by Mr.

John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two

eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a

country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton

and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and

proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend’s

complaint;—“a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat

about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs.

Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often

alarmed her with them.” Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as

he exclaimed,



“A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid

infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care of

yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks.

Why does not Perry see her?”



Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this

excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard’s experience and

care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she

could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist

than not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another subject,



“It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very much like

snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I

should really try not to go out to-day—and dissuade my father from

venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel

the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so

great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, Mr.

Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me

a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and

what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than

common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.”



Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;

which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind

care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her’s,

he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;—but Emma,

too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear

him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied

with his muttering acknowledgment of its being “very cold, certainly

very cold,” and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from

Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet

every hour of the evening.



“You do quite right,” said she;—“we will make your apologies to Mr. and

Mrs. Weston.”



But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly

offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton’s only

objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt

satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had

his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;

never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when

he next looked at her.



“Well,” said she to herself, “this is most strange!—After I had got him

off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill

behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there is, I believe, in many men,

especially single men, such an inclination—such a passion for dining

out—a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,

their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing

gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most

valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in

love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must

dine out wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see

ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.”



Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him

the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his

manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while

assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair

friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting

her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he

sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of

approbation much in his favour.



After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley

began with—



“I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.

Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With

men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to

please, every feature works.”



“Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,” replied Emma; “but where there

is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a

great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he

will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such

perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but

value.”



“Yes,” said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, “he seems

to have a great deal of good-will towards you.”



“Me!” she replied with a smile of astonishment, “are you imagining me

to be Mr. Elton’s object?”



“Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never

occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration

now.”



“Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!”



“I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is

so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your

manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better

look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.”



“I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I

are very good friends, and nothing more;” and she walked on, amusing

herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a

partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of

high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very

well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and

in want of counsel. He said no more.



Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in

spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of

shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his

eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness

of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his

own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it

was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, however, was

severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes

of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of

being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very

white world in a very short time.



Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The

preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of

his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,

which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated

nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the

whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his

discontent.



“A man,” said he, “must have a very good opinion of himself when he

asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as

this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most

agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest

absurdity—Actually snowing at this moment!—The folly of not allowing

people to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s not staying

comfortably at home when they can! If we were obliged to go out such an

evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we

should deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing

than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of

the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view

or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter

that he can;—here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in

another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said

and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.

Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and

four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering

creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had

at home.”



Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no

doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the “Very true, my

love,” which must have been usually administered by his travelling

companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any

answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being

quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to

talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening

her lips.



They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.

Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma

thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all

obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities

indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different

account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while

dressing, and the answer had been, “Much the same—not better.”



“_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard’s,” said she presently, “was not so

pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was _my_ answer.”



His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of

sentiment as he answered.



“Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of telling you that

when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I did the very last thing

before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,

by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—I had

flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew

had been given her in the morning.”



Emma smiled and answered—“My visit was of use to the nervous part of

her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it

is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you

probably heard.”



“Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—”



“He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow

morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is

impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party

to-day!”



“Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed every moment.”



This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really

estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay

when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,

and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.



“What an excellent device,” said he, “the use of a sheepskin for

carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impossible to feel cold

with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days indeed have

rendered a gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced

and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way

unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very

cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha!

snows a little I see.”



“Yes,” said John Knightley, “and I think we shall have a good deal of

it.”



“Christmas weather,” observed Mr. Elton. “Quite seasonable; and

extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin

yesterday, and prevent this day’s party, which it might very possibly

have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been

much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite

the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas every body

invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the

worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house once for a week.

Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not

get away till that very day se’nnight.”



Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but

said only, coolly,



“I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.”



At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much

astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other feelings. Harriet

seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.



“We are sure of excellent fires,” continued he, “and every thing in the

greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;—Mrs. Weston

indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so

hospitable, and so fond of society;—it will be a small party, but where

small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.

Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more than ten

comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances,

fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me,

(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your

approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large

parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.”



“I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I never dine with

any body.”



“Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had

been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be

paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great

enjoyment.”



“My first enjoyment,” replied John Knightley, as they passed through

the sweep-gate, “will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again.”









CHAPTER XIV





Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they

walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-room;—Mr. Elton must compose his

joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton

must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the

place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as

happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.

Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the

world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any

one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and

understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the

little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father

and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston

had not a lively concern; and half an hour’s uninterrupted

communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness

of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.



This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit might not

afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but

the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was

grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of

Mr. Elton’s oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all

that was enjoyable to the utmost.



The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well gone through

before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to

give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and

Isabella’s coming, and of Emma’s being to follow, and had indeed just

got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his

daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been

almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away

and welcome her dear Emma.



Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather

sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close

to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility

towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but

was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and

solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting

him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal

suggestion of “Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be

possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from

Harriet to me?—Absurd and insufferable!”—Yet he would be so anxious for

her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and

so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her

drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly

like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her

good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for

Harriet’s, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even

positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was

going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr.

Elton’s nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard

enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his

son; she heard the words “my son,” and “Frank,” and “my son,” repeated

several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much

suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but

before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past

that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.



Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution of never

marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank

Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently

thought—especially since his father’s marriage with Miss Taylor—that if

she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,

character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the

families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a

match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.

Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not

meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a

situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could

change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided

intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain

degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in

their friends’ imaginations.



With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;

but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very

cross—and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly

pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the

substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it proved;—for

when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston, at

dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of

hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say

to her,



“We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to

see two more here,—your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my

son—and then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not

hear me telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting

Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us

within a fortnight.”



Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to

his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their

party quite complete.



“He has been wanting to come to us,” continued Mr. Weston, “ever since

September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his

own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between

ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.

But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in

January.”



“What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so

anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as

yourself.”



“Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.

She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not

know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is

quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the

other room. There are secrets in all families, you know)—The case is,

that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in

January; and that Frank’s coming depends upon their being put off. If

they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it

is a family that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has

a particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite

them once in two or three years, they always are put off when it comes

to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as

confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of

being here myself: but your good friend there (nodding towards the

upper end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been so

little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their

effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing.”



“I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case,” replied

Emma; “but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he

will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe.”



“Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at

the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—But I never allow myself to

speak ill of her, on Frank’s account; for I do believe her to be very

fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of any

body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her

way—allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing

to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,

that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say it

to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in

general; and the devil of a temper.”



Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,

very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy—yet

observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.—

Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be

secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked

of: “for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as

Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.

Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter

stands?”



“Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.

Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world.”



“My Emma!” replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, “what is the certainty of

caprice?” Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending

before—“You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means

so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father

thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in

short, upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may venture on the

truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered

woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare

him.”



“Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,” replied

Isabella: “and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without

the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered

person, must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any

thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she

never had any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would

have made them!”



Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have

heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve

which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,

would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from

her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own

imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at

present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon

followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner,

was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor

conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with

whom he was always comfortable.



While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of

saying,



“And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means

certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,

whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better.”



“Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even

if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that

some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine

any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the

Churchills’ to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are

jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no

dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine.”



“He ought to come,” said Emma. “If he could stay only a couple of days,

he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man’s not having

it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall

into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she

wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_’s being under

such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if

he likes it.”



“One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before

one decides upon what he can do,” replied Mrs. Weston. “One ought to

use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one

individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must

not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and

every thing gives way to her.”



“But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite.

Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural,

that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to

whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice

towards _him_, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom

she owes nothing at all.”



“My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand

a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.

I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it

may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will

be.”



Emma listened, and then coolly said, “I shall not be satisfied, unless

he comes.”



“He may have a great deal of influence on some points,” continued Mrs.

Weston, “and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is

beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance

of his coming away from them to visit us.”









CHAPTER XV





Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drank his tea

he was quite ready to go home; and it was as much as his three

companions could do, to entertain away his notice of the lateness of

the hour, before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty

and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at

last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in

very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and

Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and,

with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.



Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the

expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late

improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his

making Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most

friendly smiles.



He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair friend—her fair,

lovely, amiable friend. “Did she know?—had she heard any thing about

her, since their being at Randalls?—he felt much anxiety—he must

confess that the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.” And

in this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much

attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to the

terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in charity with him.



But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at once as if

he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account, than

on Harriet’s—more anxious that she should escape the infection, than

that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great

earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber

again, for the present—to entreat her to _promise_ _him_ not to venture

into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion; and

though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back into its

proper course, there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude

about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no concealing

it—exactly like the pretence of being in love with her, instead of

Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!

and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs.

Weston to implore her assistance, “Would not she give him her

support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to induce Miss

Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till it were certain that Miss

Smith’s disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a

promise—would not she give him her influence in procuring it?”



“So scrupulous for others,” he continued, “and yet so careless for

herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying at home to-day, and

yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore

throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I

some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.”



Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must be great, at an

address which, in words and manner, was assuming to himself the right

of first interest in her; and as for herself, she was too much provoked

and offended to have the power of directly saying any thing to the

purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she

thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa,

removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention.



She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did

another subject succeed; for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room

from examining the weather, and opened on them all with the information

of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast,

with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these words to Mr.

Woodhouse:



“This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir.

Something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way

through a storm of snow.”



Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but every body else

had something to say; every body was either surprized or not surprized,

and had some question to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and

Emma tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his

son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly.



“I admired your resolution very much, sir,” said he, “in venturing out

in such weather, for of course you saw there would be snow very soon.

Every body must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit;

and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow

can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one

is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be the

other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe at Hartfield before

midnight.”



Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he

had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word, lest it

should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his

hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely

to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid

they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable,

that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost

good-will was sure that accommodation might be found for every body,

calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance,

every body might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the

consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house.



“What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be done?” was Mr.

Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time.

To her he looked for comfort; and her assurances of safety, her

representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of

their having so many friends about them, revived him a little.



His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being

blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full

in her imagination; and fancying the road to be now just passable for

adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was

eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at

Randalls, while she and her husband set forward instantly through all

the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might impede them.



“You had better order the carriage directly, my love,” said she; “I

dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off directly; and if

we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out and walk. I am not at

all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my

shoes, you know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing

that gives me cold.”



“Indeed!” replied he. “Then, my dear Isabella, it is the most

extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general every thing

does give you cold. Walk home!—you are prettily shod for walking home,

I dare say. It will be bad enough for the horses.”



Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of the plan. Mrs.

Weston could only approve. Isabella then went to Emma; but Emma could

not so entirely give up the hope of their being all able to get away;

and they were still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had

left the room immediately after his brother’s first report of the snow,

came back again, and told them that he had been out of doors to

examine, and could answer for there not being the smallest difficulty

in their getting home, whenever they liked it, either now or an hour

hence. He had gone beyond the sweep—some way along the Highbury

road—the snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in many places hardly

enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were falling at present,

but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its

being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with

him in there being nothing to apprehend.



To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were

scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s account, who was

immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous

constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be

appeased so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at

Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in

returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe

to stay; and while the others were variously urging and recommending,

Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—



“Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”



“I am ready, if the others are.”



“Shall I ring the bell?”



“Yes, do.”



And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A few minutes

more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his

own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and

happiness when this visit of hardship were over.



The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such

occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr.

Weston; but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of

alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the

discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. “He was

afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella

would not like it. And there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind.

He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together

as they could;” and James was talked to, and given a charge to go very

slow and wait for the other carriage.



Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, forgetting that he

did not belong to their party, stept in after his wife very naturally;

so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second

carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,

and that they were to have a tête-à-tête drive. It would not have been

the awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a pleasure,

previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could have talked to

him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but

one. But now, she would rather it had not happened. She believed he had

been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and felt sure that he

would want to be talking nonsense.



To restrain him as much as might be, by her own manners, she was

immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of

the weather and the night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had

they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she

found her subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, and

Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing himself of the

precious opportunity, declaring sentiments which must be already well

known, hoping—fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but

flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and

unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short,

very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It

really was so. Without scruple—without apology—without much apparent

diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself

_her_ lover. She tried to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say

it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to

restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must

be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to

the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the

playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she

replied,



“I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to _me_! you forget

yourself—you take me for my friend—any message to Miss Smith I shall be

happy to deliver; but no more of this to _me_, if you please.”



“Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she possibly mean!”—And

he repeated her words with such assurance of accent, such boastful

pretence of amazement, that she could not help replying with quickness,



“Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I can account

for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or you could not speak

either to me, or of Harriet, in such a manner. Command yourself enough

to say no more, and I will endeavour to forget it.”



But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his spirits, not at

all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew his own meaning; and

having warmly protested against her suspicion as most injurious, and

slightly touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—but

acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he

resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent for a

favourable answer.



As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of his

inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles for politeness,

replied,



“It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have made yourself

too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much beyond any thing I can

express. After such behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last

month, to Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily habit

of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness

of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Believe me,

sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such

professions.”



“Good Heaven!” cried Mr. Elton, “what can be the meaning of this?—Miss

Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my

existence—never paid her any attentions, but as your friend: never

cared whether she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has

fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very

sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who

can think of Miss Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my

honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of

you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to any one

else. Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has

been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot

really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent meant to be

insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood me.”



It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing this—which of

all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely

overpowered to be immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence

being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he

tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—



“Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this interesting

silence. It confesses that you have long understood me.”



“No, sir,” cried Emma, “it confesses no such thing. So far from having

long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect

to your views, till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you

should have been giving way to any feelings—Nothing could be farther

from my wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pursuit of

her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure, and I have been

very earnestly wishing you success: but had I supposed that she were

not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you

judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you

have never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss

Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of her?”



“Never, madam,” cried he, affronted in his turn: “never, I assure you.

_I_ think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is a very good sort of

girl; and I should be happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her

extremely well: and, no doubt, there are men who might not object

to—Every body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,

quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal

alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—No, madam, my

visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the encouragement

I received—”



“Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you have been entirely

mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you only as the admirer of my

friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common

acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake

ends where it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith might

have been led into a misconception of your views; not being aware,

probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you

are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and, I

trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at

present.”



He was too angry to say another word; her manner too decided to invite

supplication; and in this state of swelling resentment, and mutually

deep mortification, they had to continue together a few minutes longer,

for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If

there had not been so much anger, there would have been desperate

awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions left no room for the

little zigzags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage

turned into Vicarage Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves,

all at once, at the door of his house; and he was out before another

syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good

night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly; and, under

indescribable irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to

Hartfield.



There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her father, who had

been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from Vicarage

Lane—turning a corner which he could never bear to think of—and in

strange hands—a mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as

if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well: for Mr.

John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and

attention; and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her

father, as to seem—if not quite ready to join him in a basin of

gruel—perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the

day was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little party,

except herself.—But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and

it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till

the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet

reflection.









CHAPTER XVI





The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think

and be miserable.—It was a wretched business indeed!—Such an overthrow

of every thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of every

thing most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the worst of

all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or

other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she

would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—more in

error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the

effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.



“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne

any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me—but poor

Harriet!”



How she could have been so deceived!—He protested that he had never

thought seriously of Harriet—never! She looked back as well as she

could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she

supposed, and made every thing bend to it. His manners, however, must

have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so

misled.



The picture!—How eager he had been about the picture!—and the

charade!—and an hundred other circumstances;—how clearly they had

seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its “ready

wit”—but then the “soft eyes”—in fact it suited neither; it was a

jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such

thick-headed nonsense?



Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to

herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way, as a mere

error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof among others

that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the

gentleness of his address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but,

till this very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean

any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.



To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on the

subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying

that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley

had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the

conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry

indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his

character had been there shewn than any she had reached herself. It was

dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many

respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him;

proud, assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little

concerned about the feelings of others.



Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting to pay his

addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his

proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment,

and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the

arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she

was perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment that need

be cared for. There had been no real affection either in his language

or manners. Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she

could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice,

less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him.

He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse

of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so

easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody

else with twenty, or with ten.



But—that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware

of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short), to marry

him!—should suppose himself her equal in connexion or mind!—look down

upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below

him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself shewing no

presumption in addressing her!—It was most provoking.



Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her

inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind. The very want of

such equality might prevent his perception of it; but he must know that

in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know

that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at

Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the

Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was

inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate,

to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from

other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell

Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses

had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood

which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way as

he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend

him to notice but his situation and his civility.—But he had fancied

her in love with him; that evidently must have been his dependence; and

after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners

and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and

admit that her own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and

obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real

motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary observation and

delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite.

If _she_ had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to

wonder that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken

hers.



The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was

wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It

was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought

to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite

concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.



“Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into being very

much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for

me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had

not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I

used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her

not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done

of me; but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and

chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the

opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought not to have

attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time.

I have been but half a friend to her; and if she were _not_ to feel

this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any

body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—Oh! no, I

could not endure William Coxe—a pert young lawyer.”



She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a

more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might

be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to

Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the

awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or

discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing

resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most

unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last

with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most

dreadfully.



To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under temporary

gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring return of

spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy,

and of powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough

to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensations of

softened pain and brighter hope.



Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone

to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to

depend on getting tolerably out of it.



It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love

with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to

disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should not be of that superior

sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive—and that there

could be no necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except the

three principals, and especially for her father’s being given a

moment’s uneasiness about it.



These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal of

snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was welcome

that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present.



The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day, she

could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his

daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting

or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered

with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between frost and

thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly for exercise, every

morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to

freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner. No

intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no church for her on

Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no need to find excuses for

Mr. Elton’s absenting himself.



It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home; and

though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some

society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well

satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir

out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep

entirely from them,—



“Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?”



These days of confinement would have been, but for her private

perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited

her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his

companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his

ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during

the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and

obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes

of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still

such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet,

as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.









CHAPTER XVII





Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The

weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move; and Mr.

Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay

behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set

off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor

Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doated

on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently

busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness.



The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr.

Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with

Mr. Elton’s best compliments, “that he was proposing to leave Highbury

the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with the

pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few

weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under, from

various circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal

leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever

retain a grateful sense—and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be

happy to attend to them.”



Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s absence just at this

time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving

it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it

was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than

in a civility to her father, from which she was so pointedly excluded.

She had not even a share in his opening compliments.—Her name was not

mentioned;—and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an

ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments,

as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.



It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the surprize of so

sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely

to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was

a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought

and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse

talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away

with all her usual promptitude.



She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason

to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable

that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of

her other complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs.

Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary

penance of communication; and a severe one it was.—She had to destroy

all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding—to appear in

the ungracious character of the one preferred—and acknowledge herself

grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all

her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last

six weeks.



The confession completely renewed her first shame—and the sight of

Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity with

herself again.



Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming nobody—and in every

thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion

of herself, as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to

her friend.



Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;

and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching, seemed on

Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having

any thing to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton

would have been too great a distinction.—She never could have deserved

him—and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would

have thought it possible.



Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly artless, that no

dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes—and she

listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and

understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the

superior creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for

her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence

could do.



It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and

ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of

being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of

her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims,

was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own

affection in some better method than by match-making. She got her to

Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to

occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton

from her thoughts.



Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she

could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in

general, and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr.

Elton in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s

age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might

be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return,

as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of

acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing

them.



Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence

of any body equal to him in person or goodness—and did, in truth, prove

herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it

appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an

inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not comprehend

its continuing very long in equal force.



If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and

indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not

imagine Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the

recollection of him.



Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad for

each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal, or of

effecting any material change of society. They must encounter each

other, and make the best of it.



Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs.

Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great

girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only that she could

have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or

repellent truth. Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be

found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in the way of

cure, there could be no true peace for herself.









CHAPTER XVIII





Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near,

Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of

excuse. For the present, he could not be spared, to his “very great

mortification and regret; but still he looked forward with the hope of

coming to Randalls at no distant period.”



Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disappointed, in

fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man

had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever

expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by

any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure,

and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and

sorry; but then he began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three

months later would be a much better plan; better time of year; better

weather; and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay

considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner.



These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a

more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition of

excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was

to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.



Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about

Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment at

Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted,

rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it was

desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self, she

took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as

warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as might naturally

belong to their friendship.



She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed quite

as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps rather

more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away. She then

proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of

such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of

looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the

sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the

Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement

with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that she was

taking the other side of the question from her real opinion, and making

use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against herself.



“The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley, coolly;

“but I dare say he might come if he would.”



“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;

but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”



“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a

point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.”



“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you

suppose him such an unnatural creature?”



“I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting

that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care very

little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with those who

have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural

than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are

proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, and selfish

too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have

contrived it between September and January. A man at his age—what is

he?—three or four-and-twenty—cannot be without the means of doing as

much as that. It is impossible.”



“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always been your

own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the

difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers

to manage.”



“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty

should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want

money—he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so

much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts

in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or

other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves that he can

leave the Churchills.”



“Yes, sometimes he can.”



“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while; whenever

there is any temptation of pleasure.”



“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an intimate

knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior

of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that

family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs.

Churchill’s temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew

can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can

at others.”



“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and

that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and

resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his

father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he

wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at

once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill—‘Every sacrifice of mere

pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience; but

I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my

failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I

shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.’—If he would say so to her at

once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no

opposition made to his going.”



“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to his

coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent, to

use!—Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you

have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite

to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech as that to

the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and are to provide for

him!—Standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as

loud as he could!—How can you imagine such conduct practicable?”



“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.

He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration—made, of

course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner—would do

him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the

people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedients

can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that

they could trust him; that the nephew who had done rightly by his

father, would do rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as

well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his

father; and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their

hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims.

Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he would act in

this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their

little minds would bend to his.”



“I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds; but

where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they

have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as unmanageable as

great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were

to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s

situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been

recommending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The

Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, you would

have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through.

To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into

perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude and

regard at nought. He may have as strong a sense of what would be right,

as you can have, without being so equal, under particular

circumstances, to act up to it.”



“Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal

exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”



“Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to

understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly

opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been looking up to all his

life.”



“Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first

occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the

will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time, of

following his duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for

the fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he

ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in

their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their

side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought, there

would have been no difficulty now.”



“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is nothing

extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man:

I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be blind to folly,

though in his own son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,

complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man’s

perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some

advantages, it will secure him many others.”



“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move, and of

leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself extremely

expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine

flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade

himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of

preserving peace at home and preventing his father’s having any right

to complain. His letters disgust me.”



“Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.”



“I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can satisfy a

woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in a mother’s

place, but without a mother’s affection to blind her. It is on her

account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly

feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he

would have come I dare say; and it would not have signified whether he

did or no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of

considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to

herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in

French, not in English. He may be very ‘amiable,’ have very good

manners, and be very agreeable; but he can have no English delicacy

towards the feelings of other people: nothing really amiable about

him.”



“You seem determined to think ill of him.”



“Me!—not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; “I do not

want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his

merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely

personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth,

plausible manners.”



“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure

at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well-bred and

agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the

bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a _sensation_ his

coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the

parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest—one object of

curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak

of nobody else.”



“You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him

conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only a

chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”



“My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of

every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally

agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me, of drawing or music;

and so on to every body, having that general information on all

subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead,

just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each;

that is my idea of him.”



“And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn out any

thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing! What!

at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company—the great man—the

practised politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make

every body’s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority; to

be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like

fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, your own good sense could

not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”



“I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn every thing to

evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him; and we have no

chance of agreeing till he is really here.”



“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”



“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love

for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour.”



“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to another,” said

Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma immediately

talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should

be angry.



To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a

different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of

mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him; for with all the

high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she

had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the

merit of another.









VOLUME II









CHAPTER I





Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma’s

opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could

not think that Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more; and she

was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they

returned;—but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded,

and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter,

and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive—“Mr. Elton is so

good to the poor!” she found something else must be done.



They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.

She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was

always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates

loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few

who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in

that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of

their scanty comforts.



She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,

as to her deficiency—but none were equal to counteract the persuasion

of its being very disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women—and all

the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate and

third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and

therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden

resolution of not passing their door without going in—observing, as she

proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate, they were

just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.



The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied

the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized

apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most

cordially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who

with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to

give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking

daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks

for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after

Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her mother’s, and

sweet-cake from the beaufet—“Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called

in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them,

and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she

liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss

Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too.”



The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.

There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton

since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the

letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much

he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he

went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies’ ball had been; and she

went through it very well, with all the interest and all the

commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to

prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.



This she had been prepared for when she entered the house; but meant,

having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther incommoded by

any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the

Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not

been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was

actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from him at last

abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece.



“Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to dancing—Mrs. Cole was

telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was—Mrs. Cole was so kind

as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came

in, she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite

there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her

kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any

body can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, ‘I

know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time

for writing;’ and when I immediately said, ‘But indeed we have, we had

a letter this very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body

more surprized. ‘Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well, that is

quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’”



Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest—



“Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I

hope she is well?”



“Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived aunt, while

eagerly hunting for the letter.—“Oh! here it is. I was sure it could

not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without

being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very

lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it

to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it again to my

mother, for it is such a pleasure to her—a letter from Jane—that she

can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not be far off, and

here it is, only just under my huswife—and since you are so kind as to

wish to hear what she says;—but, first of all, I really must, in

justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter—only two

pages you see—hardly two—and in general she fills the whole paper and

crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.

She often says, when the letter is first opened, ‘Well, Hetty, now I

think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’—don’t

you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make

it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her—every word of it—I

am sure she would pore over it till she had made out every word. And,

indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they were, she can

see amazingly well still, thank God! with the help of spectacles. It is

such a blessing! My mother’s are really very good indeed. Jane often

says, when she is here, ‘I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very

strong eyes to see as you do—and so much fine work as you have done

too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’”



All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;

and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss

Fairfax’s handwriting.



“You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly gratified; “you

who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure

there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure as Miss

Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.

Ma’am,” addressing her, “do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging

to say about Jane’s handwriting?”



And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated

twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was

pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very

rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost

resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss

Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.



“My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just nothing at all. By

only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,

she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very

remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.

Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at

all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great deal at

my mother’s time of life—and it really is full two years, you know,

since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before,

and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough

of her now.”



“Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”



“Oh yes; next week.”



“Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.”



“Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is so

surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am sure she

will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they can be to see

her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel

Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So

very good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do, you

know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about.

That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in

the common course, we should not have heard from her before next

Tuesday or Wednesday.”



“Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my

hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.”



“So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not been

for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here so soon. My

mother is so delighted!—for she is to be three months with us at least.

Three months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the

pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells

are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to

come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till

the summer, but she is so impatient to see them again—for till she

married, last October, she was never away from them so much as a week,

which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was

going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very

urgent letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do not know

which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in Mr.

Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly,

and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to

their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has

heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean—I do not know

that she ever heard about it from any body else; but it was very

natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while

he was paying his addresses—and as Jane used to be very often walking

out with them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about

their daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I

do not at all blame them; of course she heard every thing he might be

telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she

wrote us word that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views

that he had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, I

believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of

things.”



At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma’s

brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon, and the not

going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther

discovery,



“You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to

come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship

between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be

excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”



“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always been

rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her at such a

distance from us, for months together—not able to come if any thing was

to happen. But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want

her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.

Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind or pressing

than their _joint_ invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently;

Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a

most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at

Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by

the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would

have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone,

if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her

habit— (I can never think of it without trembling!)—But ever since we

had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”



“But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish of seeing

Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates?”



“Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel and

Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they should

recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try her native

air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.”



“I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs.

Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no

remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not, by any means, to be

compared with Miss Fairfax.”



“Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but certainly not.

There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was

absolutely plain—but extremely elegant and amiable.”



“Yes, that of course.”



“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th of

November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been well

since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her? She never

mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her! so

considerate!—But however, she is so far from well, that her kind

friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air

that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four

months at Highbury will entirely cure her—and it is certainly a great

deal better that she should come here, than go to Ireland, if she is

unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we should do.”



“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”



“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells

leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following—as you will

find from Jane’s letter. So sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse,

what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback of

her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and

looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to

me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through

to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for

fear of there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me

to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;

but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I

burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me! poor Jane is ill!’—which

my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed

at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had

fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does

not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I could be so off my

guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we will call in Mr. Perry. The

expense shall not be thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so

fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for

attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife

and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well,

now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about, we will

turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal

better than I can tell it for her.”



“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at Harriet,

and beginning to rise—“My father will be expecting us. I had no

intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes,

when I first entered the house. I merely called, because I would not

pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so

pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good

morning.”



And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained

the street—happy in this, that though much had been forced on her

against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of

Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.









CHAPTER II





Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s youngest

daughter.



The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the ——regiment of infantry, and Miss

Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest;

but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy remembrance of him

dying in action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption and grief

soon afterwards—and this girl.



By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old, on

losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the

consolation, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, there had

seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there; of her

being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up

with no advantages of connexion or improvement, to be engrafted on what

nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and

warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.



But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change

to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded

Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most deserving young man; and

farther, had been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe

camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which

he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the

death of poor Fairfax, before his own return to England put any thing

in his power. When he did return, he sought out the child and took

notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a

girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long

visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years

old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a

real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of

undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted; and

from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and

had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time

to time.



The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others; the

very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father making

independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of

Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay and

appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all

his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped to be

supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.



Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands, known

nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given an excellent

education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed

people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of

discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being in

London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the

attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were

equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or

nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the

care of children, fully competent to the office of instruction herself;

but she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor

mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil

day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;

and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the

rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of

home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering

suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this

might soon be over.



The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell

in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the

circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty and

acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen

by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by

the parents. They continued together with unabated regard however, till

the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so

often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to

what is moderate rather than to what is superior, engaged the

affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as

soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily settled,

while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.



This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be

yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path

of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had

fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty

should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate, she

had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice, and retire

from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse, equal society,

peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.



The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a

resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived, no

exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever; and

for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly; but this

would be selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps

they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted

the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such

enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still,

however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not

hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since

the time of their daughter’s marriage; and till she should have

completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging

in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weakened frame

and varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable circumstances,

to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be

discharged with tolerable comfort.



With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her

aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not

told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to

Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with

those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,

whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single, or double,

or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that

they depended more on a few months spent in her native air, for the

recovery of her health, than on any thing else. Certain it was that she

was to come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect

novelty which had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put

up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the

freshness of a two years’ absence.



Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like

through three long months!—to be always doing more than she wished, and

less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a

difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was

because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which she

wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation had been

eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in

which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But “she could never

get acquainted with her: she did not know how it was, but there was

such coldness and reserve—such apparent indifference whether she

pleased or not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she

was made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been always

imagined that they were to be so intimate—because their ages were the

same, every body had supposed they must be so fond of each other.”

These were her reasons—she had no better.



It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so magnified by

fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any

considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her; and

now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’

interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and

manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.

Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had herself

the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as

almost every body would think tall, and nobody could think very tall;

her figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming medium,

between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed

to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all

this; and then, her face—her features—there was more beauty in them

altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular, but it was very

pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and

eyebrows, had never been denied their praise; but the skin, which she

had been used to cavil at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and

delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty,

of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in

honour, by all her principles, admire it:—elegance, which, whether of

person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be

vulgar, was distinction, and merit.



In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with

twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering

justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When

she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;

when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she

was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible

to feel any thing but compassion and respect; especially, if to every

well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly

probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so

naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more

pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.

Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s

affections from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her

imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be

simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been

unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his

conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives,

might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to

divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon

beginning her career of laborious duty.



Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,

as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury

afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that

she could wish to scheme about for her.



These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed

herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane

Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and

errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome; she

is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with

her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its

usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome

as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to

admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of

exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how

small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of

new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s

offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the

thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an

affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off

in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides,

which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting

at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed

determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously

reserved.



If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved

on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed

bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own

value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It

was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or

distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown

away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There

probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr.

Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other,

or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve

thousand pounds.



The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill

had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a

little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma

procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”—“She believed he

was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”—“He was

generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man

of information?”—“At a watering-place, or in a common London

acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were

all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than

they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his

manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.









CHAPTER III





Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation nor resentment

were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had

seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was

expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with

Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might

have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain

enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her

unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.



“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been

talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers

swept away;—“particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some

very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than

sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such

young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am

sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left

nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no

instrument at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”



“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I am not

often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”



“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “_that_ I am sure you are

not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any

thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been

handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”



“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are not often

deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I

think you understand me, therefore.”



An arch look expressed—“I understand you well enough;” but she said

only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”



“I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon overcome all

that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its

foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be

honoured.”



“You think her diffident. I do not see it.”



“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by her,

“you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant

evening.”



“Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions;

and amused to think how little information I obtained.”



“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.



“I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, in his

quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I

moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me.

Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though

she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs.

Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane

Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very

well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening

agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”



“True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”



Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the

present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question—



“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes

from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my

heart.”



Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to

express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose

thoughts were on the Bates’s, said—



“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a

great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can

venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon—Now we

have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg;

it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other

pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure

of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried,

without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear

roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my

dear?”



“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.

There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice,

and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”



“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but

that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it

is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle

boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a

little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”



“Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news for you.

You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will

interest you.”



“News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do you smile

so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?”



He had time only to say,



“No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when the door was

thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full

of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give

quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that

not another syllable of communication could rest with him.



“Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse—I

come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are

too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be

married.”



Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so

completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start, and a

little blush, at the sound.



“There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,” said Mr.

Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what

had passed between them.



“But where could _you_ hear it?” cried Miss Bates. “Where could you

possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I

received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be more than five—or at least

ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I

was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was

standing in the passage—were not you, Jane?—for my mother was so afraid

that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down

and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go down instead? for I think you have

a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’

said I—well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins—that’s all I

know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you

possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of

it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—”



“I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just

read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it to me directly.”



“Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more

generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My

mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand

thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.”



“We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr. Woodhouse—“indeed it

certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I

cannot have a greater pleasure than—”



“Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to

us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth

themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We

may well say that ‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr.

Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well—”



“It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of course.”—

Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had been so fortunate as to—I forget

the precise words—one has no business to remember them. The information

was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins.

By his style, I should imagine it just settled.”



“Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as she could speak.

“He will have every body’s wishes for his happiness.”



“He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s observation. “He had

better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We

were always glad to see him at Hartfield.”



“A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss Bates,

joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!—she says she cannot bear to have

the poor old Vicarage without a mistress. This is great news, indeed.

Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a

curiosity to see him.”



Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly to

occupy her.



“No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on this appeal;

“is he—is he a tall man?”



“Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father would say

‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates and I that he is just the

happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax,

you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in

Highbury, both in person and mind.”



“Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young

man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was

precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an

excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother—wanting her

to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my

mother is a little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she does not hear

quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He

fancied bathing might be good for it—the warm bath—but she says it did

him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel.

And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It

is such a happiness when good people get together—and they always do.

Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles,

such very good people; and the Perrys—I suppose there never was a

happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,”

turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “I think there are few places with such

society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our

neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better

than another, it is pork—a roast loin of pork—”



“As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted

with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose can be known. One feels that

it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four

weeks.”



Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,

Emma said,



“You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an interest

in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on

these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss

Campbell’s account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr.

Elton and Miss Hawkins.”



“When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “I dare say I shall be

interested—but I believe it requires _that_ with me. And as it is some

months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn

off.”



“Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss

Woodhouse,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss

Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady

hereabouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I

immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but’—In

short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort of

discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the

same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss

Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not

offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered

now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear

little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr.

John Knightley. I mean in person—tall, and with that sort of look—and

not very talkative.”



“Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”



“Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.

One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is

not, strictly speaking, handsome?”



“Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told you he was

plain.”



“My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,

and that you yourself—”



“Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I

always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed the

general opinion, when I called him plain.”



“Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather

does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy. You are too obliging,

my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been a

most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs.

Cole’s; but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better

go home directly—I would not have you out in a shower!—We think she is

the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not

attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares

for any thing but _boiled_ pork: when we dress the leg it will be

another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is

coming too. Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will

be so kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!—Good

morning to you.”



Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him while

he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—and to

marry strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own view

of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece

of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long; but

she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could

hope was, by giving the first information herself, to save her from

hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was

likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its

beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be

detaining her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would

undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.



The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,

when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which

hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the “Oh!

Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!” which instantly burst

forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow

was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater kindness than

in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had

to tell. “She had set out from Mrs. Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had

been afraid it would rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every

moment—but she thought she might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried

on as fast as possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where

a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just

step in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay

half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain, and she

did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could,

and took shelter at Ford’s.”—Ford’s was the principal woollen-draper,

linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; the shop first in size and

fashion in the place.—“And so, there she had set, without an idea of

any thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of a

sudden, who should come in—to be sure it was so very odd!—but they

always dealt at Ford’s—who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her

brother!—Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have

fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the

door—Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the

umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took

no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop; and

I kept sitting near the door!—Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I

must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away you know,

because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but

there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well, at last, I fancy, he looked round

and saw me; for instead of going on with her buyings, they began

whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I

could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me—(do

you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she came forward—came

quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake

hands, if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she

used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to

be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time; but

I know no more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember she said

she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too kind! Dear,

Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable! By that time, it was

beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me

from getting away—and then—only think!—I found he was coming up towards

me too—slowly you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and

so he came and spoke, and I answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling

dreadfully, you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and

said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not

got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say, if I

was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr.

Cole’s stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this

rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me! So I

said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and

then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—I

believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh!

Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it happen: and

yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so

pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do

talk to me and make me comfortable again.”



Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in

her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly

comfortable herself. The young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed

the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet

described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded

affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. But she had believed

them to be well-meaning, worthy people before; and what difference did

this make in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed

by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her—they must be all sorry.

Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all

have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what was the

value of Harriet’s description?—So easily pleased—so little

discerning;—what signified her praise?



She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, by

considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite unworthy of

being dwelt on,



“It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but you seem to

have behaved extremely well; and it is over—and may never—can never, as

a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need not think about

it.”



Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about it;” but

still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing else; and Emma,

at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to

hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender

caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed

or only amused, at such a state of mind in poor Harriet—such a

conclusion of Mr. Elton’s importance with her!



Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not feel

the first intelligence as she might have done the day before, or an

hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their first

conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations

of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this

fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under

proper subordination in her fancy.



Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting. It

had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining

any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get

at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the

courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of the

brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a

twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again, with

any necessity, or even any power of speech.









CHAPTER IV





Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting

situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of

being kindly spoken of.



A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first mentioned in

Highbury, before she was, by some means or other, discovered to have

every recommendation of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant,

highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton himself

arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and circulate the fame of

her merits, there was very little more for him to do, than to tell her

Christian name, and say whose music she principally played.



Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and

mortified—disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what

appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing the right

lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He

had gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to another—and to

another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such

circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back

gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss

Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.



The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages

of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent

fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of

some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well; he had

not thrown himself away—he had gained a woman of 10,000 _l_. or

thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity—the

first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by

distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of

the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious—the steps so quick,

from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green’s, and the

party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and blushes rising in importance—with

consciousness and agitation richly scattered—the lady had been so

easily impressed—so sweetly disposed—had in short, to use a most

intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and

prudence were equally contented.



He had caught both substance and shadow—both fortune and affection, and

was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself and his

own concerns—expecting to be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and,

with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies of

the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously

gallant.



The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to

please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for; and

when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation, which

a certain glance of Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that when

he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.



During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just

enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the

impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique and

pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very

much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his

sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable

feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a

source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been

thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very

well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would

administer most satisfaction.



The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must

certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be

prevented—many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be

an excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink

without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility

again.



Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good

enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for

Highbury—handsome enough—to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side. As

to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all

his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On

that article, truth seemed attainable. _What_ she was, must be

uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out; and setting aside the

10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Harriet’s superior.

She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the

youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol—merchant, of course, he must

be called; but, as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life

appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of

his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she

had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home, the very

heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother had died some years

ago, an uncle remained—in the law line—nothing more distinctly

honourable was hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and

with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of

some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the

connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_

_married_, to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept

two carriages! That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory

of Miss Hawkins.



Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all! She had

talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be talked out

of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet’s

mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he

certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin

would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure

her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be always

in love. And now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this

reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him

somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times

every day Harriet was sure _just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss

him, _just_ to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, _just_ to have

something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring

warmth of surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually

hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she was always

among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so

interesting as the discussion of his concerns; and every report,

therefore, every guess—all that had already occurred, all that might

occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,

servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around her. Her

regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her

regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of

Miss Hawkins’s happiness, and continual observation of, how much he

seemed attached!—his air as he walked by the house—the very sitting of

his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in love!



Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her

friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of Harriet’s mind,

Emma would have been amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton

predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful

as a check to the other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of

the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the

knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth

Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few days afterwards. Harriet had

not been at home; but a note had been prepared and left for her,

written in the very style to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a

great deal of kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had

been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done

in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr.

Elton, in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid, the

Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for

Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned,

judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin’s visit.



How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would be necessary—and what

might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration.

Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would

be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the

acquaintance—!



After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than

Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had

understanding, should convince them that it was to be only a formal

acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the

Abbey Mill, while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so

soon, as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous

recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree

of intimacy was chosen for the future.



She could think of nothing better: and though there was something in it

which her own heart could not approve—something of ingratitude, merely

glossed over—it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?









CHAPTER V





Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her

friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led her to

the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to _The Rev.

Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the operation of

being lifted into the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where

the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk

and the direction, was consequently a blank.



She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to be

put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led between

espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every thing which

had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to

revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed

her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which

determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of

an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion of time to an old

servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.



The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;

and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and

unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily down the

gravel walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with

her seemingly with ceremonious civility.



Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was

feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her enough to

understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating.

She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her

doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace

had been talked almost all the time—till just at last, when Mrs.

Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was

grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and a warmer manner.

In that very room she had been measured last September, with her two

friends. There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot

by the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day,

the hour, the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness, the

same regrets—to be ready to return to the same good understanding; and

they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must

suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when

the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and

the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to

be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks not six

months ago!—Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they

might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business.

She would have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had

the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a

_little_ higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she

have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They must be

separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process—so much to

herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little

consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure

it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The

refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.



It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard that

neither “master nor mistress was at home;” they had both been out some

time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.



“This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now we shall

just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know when I have been so

disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge her

murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both—such being

the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the

carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who

were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight

of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr.

Weston immediately accosted her with,



“How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with your father—glad

to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow—I had a letter this

morning—we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty—he is at

Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be

so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; I

was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going to have

just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall

enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we could

wish.”



There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the

influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all was

by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but

not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming certain

was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice

in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted

spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was

coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped Mr.

Elton would now be talked of no more.



Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which

allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his

command, as well as the route and the method of his journey; and she

listened, and smiled, and congratulated.



“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the conclusion.



Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech, from his

wife.



“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are detaining the

girls.”



“Well, well, I am ready;”—and turning again to Emma, “but you must not

be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_

account you know; I dare say he is really nothing

extraordinary:”—though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were

speaking a very different conviction.



Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a

manner that appropriated nothing.



“Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,” was Mrs.

Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety, and meant only

for her.



“Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,” was Mr.

Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.

Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore a

different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as

before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least

must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw

something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.



“Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?”—was a

question, however, which did not augur much.



But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once, and Emma

was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come in time.



The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s faithful

pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o’clock, that

she was to think of her at four.



“My dear, dear anxious friend,”—said she, in mental soliloquy, while

walking downstairs from her own room, “always overcareful for every

body’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgets,

going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.” The

clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. “’Tis twelve; I

shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time

to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the

possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him

soon.”



She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her

father—Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few

minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of

Frank’s being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the

midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared,

to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.



The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was

actually before her—he was presented to her, and she did not think too

much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young

man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his

countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his

father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she

should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a

readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be

acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.



He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the

eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel

earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day.



“I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I told you

all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I

used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help

getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in

upon one’s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal

more than any little exertion it needs.”



“It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the young

man, “though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;

but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.”



The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.

Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the

conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased

with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly

allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to

Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself

to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but

one’s _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That

he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before,

passed suspiciously through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a

falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner

had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if

in a state of no common enjoyment.



Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening

acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—“Was she a

horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?—Pleasant walks?—Had they a large

neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?—There were

several very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they balls?—Was

it a musical society?”



But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance

proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while

their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his

mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so

much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured

to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an

additional proof of his knowing how to please—and of his certainly

thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word

of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.

Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He

understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. “His

father’s marriage,” he said, “had been the wisest measure, every friend

must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a

blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest

obligation on him.”



He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits,

without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it

was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s

character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if

resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its

object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of

her person.



“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he; “but I

confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a

very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that

I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”



“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,”

said Emma; “were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen

with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using

such words. Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a

pretty young woman.”



“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon it, (with a

gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I

might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my

terms.”



Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from

their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her

mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be

considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must

see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they

were agreeable.



She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick

eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy

expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she

was confident that he was often listening.



Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the

entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion,

was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from

approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.—Though always objecting to

every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the

apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any

two persons’ understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it

were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could

now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a

glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all

his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr.

Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils

of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed

anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold—which,

however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till

after another night.



A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—“He must be going.

He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands

for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.” His

son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,



“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity

of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore

may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a

neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near

Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty,

I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the

proper name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any

family of that name?”



“To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates—we passed her house—I

saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss

Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is.

Call upon her, by all means.”



“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the young

man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree of

acquaintance at Weymouth which—”



“Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done

cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;

any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You

saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she

mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely

enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.”



The son looked convinced.



“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she is a very

elegant young woman.”



He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost to

doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort

of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought

only ordinarily gifted with it.



“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,” said

she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage; see her

and hear her—no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has

an aunt who never holds her tongue.”



“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?” said Mr.

Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation; “then give

me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young

lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very

worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will be extremely

glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to

shew you the way.”



“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”



“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,

quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many

houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,

unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you

had best cross the street.”



Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,

and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend,

this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees

it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,

step, and jump.”



They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one, and a

graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma

remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and

could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day,

with full confidence in their comfort.









CHAPTER VI





The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs.

Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He

had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,

till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their

walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—“He did not doubt there being very

pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him, he should always

chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,

would be his constant attraction.”—Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood

for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction

with him. They walked thither directly.



Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in for

half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew

nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize to her,

therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in

arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in

company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him

was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends

for it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly satisfied. It

was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid

his duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole

manner to her—nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of

considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was

time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit

included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about

together for an hour or two—first round the shrubberies of Hartfield,

and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired

Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going

farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with

the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much

oftener than Emma could have supposed.



Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He

begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long, and

which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting

that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest

of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though in

some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they

shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general, which must

be very like a merit to those he was with.



Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn, it

could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily

absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making a

parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had

not done him justice.



Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though

the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses

were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any

run on the road; and his companions had not expected to be detained by

any interest excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of

the large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago for a

ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a particularly

populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but such

brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for

which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established

among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately

interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; and instead of

passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two superior sashed

windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities,

and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no

fault in the room, he would acknowledge none which they suggested. No,

it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the

very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every

fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the

former good old days of the room?—She who could do any thing in

Highbury! The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction

that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted

to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be

persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him, could

not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even when

particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling

to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be any thing,

or that there would be the smallest difficulty in every body’s

returning into their proper place the next morning. He argued like a

young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to

see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the

habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit,

cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing

of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,

perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank,

bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however,

of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively

spirits.



At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown; and

being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged, Emma

recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had

paid it.



“Yes, oh! yes”—he replied; “I was just going to mention it. A very

successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt very much

obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken

me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I

was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes

would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper;

and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him—but

there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I

found, when he (finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that

I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an

hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.”



“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”



“Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look

ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?

Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so

pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.—A most

deplorable want of complexion.”



Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss

Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she would

not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was a softness

and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character

of her face.” He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he

had heard many people say the same—but yet he must confess, that to him

nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health.

Where features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them

all; and where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not

attempt to describe what the effect was.



“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.—At least you

admire her except her complexion.”



He shook his head and laughed.—“I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her

complexion.”



“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same

society?”



At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,

“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day of

their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he

says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If

it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove

myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must

buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.—I dare say

they sell gloves.”



“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism. You will

be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because

you were Mr. Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your

popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”



They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers”

and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he

said—“But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me,

you were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my _amor_

_patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of

public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any happiness in

private life.”



“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her

party at Weymouth.”



“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a

very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree

of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.—I

shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”



“Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But

her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed, she is so very

reserved, so very unwilling to give the least information about any

body, that I really think you may say what you like of your

acquaintance with her.”



“May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so

well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a

little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.

Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,

warm-hearted woman. I like them all.”



“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she is

destined to be?”



“Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.”



“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling;

“remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say

when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a

little farther off.”



“I certainly do forget to think of _her_,” said Emma, “as having ever

been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”



He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.



When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again, “Did

you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?” said Frank

Churchill.



“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs to

Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began.

She plays charmingly.”



“You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some one who could

really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with

considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.—I am

excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of

judging of any body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s

admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a

man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman—engaged to

her—on the point of marriage—would yet never ask that other woman to

sit down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit down

instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other.

That, I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”



“Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.—“Mr. Dixon is very musical,

is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,

than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”



“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought it a

very strong proof.”



“Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal stronger

than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable

to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music than love—more ear

than eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings.

How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”



“It was her very particular friend, you know.”



“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger

preferred than one’s very particular friend—with a stranger it might

not recur again—but the misery of having a very particular friend

always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!—Poor

Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”



“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she

really did not seem to feel it.”



“So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not know which. But be

it sweetness or be it stupidity in her—quickness of friendship, or

dulness of feeling—there was one person, I think, who must have felt

it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous

distinction.”



“As to that—I do not—”



“Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s

sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no human

being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she

was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”



“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all—” he

began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it is

impossible for me to say on what terms they really were—how it might

all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness

outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a

better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to conduct

herself in critical situations, than I can be.”



“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children and

women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should be

intimate,—that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited

her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a

little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to

take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always

was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set. And then, her

reserve—I never could attach myself to any one so completely reserved.”



“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes very

convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve,

but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”



“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction

may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an

agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of

conquering any body’s reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss

Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think

ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and perpetual

cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea

about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being something

to conceal.”



He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long, and

thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,

that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He

was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the world in

some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore

better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate—his

feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of

considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would

go and look at, and would not join them in finding much fault with. No,

he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house as a man was to

be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved,

he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There

must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a

blockhead who wanted more.



Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking

about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking

how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he

could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small

one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he

was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination to

settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not

be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no

housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no doubt he did

perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that

whenever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of wealth to

be allowed an early establishment.









CHAPTER VII





Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the

following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London, merely to

have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at

breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to

return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than

having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling

sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of

foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not

accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense, or even

the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to

discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,

restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;

heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston,

indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became

liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb, and

thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was

clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible, and making

no other comment than that “all young people would have their little

whims.”



With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit

hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was

very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made

himself—how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He

appeared to have a very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and

lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great

deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond

of talking of him—said he would be the best man in the world if he were

left to himself; and though there was no being attached to the aunt, he

acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and seemed to mean always to

speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, but for

such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to

denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination

had given him; the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of

being at least very near it, and saved only by her own

indifference—(for still her resolution held of never marrying)—the

honour, in short, of being marked out for her by all their joint

acquaintance.



Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have

some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her

extremely—thought her very beautiful and very charming; and with so

much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him

harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, “all young people would have their

little whims.”



There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so

leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes

of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances were

made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man—one who

smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them

not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—Mr.

Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,

he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately afterwards say to

himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, “Hum! just the trifling,

silly fellow I took him for.” She had half a mind to resent; but an

instant’s observation convinced her that it was really said only to

relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she

let it pass.



Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings, Mr. and Mrs.

Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect particularly

opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make

Emma want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she wanted

exactly the advice they gave.



This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled some years in

Highbury, and were very good sort of people—friendly, liberal, and

unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin, in

trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the

country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping

little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last year or two

had brought them a considerable increase of means—the house in town had

yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them.

With their wealth, their views increased; their want of a larger house,

their inclination for more company. They added to their house, to their

number of servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time

were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at

Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared

every body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly

among the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best

families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite—neither

Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt _her_ to go,

if they did; and she regretted that her father’s known habits would be

giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles were

very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was

not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would

visit them. This lesson, she very much feared, they would receive only

from herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.



But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks

before it appeared, that when the insult came at last, it found her

very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their

invitation, and none had come for her father and herself; and Mrs.

Weston’s accounting for it with “I suppose they will not take the

liberty with you; they know you do not dine out,” was not quite

sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of

refusal; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled

there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,

occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been

tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the

Bateses. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the

day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her

absence. Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of

his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her

spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the

omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.



It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were at

Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her

first remark, on reading it, was that “of course it must be declined,”

she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do,

that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.



She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely without

inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves so

properly—there was so much real attention in the manner of it—so much

consideration for her father. “They would have solicited the honour

earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from

London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of

air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour

of his company.” Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being

briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without

neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates,

might be depended on for bearing him company—Mr. Woodhouse was to be

talked into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner on a

day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As

for _his_ going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible, the hours

would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well

resigned.



“I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he—“I never was. No more is

Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole

should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come

in one afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take us in

their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our hours are so

reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the

evening. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not expose any

body to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine

with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to

take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be

what it ought, neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs.

Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—“Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had not

married, you would have staid at home with me.”



“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away, it is

incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will step to Mrs.

Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.”



But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing, not

lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better how to

allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing deliberately

arranged.



With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking

as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great

regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.

James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an answer

written to Mrs. Cole.”



“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will

say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must

decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_, of

course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what is

to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will

be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have

never been there above once since the new approach was made; but still

I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get

there, you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you

again; and you had better name an early hour. You will not like staying

late. You will get very tired when tea is over.”



“But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”



“Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be a great

many people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”



“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away early, it

will be breaking up the party.”



“And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The sooner every

party breaks up, the better.”



“But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles. Emma’s going

away directly after tea might be giving offence. They are good-natured

people, and think little of their own claims; but still they must feel

that any body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss

Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than any other person’s

in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I

am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who have

been your neighbours these _ten_ years.”



“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.



She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at Mr.

Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr.

Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than

his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.



Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs.

Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty, before she left

the house, was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after

dinner; and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her

dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping

them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever

unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged

them to practise during the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner

for them; she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat

it.



She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased to

see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses,

having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and

independence, was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could,

and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey.

She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from

her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.



“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman.—I am

quite glad to see you.”



He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same

moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether

you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—You

might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”



“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of

consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be

beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but

with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I

always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. _Now_

you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed

ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any body else. _Now_

I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”



“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.



Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as

with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could

not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When

the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of

admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached

her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object,

and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed,

not without some dexterity on his side.



The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper

unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of

naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family,

the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the

evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but already, at

dinner, they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be

general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could

fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her

neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to

attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating

something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She

listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of

Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that

she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room

had been struck by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking

instrument—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the

substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of

surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her side, and

explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this pianoforte had arrived

from Broadwood’s the day before, to the great astonishment of both aunt

and niece—entirely unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account,

Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could

possibly have ordered it—but now, they were both perfectly satisfied

that it could be from only one quarter;—of course it must be from

Colonel Campbell.



“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only

surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,

had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.

She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as

any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse

to surprize her.”



Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the

subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,

and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there were

enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still

listen to Mrs. Cole.



“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given me

more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who

plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a

shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine

instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a

slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I

really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the

drawing-room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little

girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of

it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not

any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old

spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr.

Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so

particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in

the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so

obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and that

really is the reason why the instrument was bought—or else I am sure we

ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse

may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”



Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing

more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned

to Frank Churchill.



“Why do you smile?” said she.



“Nay, why do you?”



“Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being so rich

and so liberal.—It is a handsome present.”



“Very.”



“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”



“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”



“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument—which must

now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”



“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs.

Bates’s house.”



“You may _say_ what you chuse—but your countenance testifies that your

_thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.”



“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for

acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably

suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what

there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can

be?”



“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”



“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She

must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be;

and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a

young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare

say. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine.”



“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon in

them.”



“Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must be the

joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day,

you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”



“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I had

entertained before.—I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions

of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting

either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the

misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became conscious of a

little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without

guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must be a particular

cause for her chusing to come to Highbury instead of going with the

Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be leading a life of privation and

penance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of

trying her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.—In the summer

it might have passed; but what can any body’s native air do for them in

the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages

would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and

I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,

though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell

you what they are.”



“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon’s

preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being very

decided.”



“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water party;

and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”



“He did. I was there—one of the party.”



“Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course, for it

seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I should

have made some discoveries.”



“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact, that

Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon

caught her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent

shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe

it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet that

was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be

observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made

discoveries.”



The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in

the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and

obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the

table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed

exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma

said,



“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a

little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall

soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”



“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we must

conclude it to come from the Campbells.”



“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it is

not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first. She

would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have

convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr.

Dixon is a principal in the business.”



“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings

carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed

you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as

paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world.

But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that

it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see

it in no other light than as an offering of love.”



There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction

seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other

subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the

dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired

amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few

downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor

the other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old

news, and heavy jokes.



The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other

ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree

of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her

dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and

the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light,

cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many

alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed

affection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she

had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and

seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say

nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax

did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad

to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the

mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in

vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself

beloved by the husband of her friend.



In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.

She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the

secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair,

and therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the

subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of

consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of

guilt which accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colonel

Campbell.”



Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by

the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her

perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and

to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish

of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the

fair heroine’s countenance.



They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of

the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the

handsomest; and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates

and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the

circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,

would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be

thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it. She

introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments

afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had never seen so

lovely a face, and was delighted with her naïveté.” And she, “Only to

be sure it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think

there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.” Emma restrained her

indignation, and only turned from her in silence.



Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first

glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.

He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room—hated

sitting long—was always the first to move when he could—that his

father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over

parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it had been

pleasant enough, as he had found them in general a set of

gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury

altogether—thought it so abundant in agreeable families—that Emma began

to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She

questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire—the extent of the

neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his

answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little

going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families,

none very near; and that even when days were fixed, and invitations

accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health

and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh

person; and that, though he had his separate engagements, it was not

without difficulty, without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he

could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night.



She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, taken at

its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement

at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He

did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded

his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and

noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two points) he

could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing. One of those points on

which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted very much

to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she

would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. _Now_, he

said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.



The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be

good behaviour to his father.



“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause.—

“I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never knew days fly

so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But

just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I hate the

recollection.”



“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day, out

of so few, in having your hair cut.”



“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no

pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be

seen.”



The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself

obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.

When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored as

before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at

Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.



“What is the matter?” said she.



He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I have

been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a

way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw

any thing so outrée!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I

see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her whether it is

an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and you shall

see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”



He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss

Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady, as

he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in

front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.



Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.



“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one can get near

every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to

you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like

yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how

Miss Bates and her niece came here?”



“How?—They were invited, were not they?”



“Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of their

coming?”



“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”



“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it

would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and

cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw

her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and

would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could

not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,

and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may

guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation, I

made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage

would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would

be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as

possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as

herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occasion to trouble

us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to take them home

again.’ I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite

surprized. Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an

attention!—the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in

short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think

that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do

suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it

was only as an excuse for assisting them.”



“Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know no man more

likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing

really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a

gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane

Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for

an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix on

more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we arrived

together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that

could betray.”



“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more

simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while

Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have

never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more

probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.

Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you

company!—What do you say to it?”



“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston,

how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must

not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?—Oh!

no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr.

Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely. I am

amazed that you should think of such a thing.”



“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not

want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea

has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished

to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of

six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”



“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr. Knightley

marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now.

And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”



“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very well

know.”



“But the imprudence of such a match!”



“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”



“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation than

what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would

be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for

the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always glad

to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to

match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the

Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not

have him do so mad a thing.”



“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,

and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”



“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the

least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He

is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and

his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of

his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up

his time or his heart.”



“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really

loves Jane Fairfax—”



“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love, I

am sure he does not. He would do any good to her, or her family; but—”



“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he could

do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”



“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself; a

very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have Miss

Bates belonging to him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking

him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—‘So very kind

and obliging!—But he always had been such a very kind neighbour!’ And

then fly off, through half a sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat.

‘Not that it was such a very old petticoat either—for still it would

last a great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that their

petticoats were all very strong.’”



“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against my

conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would be

much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She

might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only

talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it

would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it; and I think

he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of

Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her—his anxiety about her

health—his concern that she should have no happier prospect! I have

heard him express himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer of

her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him

say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost

forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte that has been

sent here by somebody—though we have all been so well satisfied to

consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr.

Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person

to do it, even without being in love.”



“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not

think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does

nothing mysteriously.”



“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;

oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common

course of things, occur to him.”



“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told

her so.”



“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very

strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly

silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”



“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have

many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment—I

believe nothing of the pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that

Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”



They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather

gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the

most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed

them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;—and at the

same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do

them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the

eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing

nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.

Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it

suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.



She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more

than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit

in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could

accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her

agreeably by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank

Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and

every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful

voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and

that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly

asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her

place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental,

she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely

superior to her own.



With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the

numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.

They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the

sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half

Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of

Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united

voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr.

Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside. She could see

nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John

Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a

most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;—a very great

deduction from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she could

not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs.

Knightley for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never

marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.



Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They

talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly

very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have

struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his

kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in

the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate

only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.



“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage

more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;

but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should

put-to for such a purpose.”



“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he

replied;—“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with

such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another

step.



“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this pianoforte is very

kindly given.”



“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent

embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her

notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not

enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have

expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”



From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had

had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely

free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual

preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s

second song, her voice grew thick.



“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—“you have

sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet.”



Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they would not

fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more.”

And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could manage this

without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the

song falls on the second.”



Mr. Knightley grew angry.



“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing off

his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at that

moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing

herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on

her.”



Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be

grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther

singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss

Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but

soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing—originating nobody

exactly knew where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole,

that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs.

Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an

irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming

gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.



While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,

Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her

voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr.

Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he

were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur

something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to

Mrs. Cole—he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody

else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.



Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and

she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than

five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it

made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a

partner. They were a couple worth looking at.



Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was

growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her

mother’s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to

begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful,

and have done.



“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to

her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing

would not have agreed with me, after yours.”









CHAPTER IX





Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit

afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she

might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must

be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted

the Coles—worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a name

behind her that would not soon die away.



Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two

points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not

transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of

Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it

had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his

submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration,

which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to

have held her tongue.



The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and

there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret

the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily

grieve over the idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised

vigorously an hour and a half.



She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s

praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.



“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”



“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her’s,

than a lamp is like sunshine.”



“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite

as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every body

last night said how well you played.”



“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference. The

truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,

but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”



“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or

that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole

said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great

deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than

execution.”



“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”



“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any

taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.—There is no

understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you

know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have to

teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get into

any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?”



“Just as they always do—very vulgar.”



“They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly; “but it is

nothing of any consequence.”



Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its

producing Mr. Elton.



“They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”



“Oh!”



“He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay

to dinner.”



“Oh!”



“They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know

what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay

there again next summer.”



“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should

be.”



“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her

at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad to

marry him.”



“Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar

girls in Highbury.”



Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most prudent to go with

her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in

her present state, would be dangerous.



Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always

very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins

and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could

not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr.

Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the

office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a

stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she

could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher

with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her

full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of

dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the

gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused

enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at

ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not

answer.



She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged; two persons

appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were walking into

Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They were stopping, however, in the

first place at Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls

than Ford’s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their

eye.—Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her; and the

agreeableness of yesterday’s engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure

to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to

call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.



“For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely promised Miss

Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it

myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I

am going now.”



“And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,” said

Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield—if

you are going home.”



Mrs. Weston was disappointed.



“I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.”



“Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be equally in the

way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt

always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to

death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.

What am I to do?”



“I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am only waiting for

my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home.

But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.”



“Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should

have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an

indifferent tone—what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs.

Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would

be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the

world at a civil falsehood.”



“I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.—“I am persuaded that

you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary; but

there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite

otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.”



“Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very disagreeable to

you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards. We

will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It

will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.”



He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,

returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door. Emma watched them in,

and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,—trying, with all

the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain

muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be

it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At

last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.



“Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs.

Ford.—“Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern gown is at

Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then,

Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.—And I could take the pattern gown

home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly—so it had better go

to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels,

Mrs. Ford, could not you?”



“It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two

parcels.”



“No more it is.”



“No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Ford.



“Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. Then, if you

please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s—I do not know—No, I

think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,

and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?”



“That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield,

if you please, Mrs. Ford.”



“Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied, “I should

not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.”



Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs.

Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.



“My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run across to

entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,

and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How

do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston

to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”



“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”



“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;

and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad

to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh!

then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me

just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother will be so

very happy to see her—and now we are such a nice party, she cannot

refuse.—‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s

opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’—But, said I, I shall

be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.—‘Oh,’ said

he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would you

believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging manner in

the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The rivet

came out, you know, this morning.—So very obliging!—For my mother had

no use of her spectacles—could not put them on. And, by the bye, every

body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane

said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I

did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one

thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time

Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh,

said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet

of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home,

Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging

to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say that Mrs.

Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never

known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be

for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread,

you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really

eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite

frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she

eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But

about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she

likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,

for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I

happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I

have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it

is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly

wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an

excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I

hope, and these ladies will oblige us.”



Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they did at

last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than,



“How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before.

I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane

came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a

little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”



“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were all

in the street.



Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.



“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my mother’s

spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I

do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind

excessively.’—Which you know shewed him to be so very.... Indeed I must

say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I had expected,

he very far exceeds any thing.... I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston,

most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could.... ‘Oh!’

said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort

excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out

the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so

very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is

nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the

finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you

know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no

compliment. Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis

does them full justice—only we do not have them baked more than twice,

and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times—but

Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples

themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all

from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a

sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple

anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother

says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. But I was

really quite shocked the other day—for Mr. Knightley called one

morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and

said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to

the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will

send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever

use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this

year. I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.’ So

I begged he would not—for really as to ours being gone, I could not

absolutely say that we had a great many left—it was but half a dozen

indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all

bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been

already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost

quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had a

quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned the

apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a

great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.

However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large

basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was

very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said

every thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old

acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found

afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of

_that_ sort his master had; he had brought them all—and now his master

had not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it

himself, he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for

William, you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;

but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent

away. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have

another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not

mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs.

Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were

sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me,

and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Knightley

know any thing about it for the world! He would be so very.... I wanted

to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it

before I was aware.”



Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors

walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,

pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.



“Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take

care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather darker and

narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss

Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss

Smith, the step at the turning.”









CHAPTER X





The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered, was

tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,

slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near

her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,

standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.



Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most

happy countenance on seeing Emma again.



“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming at least

ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be

useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”



“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? you would not

earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”



“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I have been

assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,

it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see

we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to

be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.”



He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently

employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to

make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite

ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not immediately

ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had

not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without

emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance; and

Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could

not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.



At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the

powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs.

Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined

her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper

discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.



“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill, with a

smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of

Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper

notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would

particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his

friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not

you think so?”



Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had

been speaking to her at the same moment.



“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random guess. Do

not distress her.”



He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little

doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,



“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on

this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and

wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s

coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to

be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the

consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have

sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to

depend upon contingencies and conveniences?”



He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,



“Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice of

forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be

all conjecture.”



“Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one

conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this

rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at

work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their

tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss

Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I have

the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,

healed for the present.”



He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape a

little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss

Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.



“If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes we

danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them

as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we

danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one ever

has to give—for another half-hour.”



She played.



“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one

happy!—If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”



She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played

something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,

and turning to Emma, said,



“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—And here

are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might

expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of

Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music

here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to

have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing

incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”



Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;

and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught the

remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of

consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less

scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to

her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently

cherishing very reprehensible feelings.



He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—Emma

took the opportunity of whispering,



“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”



“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least

ashamed of my meaning.”



“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the

idea.”



“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now

a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If she does

wrong, she ought to feel it.”



“She is not entirely without it, I think.”



“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_ at this

moment—_his_ favourite.”



Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried Mr.

Knightley on horse-back not far off.



“Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if possible, just to

thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give you all cold;

but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in

when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet

so!—Our little room so honoured!”



She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the

casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention, and every

syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others,

as if it had passed within the same apartment.



“How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you

for the carriage last night. We were just in time; my mother just ready

for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will find some friends here.”



So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in

his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,



“How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after you all, but

particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold

last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”



And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear

her in any thing else. The listeners were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave

Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in

steady scepticism.



“So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the carriage,”

resumed Miss Bates.



He cut her short with,



“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”



“Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she

wanted something from Kingston.”



“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?”



“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?—Miss

Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the new

pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”



“Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes, perhaps.”



“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!—Quite delightful;

so many friends!”



“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on

to Kingston as fast as I can.”



“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”



“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear

the pianoforte.”



“Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last

night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever see such dancing?—Was not

it delightful?—Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any

thing equal to it.”



“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss

Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing that passes.

And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should

not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.

Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in

England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say

something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I cannot stay to

hear it.”



“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence—so

shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”



“What is the matter now?”



“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had a

great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!

Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You

should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never

can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now, and it

would have been a pity not to have mentioned.... Well, (returning to

the room,) I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop.

He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any thing....”



“Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.”



“Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door was

open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must

have heard every thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at

Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must

you be going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.”



Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already lasted

long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was perceived to

be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking leave also, could

allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield

gates, before they set off for Randalls.









CHAPTER XI





It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been

known of young people passing many, many months successively, without

being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue

either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—when the

felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it

must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.



Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;

and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded

to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young

people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his

the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of

the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and

appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people

again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse

danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself

with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any of

the wicked aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room

they were in to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking

the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in

spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size,

that it was a little the largest.



His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s

should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and

the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr.

Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston

most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;

and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly

who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of

space to every couple.



“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss

Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will be the

two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley.

Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and

Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for five

couple there will be plenty of room.”



But soon it came to be on one side,



“But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think

there will.”



On another,



“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to

stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it.

It will not do to _invite_ five couple. It can be allowable only as the

thought of the moment.”



Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and

must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed _Mrs_. Gilbert

would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word was

put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one

family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old

acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the

five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation

in what possible manner they could be disposed of.



The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might not

they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed the best

scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a

better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress

about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score

of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be

persevered in.



“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not

bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold.

So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would

be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do

not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very

thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite

the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and

keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the

draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not

quite the thing!”



Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it,

and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was now

closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only

in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on

Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour

before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now

endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.



“We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary room. Ten

couple may stand here very well.”



Emma demurred. “It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; and what could be

worse than dancing without space to turn in?”



“Very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” But still he went

on measuring, and still he ended with,



“I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.”



“No, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful

to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to

be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!”



“There is no denying it,” he replied. “I agree with you exactly. A

crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving

pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!—Still, however,

having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It

would be a disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not know

that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very

well.”



Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little

self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of

dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave the rest.

Had she intended ever to _marry_ him, it might have been worth while to

pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference,

and the character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their

acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.



Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered

the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of

the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.



“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” he almost immediately began, “your inclination

for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the terrors

of my father’s little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:—a

thought of my father’s, which waits only your approbation to be acted

upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first dances

of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randalls, but at the

Crown Inn?”



“The Crown!”



“Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you

cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him

there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less

grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees

no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all

feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the

Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how

right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing _any_

_thing_ to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent—I hope

you consent?”



“It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs.

Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can answer for

myself, shall be most happy—It seems the only improvement that could

be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?”



She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully

comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations were

necessary to make it acceptable.



“No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very bad plan—much

worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous;

never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they

had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the

Crown in his life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh!

no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the Crown than

anywhere.”



“I was going to observe, sir,” said Frank Churchill, “that one of the

great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of

any body’s catching cold—so much less danger at the Crown than at

Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but

nobody else could.”



“Sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, “you are very much mistaken

if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is

extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how

the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.”



“From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have no

occasion to open the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it

is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon

heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.”



“Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of

opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent! I never

heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither

your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer

it.”



“Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a

window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. I

have often known it done myself.”



“Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I

live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. However,

this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it

over—but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One

cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so

obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what

can be done.”



“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”



“Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking every

thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at

the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will

be so near their own stable.”



“So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever

complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could

be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be

trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.”



“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be

under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.”



“There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who

is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said, so many

years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If _Miss_ _Taylor_ undertakes to

wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often have I

heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”



“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor

little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would

have been very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times

a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good

sort—which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful

complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the

measles, she will send for Perry.”



“My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said Frank

Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there

and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you

might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was

desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them,

if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing

satisfactorily without you.”



Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,

engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people

set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.

Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and

very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and

he, finding every thing perfect.



“Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in places

you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and

forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”



“My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What does all

that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as

clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our

club-nights.”



The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never know

when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each

to himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless

cares.”



One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain. It

regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built,

suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was

the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted

as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by

their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable

supper? Another room of much better size might be secured for the

purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward

passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs.

Weston was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and

neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being

miserably crowded at supper.



Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches, &c.,

set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched

suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was

pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs.

Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of

expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,



“I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many, you know.”



And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps

through the passage, was calling out,



“You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a

mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.”



“I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement our

guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally

pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would be.”



“Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your neighbours’

opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief

of them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call

upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.—And I do not know

whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of

the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger

council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?”



“Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you think

she will be of any use.”



“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma. “She

will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She

will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in

consulting Miss Bates.”



“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of hearing

Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.”



Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it

his decided approbation.



“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at

once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a

properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss

Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of

how to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.”



“Both sir! Can the old lady?”...



“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a

great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”



“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.

Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.”

And away he ran.



Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving

aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman

and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of

it much less than she had supposed before—indeed very trifling; and

here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation

at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and

chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left

as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.

Stokes.—Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already

written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,

which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to

be.



Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must. As

a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer

character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and

minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another

half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different

rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of

the future. The party did not break up without Emma’s being positively

secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor

without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has asked

her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he would!”









CHAPTER XII





One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely

satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted term

of Frank Churchill’s stay in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s

confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the

Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his

fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take

their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were

entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding and

hoping in uncertainty—at the risk—in her opinion, the great risk, of

its being all in vain.



Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word. His

wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was not

opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one

solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of

her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s provoking

indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or

because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed

resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its

exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement.

To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply,

than,



“Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this

trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say

against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.—Oh! yes, I

must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I

can; but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s

week’s account; much rather, I confess.—Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not

I, indeed—I never look at it—I do not know who does.—Fine dancing, I

believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by

are usually thinking of something very different.”



This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. It was

not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was so indifferent,

or so indignant; he was not guided by _her_ feelings in reprobating the

ball, for _she_ enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree.

It made her animated—open hearted—she voluntarily said;—



“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.

What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own, with

_very_ great pleasure.”



It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have

preferred the society of William Larkins. No!—she was more and more

convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There

was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his

side—but no love.



Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two

days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throw of

every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s

instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell—far too unwell to do without

him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her husband) when

writing to her nephew two days before, though from her usual

unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of

herself, she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle,

and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.



The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs.

Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone

within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt,

to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred

but for her own convenience.



Mrs. Weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to

Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom

he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might be

expected at Hartfield very soon.”



This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once it had

been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. The

loss of the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young man

might be feeling!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening as it

would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner the

happiest!—“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.



Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of

Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and

as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but

they would all be safer at home.



Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but if

this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total

want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going

away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He

sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing

himself, it was only to say,



“Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”



“But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your only visit

to Randalls.”



“Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may be able to

return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be the object of all my

thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring—but

I am afraid—they did not stir last spring—I am afraid it is a custom

gone for ever.”



“Our poor ball must be quite given up.”



“Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the

pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,

foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,

why are you always so right?”



“Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much

rather have been merry than wise.”



“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends

on it. Do not forget your engagement.”



Emma looked graciously.



“Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day more

precious and more delightful than the day before!—every day making me

less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at

Highbury!”



“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing, “I will

venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?

Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure

you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in

coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.”



He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, Emma

was convinced that it had been so.



“And you must be off this very morning?”



“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and I

must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will

bring him.”



“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and Miss

Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might

have strengthened yours.”



“Yes—I _have_ called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It

was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained

by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not

to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one _must_

laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay

my visit, then”—



He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.



“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think you can hardly be

quite without suspicion”—



He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew

what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely

serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore,

in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,



“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,

then”—



He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting

on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She heard

him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had _cause_ to sigh.

He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments

passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner said,



“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given

to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”—



He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.—He was more

in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say how it might

have ended, if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse

soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.



A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr.

Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of

procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that

was doubtful, said, “It was time to go;” and the young man, though he

might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.



“I shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief consolation. I

shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have engaged

Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise

it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really

interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters

I shall be at dear Highbury again.”



A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest “Good-bye,” closed

the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had

been the notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so

sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from

his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it

too much.



It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his

arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given great spirit to the

last two weeks—indescribable spirit; the idea, the expectation of

seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his

attentions, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy

fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common

course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he

had _almost_ told her that he loved her. What strength, or what

constancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but

at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,

a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all

the rest, made her think that she _must_ be a little in love with him,

in spite of every previous determination against it.



“I certainly must,” said she. “This sensation of listlessness,

weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ

myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and insipid about the

house!— I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world

if I were not—for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always

good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not

for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the

evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.”



Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could not

say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look would

have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that

he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with

considerable kindness added,



“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really

out of luck; you are very much out of luck!”



It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest

regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure was

odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from

headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball

taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was

charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor of

ill-health.









CHAPTER XIII





Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas

only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good

deal; and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing

Frank Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than

ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,

and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how

were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his

coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand, she could

not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be

less disposed for employment than usual; she was still busy and

cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have

faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat

drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress

and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and

inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary

declaration on his side was that she _refused_ _him_. Their affection

was always to subside into friendship. Every thing tender and charming

was to mark their parting; but still they were to part. When she became

sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in

love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to

quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must

produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.



“I do not find myself making any use of the word _sacrifice_,” said

she.—“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is

there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not

really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will

not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love.

I should be sorry to be more.”



Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his

feelings.



“_He_ is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very much

in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his affection continue, I

must be on my guard not to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable

to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he

can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, if he had believed

me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched.

Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at

parting would have been different.—Still, however, I must be on my

guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it

now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look upon him

to be quite the sort of man—I do not altogether build upon his

steadiness or constancy.—His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them

rather changeable.—Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes

me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—I shall do

very well again after a little while—and then, it will be a good thing

over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I

shall have been let off easily.”



When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it; and

she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at

first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had

undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving

the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the

affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and

describing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed

attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of

apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs.

Weston; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast

between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was

just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much

more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.—The

charm of her own name was not wanting. _Miss_ _Woodhouse_ appeared more

than once, and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either

a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and

in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by

any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of

her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all

conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were these

words—“I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss

Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to

her.” This, Emma could not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was

remembered only from being _her_ friend. His information and prospects

as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;

Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own

imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls again.



Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material

part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned

to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she

could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without

her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew

more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent

consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words

which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the

idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it

impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in

understanding; but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of

her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the

probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For

Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.



“I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“I must not think of it. I know

the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have

happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it

will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested

friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.”



It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it

might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that

quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr.

Elton’s engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest

interest had entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank

Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most

irresistible form.—His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among

them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over

the first letter from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride” was in

every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick

at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr.

Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been

lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there

had been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now

too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as

could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and

all.



Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the

reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could

give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet

had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy

work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever

agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet

listened submissively, and said “it was very true—it was just as Miss

Woodhouse described—it was not worth while to think about them—and she

would not think about them any longer” but no change of subject could

avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the

Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.



“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.

Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make _me_.

You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It

was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure

you.—Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you—and it will be a

painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of

forgetting it.”



Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager

exclamation. Emma continued,



“I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk

less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I

would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than

my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is

your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the

suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your

tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you.

They are very important—and sorry I am that you cannot feel them

sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very

secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain.

Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what

was due—or rather what would be kind by me.”



This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of

wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really

loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence

of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt

to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.



“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—Want

gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do for

you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”



Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and

manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so

well, nor valued her affection so highly before.



“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she afterwards

to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and

tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all

the clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will.

It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally

beloved—which gives Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I

know how to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the

charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change

you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female

breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a

hundred such—And for a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I

mention no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”









CHAPTER XIV





Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might be

interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and

it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to

settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or

not pretty at all.



Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to

make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she

made a point of Harriet’s going with her, that the worst of the

business might be gone through as soon as possible.



She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to

which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to

lace up her boot, without _recollecting_. A thousand vexatious thoughts

would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was

not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too;

but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The

visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and

occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself

entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one,

beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being “elegantly dressed, and very

pleasing.”



She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,

but she suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.—

She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there

was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;

but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma

thought at least it would turn out so.



As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not

permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It was

an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a

man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman

was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the

privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense to

depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr.

Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just

married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had

been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as

little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as

could be.



“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quitted the house,

and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “Well, Miss

Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—Is not she

very charming?”



There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.



“Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”



“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”



“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”



“I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.”



“Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty fortune; and

she came in his way.”



“I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say she was very

much attached to him.”



“Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry the woman

who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought

this the best offer she was likely to have.”



“Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody could ever

have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss

Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as

superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a different

thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit

and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not

thrown himself away, is such a comfort!—She does seem a charming young

woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta.’

How delightful!”



When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see

more and judge better. From Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield,

and her father’s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter

of an hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could composedly

attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs.

Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and

thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to shine and be

very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school,

pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from one set of

people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant,

and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.



Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,

she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, it

might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of

her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the

alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.



The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, “My brother

Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The

grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was

modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by

the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or

imagine. “Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the

likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at

Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—Mr. Elton was appealed

to.—“Was not it astonishingly like?—She could really almost fancy

herself at Maple Grove.”



“And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very like the

staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really

could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very

delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial

to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a

little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every body

who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a

home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will

understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like

what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils

of matrimony.”



Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient

for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.



“So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—the

grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.

The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand

very much in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of

a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in

mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People

who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any thing

in the same style.”



Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that

people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the

extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to

attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,



“When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think

you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties.”



“Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England, you

know. Surry is the garden of England.”



“Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many

counties, I believe, are called the garden of England, as well as

Surry.”



“No, I fancy not,” replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile. “I

never heard any county but Surry called so.”



Emma was silenced.



“My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or

summer at farthest,” continued Mrs. Elton; “and that will be our time

for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I

dare say. They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds

four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_

carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely

well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season

of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly

recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much

preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you

know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as

possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored

to King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,

just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many

parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”



“No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very

striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and

we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at

home than engage in schemes of pleasure.”



“Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can

be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at

Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to

Bristol, ‘I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I

absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the

barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her

own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time

has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I

think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from

society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to

mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too

much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however,

Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father’s state of

health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?—Indeed he

should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of

its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.”



“My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any

benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you,

does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.”



“Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, where the

waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath

life, I have seen such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place,

that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits,

which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And as to its

recommendations to _you_, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell

on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally

understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived

so secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best

society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of

acquaintance; and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have

always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any

attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public

with.”



It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite. The idea of

her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an

_introduction_—of her going into public under the auspices of a friend

of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help

of a boarder, just made a shift to live!—The dignity of Miss Woodhouse,

of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!



She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could

have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; “but their going to

Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly convinced

that the place might suit her better than her father.” And then, to

prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.



“I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these

occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes her; and Highbury has

long known that you are a superior performer.”



“Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A superior

performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a

quarter your information came. I am doatingly fond of

music—passionately fond;—and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of

taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is

_mediocre_ to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play

delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction,

comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got

into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life

to me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at

Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I

honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home,

and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be

disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had

been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly without apprehension.

When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that _the_

_world_ I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of

retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was

not necessary to _me_. I could do very well without it. To those who

had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources made me

quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used

to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal

to any sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been accustomed

to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages

were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments.

‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do not think I can live without

something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else; but

without music, life would be a blank to me.’”



“We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton would hesitate

to assure you of there being a _very_ musical society in Highbury; and

I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be

pardoned, in consideration of the motive.”



“No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted to

find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little

concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a

musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.

Will not it be a good plan? If _we_ exert ourselves, I think we shall

not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be

particularly desirable for _me_, as an inducement to keep me in

practice; for married women, you know—there is a sad story against

them, in general. They are but too apt to give up music.”



“But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no danger,

surely?”



“I should hope not; but really when I look around among my

acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never

touches the instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be

said of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two

Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can

enumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to

be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a

married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was

half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper.”



“But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in so regular

a train—”



“Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”



Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing

more to say; and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Elton chose another

subject.



“We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found them both at

home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.

Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite

with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good—there is

something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one

directly. She was your governess, I think?”



Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly

waited for the affirmative before she went on.



“Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very

lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.”



“Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always particularly good.

Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest

model for any young woman.”



“And who do you think came in while we were there?”



Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—and

how could she possibly guess?



“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!—Was not it

lucky?—for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never

seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.’s,

I had a great curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often

mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my

cara sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his

friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much.

Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.”



Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could

breathe.



“Insufferable woman!” was her immediate exclamation. “Worse than I had

supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!—I could not have believed

it. Knightley!—never seen him in her life before, and call him

Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart,

vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her

resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.

Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether

he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could

not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to

form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs.

Weston!—Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a

gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond

my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank

Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he

would be! Ah! there I am—thinking of him directly. Always the first

person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes

as regularly into my mind!”—



All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her

father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons’ departure,

and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending.



“Well, my dear,” he deliberately began, “considering we never saw her

before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she

was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little

quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I

am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and

poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved

young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think

he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not

having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion;

I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought

to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it

shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into

Vicarage Lane.”



“I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you.”



“Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid my respects to her

if possible. It was being very deficient.”



“But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why

should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to

be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you

make so much of them.”



“No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always

wish to pay every proper attention to a lady—and a bride, especially,

is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you

know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who

they may.”



“Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what

is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to

such vanity-baits for poor young ladies.”



“My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common

politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any

encouragement to people to marry.”



Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand

_her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton’s offences, and long, very long,

did they occupy her.









CHAPTER XV





Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill

opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as

Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared

whenever they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,

and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but

so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior

knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;

and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.

Elton’s consequence only could surpass.



There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently

from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had

the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to

Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part

of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of

judging, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or taking it for

granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she

professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s

praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by

Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked

with a good grace of her being “very pleasant and very elegantly

dressed.”



In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at

first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.—Offended, probably, by the

little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew

back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and

though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was

necessarily increasing Emma’s dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr.

Elton’s, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and

negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s cure; but the

sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very

much.—It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been

an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story,

under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to

him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the

object of their joint dislike.—When they had nothing else to say, it

must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity

which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader

vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.



Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not

merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to

recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied

with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration—but without

solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and

befriend her.—Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the

third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry

on the subject.—



“Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I quite rave

about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and

ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you I think she has very

extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely

well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she

is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my word,

I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.—And her situation is so calculated

to affect one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour to

do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers

must not be suffered to remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those

charming lines of the poet,



‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

    ‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’





We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax.”



“I cannot think there is any danger of it,” was Emma’s calm answer—“and

when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax’s situation and

understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I

have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.”



“Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such

obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed

with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.

I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she

feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must

confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for

timidity—and I am sure one does not often meet with it.—But in those

who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure

you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more

than I can express.”



“You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how you or any of

Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those who have known her

longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than”—



“My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to

act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will

follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_

have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style

which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the

least inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to

send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_

than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of

thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been

used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the

other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple

Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be—for we do not

at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my

resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.—I shall certainly have

her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall

have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly

on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very

extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her

shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my

brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her

extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears

will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of

either but what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often

indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a

seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.”



“Poor Jane Fairfax!”—thought Emma.—“You have not deserved this. You may

have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment

beyond what you can have merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs.

Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me not suppose

that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!—But upon my honour,

there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!”



Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively

addressed to herself—so disgustingly decorated with a “dear Miss

Woodhouse.” The change on Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared,

and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular

friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the very active

patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general

way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.



She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s gratitude for Mrs.

Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless

simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies—the most

amiable, affable, delightful woman—just as accomplished and

condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only

surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and

tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with

the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons!

This was astonishing!—She could not have believed it possible that the

taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and

friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.



“She is a riddle, quite a riddle!” said she.—“To chuse to remain here

month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the

mortification of Mrs. Elton’s notice and the penury of her

conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have

always loved her with such real, generous affection.”



Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells

were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had

promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh

invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss

Bates—it all came from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.

Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends

contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had

declined it!



“She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing

this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some sort

of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is

great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.—She is _not_ to

be with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must

she consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.”



Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before

the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this

apology for Jane.



“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage, my

dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a

good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We

must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for

what she goes to.”



“You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “Miss Fairfax

is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.

Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen

her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions

from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.”



Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she

was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently

replied,



“Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, would rather

disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should

have imagined any thing but inviting.”



“I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to have

been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in

accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very

likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater

appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in

spite of the very natural wish of a little change.”



Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few

minutes silence, he said,



“Another thing must be taken into consideration too—Mrs. Elton does not

talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the

difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken

amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common

civility in our personal intercourse with each other—a something more

early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we

may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.

And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be

sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind

and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the

respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably

never fell in Mrs. Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can

prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if

not in consciousness.”



“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma. Little Henry

was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her

irresolute what else to say.



“Yes,” he replied, “any body may know how highly I think of her.”



“And yet,” said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon

stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst at once—she hurried

on—“And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it

is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or

other.”



Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick

leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or

some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,



“Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me

a hint of it six weeks ago.”



He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not

herself know what to think. In a moment he went on—



“That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare

say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and I am very sure I shall

never ask her.”



Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and was pleased

enough to exclaim,



“You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”



He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and in a manner which

shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,



“So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?”



“No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,

for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just

now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without

any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the

smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You

would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were

married.”



Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, “No,

Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take

me by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure

you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young

woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has

not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”



Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,” said

she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”



“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;

he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or

wittier than his neighbours.”



“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and

wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—what

she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough

in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr.

Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts her

civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument

weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation

of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of

Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s

acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her

being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.

I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor

with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be

continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring

her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful

exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”



“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do not accuse her of

want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her

temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;

but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than

she used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my

supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax

and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always—but with no

thought beyond.”



“Well, Mrs. Weston,” said Emma triumphantly when he left them, “what do

you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax?”



“Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the

idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it

were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me.”









CHAPTER XVI





Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was

disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and

evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed

in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were

never to have a disengaged day.



“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you.

Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite

the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very

formidable. From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a

disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have

been at a loss.”



No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties

perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for

dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at

the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury

card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a

good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon

shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the

spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in

which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and

unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the

evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the

refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.



Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at

Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she

should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful

resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for

ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the

usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself,

with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.



The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons,

it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of

course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must

be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with

equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased

by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not

be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able

to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling

uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would

rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had

she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the

fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her to

give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the

very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.—

Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was

more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often

been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane

Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else paid her.



“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which

was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—and

always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—She will never

like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater

attention than I have done.”



Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all

happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet

over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little

Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some

weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and

staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the very day

of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of his being

put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening

so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the

utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and Emma

apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not

being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without

falling in with a dinner-party.



She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by

representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he

always said so little, that the increase of noise would be very

immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself, to

have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her

instead of his brother.



The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John

Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and

must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the

evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease;

and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the

philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the

chief of even Emma’s vexation.



The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John

Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being

agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they

waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as

elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in

silence—wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s information—but

Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could

talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning from a

walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It

was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,



“I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am

sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got home in time. I hope you

turned directly.”



“I went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before

the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters

when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A

walk before breakfast does me good.”



“Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.”



“No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.”



Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,



“That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six

yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and

Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.

The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you

have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth

going through the rain for.”



There was a little blush, and then this answer,



“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every

dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing

older should make me indifferent about letters.”



“Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indifferent.

Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very

positive curse.”



“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of

friendship.”



“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly.

“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does.”



“Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—I am

very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I

can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than

to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes

the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body

dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and

therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I

think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than

to-day.”



“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of

years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation

which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time

will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the

daily circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an

old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years

hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.”



It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant “thank

you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear

in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was

now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on

such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his

particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all

his mildest urbanity, said,



“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning

in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young ladies

are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and their

complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?”



“Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind

solicitude about me.”



“My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.—I

hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some of my very

old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You

do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are

both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest

satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.”



The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he

had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.



By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her

remonstrances now opened upon Jane.



“My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-office in the

rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad girl, how could you do

such a thing?—It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”



Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.



“Oh! do not tell _me_. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know

how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office indeed! Mrs. Weston,

did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our

authority.”



“My advice,” said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, “I certainly do

feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.—Liable

as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly

careful, especially at this time of year. The spring I always think

requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even

half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your

cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are

much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing

again.”



“Oh! she _shall_ _not_ do such a thing again,” eagerly rejoined Mrs.

Elton. “We will not allow her to do such a thing again:”—and nodding

significantly—“there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed.

I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning

(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too and

bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you know; and

from _us_ I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to

accept such an accommodation.”



“You are extremely kind,” said Jane; “but I cannot give up my early

walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can, I must walk

somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have

scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”



“My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is

(laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine any thing

without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston,

you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter

myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I

meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as

settled.”



“Excuse me,” said Jane earnestly, “I cannot by any means consent to

such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the

errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is

when I am not here, by my grandmama’s.”



“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is a kindness to

employ our men.”



Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead of

answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.



“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” said she.—“The

regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do,

and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”



“It is certainly very well regulated.”



“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom that a

letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the

kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose,

actually lost! And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad

hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”



“The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin with some quickness

of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther

explanation,” continued he, smiling, “they are paid for it. That is the

key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served

well.”



The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual

observations made.



“I have heard it asserted,” said John Knightley, “that the same sort of

handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master

teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine

the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have

very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand

they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I

have not always known their writing apart.”



“Yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. I know what

you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.”



“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse; “and

always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston”—with half a sigh and half a

smile at her.



“I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—Emma began, looking also at

Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending

to some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “Now, how am I

going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once

before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout

phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend—your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that

would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce

his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and

better.—Now for it.”



Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—“Mr. Frank Churchill

writes one of the best gentleman’s hands I ever saw.”



“I do not admire it,” said Mr. Knightley. “It is too small—wants

strength. It is like a woman’s writing.”



This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against

the base aspersion. “No, it by no means wanted strength—it was not a

large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston

any letter about her to produce?” No, she had heard from him very

lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.



“If we were in the other room,” said Emma, “if I had my writing-desk, I

am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.—Do not you

remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”



“He chose to say he was employed”—



“Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince

Mr. Knightley.”



“Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,” said Mr.

Knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will,

of course, put forth his best.”



Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was

ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be

allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—



“Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way.”



Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.

She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether

the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it

_had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in

full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had

not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness

than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.



She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the

expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—but she

abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should

hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of

the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming

to the beauty and grace of each.









CHAPTER XVII





When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found

it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—with

so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross

Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be

almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton

left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon

began again; and though much that passed between them was in a

half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no avoiding a

knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office—catching

cold—fetching letters—and friendship, were long under discussion; and

to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to

Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to

suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s meditated activity.



“Here is April come!” said she, “I get quite anxious about you. June

will soon be here.”



“But I have never fixed on June or any other month—merely looked

forward to the summer in general.”



“But have you really heard of nothing?”



“I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet.”



“Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the

difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing.”



“I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton, who can

have thought of it as I have done?”



“But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know

how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw

a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of

Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every

body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first

circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable!

Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish

to see you in.”



“Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,” said

Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want

it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would

not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present.”



“Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me

trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be

more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in

a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out

for any thing eligible.”



“Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her;

till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body

trouble.”



“But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June,

or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before

us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you

deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday

occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we

must begin inquiring directly.”



“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no

inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.

When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of

being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry

would soon produce something—Offices for the sale—not quite of human

flesh—but of human intellect.”



“Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at

the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend

to the abolition.”



“I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied Jane;

“governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely

different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to

the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I

only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by

applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with

something that would do.”



“Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, _that_ may suit

your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you are;

but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any

thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family

not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of

life.”



“You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it

would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I

think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.

A gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”



“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall

be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite

on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the

first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name

your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family

as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you knew the harp, you

might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I

really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you

chose;—and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and

comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.”



“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a

situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;

however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at

present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am

obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing

nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I

shall remain where I am, and as I am.”



“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton gaily,

“in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to

watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”



In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till

Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of

object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,



“Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—Only think of his

gallantry in coming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he

is;—I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,

old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;

modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse, I wish

you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I

began to think my cara sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am

rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like

it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is

not over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being

over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments

now, because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like

a bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple style of

dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am quite in the

minority, I believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show

and finery are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a

trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will

look well?”



The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when Mr.

Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned to a late

dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too

much expected by the best judges, for surprize—but there was great joy.

Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have been

sorry to see him before. John Knightley only was in mute

astonishment.—That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at

home after a day of business in London, should set off again, and walk

half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed

company till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility

and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A

man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and

might now have been still, who had been long talking, and might have

been silent, who had been in more than one crowd, and might have been

alone!—Such a man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own

fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again

into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken

back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would

probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley looked

at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I could

not have believed it even of _him_.”



Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was

exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being

principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers, was

making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the

inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all

her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread

abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family

communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he

had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in

the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he

had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.



“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a few

lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”



The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking

to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible

to every body.



“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say

to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—Anne,

my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In

town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for _she_ is as

impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most

likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all

nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us

again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,

and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.

Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read

it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some

other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the

circumstance to the others in a common way.”



Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her looks and

words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew she was

happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm

and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. _She_ was a little

occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the

degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.



Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative

to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,

and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial

communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.



It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might not

have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly

delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to

be made happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but

she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would have

been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.

Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the

subject with her.









CHAPTER XVIII





“I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,”

said Mr. Weston.



Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended

her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.



“You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,” he

continued—“and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name.”



“Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I am sure Mr.

Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall both have great

pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage.”



“You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.— He

is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it in a

letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning, and seeing my

son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—it was

to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent, I assure you. I

hardly ever get a letter.”



“And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr.

Weston—(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.—A most

dangerous precedent indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours

follow your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect, we

married women must begin to exert ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could

not have believed it of you!”



“Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself, Mrs.

Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter—written in a hurry,

merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to

town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the

whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to

move southward without loss of time.”



“Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”



“Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London, a

considerable journey.”



“Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than

from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to people

of large fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr.

Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but twice

in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again with four

horses.”



“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, “is, that

Mrs. Churchill, _as_ _we_ _understand_, has not been able to leave the

sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she complained, he

said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having

both his arm and his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of

weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to

sleep only two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly,

delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You

must grant me that.”



“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I always take the part of my

own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable

antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure you,

if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you

would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to

avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have

caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets;

an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”



“Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine

lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the

land for”—



Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,



“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure

you. Do not run away with such an idea.”



“Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thorough

a fine lady as any body ever beheld.”



Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.

It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister was

_not_ a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of

it;—and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.

Weston went on.



“Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect—but

this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank, and

therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health

now; but _that_ indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I

would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith

in Mrs. Churchill’s illness.”



“If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or to

Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold for

her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now

been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she

begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very

retired.”



“Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from

the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it! You

seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete retirement.—And

Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to enjoy

that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have resources enough

in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always say a woman

cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so

many myself as to be quite independent of society.”



“Frank was here in February for a fortnight.”



“So I remember to have heard. He will find an _addition_ to the society

of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call

myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being

such a creature in the world.”



This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.

Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,



“My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing

possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have

been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”



He had done his duty and could return to his son.



“When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain when we

might see him again, which makes this day’s news doubly welcome. It has

been completely unexpected. That is, _I_ always had a strong persuasion

he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable would turn

up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully

desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And how could it be

supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so forth—I

always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has,

you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if

things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.”



“Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say

to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when,

because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the

rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and

exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be _May_ before Hymen’s

saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to

dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The

carriage—we had disappointments about the carriage;—one morning, I

remember, he came to me quite in despair.”



She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly

seized the opportunity of going on.



“You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill is

ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than

Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have the agreeable

prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—precisely the

season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at

the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one out, and

never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we made the best

of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there

always is in February, you know, and we could not do half that we

intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I

do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the

sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or

to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than

having him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the

state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you will be

pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally

thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s

partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, most

gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.”



“And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my opinion

will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise of Mr.

Frank Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I am one

of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means

implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son,

so I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.”



Mr. Weston was musing.



“I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.

Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but

there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me

to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be

ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the

treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the whole blame of

it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator. Frank’s mother would

never have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has

pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet,

indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and only

make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her pride is arrogance

and insolence! And what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair

pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when he married her, barely

the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a

Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims:

but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.”



“Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite a

horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to

people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who

are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give

themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them

directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and

encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense

airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established

families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived

at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came

from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr.

Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is

something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known of

the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected; and

yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my

brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest

neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven

years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him—I

believe, at least—I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed

the purchase before his death.”



They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston, having

said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.



After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.

Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,

and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed

little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which

nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of

spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.



Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was to

leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—



“Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about the

boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at

full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise

than her’s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have

to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic

them.”



“I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall do all in

my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and

happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”



“And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.”



“That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”



“I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or even

may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue

to increase as much as they have done lately.”



“Increase!”



“Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a

great difference in your way of life.”



“Difference! No indeed I am not.”



“There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company

than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for

only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!—When did it

happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing,

and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella

brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls

at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in

your goings-on, is very great.”



“Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it all.”



“Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less

influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma,

that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I

only beg you to send them home.”



“No,” cried Mr. Knightley, “that need not be the consequence. Let them

be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.”



“Upon my word,” exclaimed Emma, “you amuse me! I should like to know

how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being

of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure

to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what

have they been? Dining once with the Coles—and having a ball talked of,

which never took place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John

Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at

once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. But you, (turning

to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours

from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for

me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that

if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much

better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours

where she is absent one—and who, when he is at home, is either reading

to himself or settling his accounts.”



Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded without

difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to talk to him.









VOLUME III









CHAPTER I





A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the

nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill. She

was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all

apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had

really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;—but

if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of the

two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he

had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation of two

months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils before

her:—caution for him and for herself would be necessary. She did not

mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be

incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.



She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.

That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present

acquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something

decisive. She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a

crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed and

tranquil state.



It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had

foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank

Churchill’s feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so

soon as had been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards.

He rode down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he

came from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise

all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was

influenced, and how she must act. They met with the utmost

friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing

her. But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he

had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She

watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had

been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference, had

produced this very natural and very desirable effect.



He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed

delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and

he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read

his comparative indifference. He was not calm; his spirits were

evidently fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he

was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what

decided her belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an

hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury. “He had seen a

group of old acquaintance in the street as he passed—he had not

stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he had the vanity

to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he

wished to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.” She had no

doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits,

nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather

inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power, and a

discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.



This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten days.

He was often hoping, intending to come—but was always prevented. His

aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account at

Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was

to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had been of no

service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she was

really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it,

at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when he

looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had been

half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing that

care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not have

many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed on,

by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely

imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.



It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could not

endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and

suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her nephew’s letter to Randalls

communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to

Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of

an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place. A

ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit

expected from the change.



Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,

and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two months

before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends—for the

house was taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote with

the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he

could even wish.



Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was

considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. She

hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.



Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted. It

was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would be

really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a

young man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The

difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough to make

the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing him never. Sixteen

miles—nay, eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—was a

serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be spent

in coming and returning. There was no comfort in having him in London;

he might as well be at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for

easy intercourse. Better than nearer!



One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this

removal,—the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but

it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now,

however, it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and

very soon after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines

from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better for the

change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for

twenty-four hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a

day as possible.



Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows stood

between the young people of Highbury and happiness.



Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil to him.

May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to

spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely

hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have

any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma were gone.









CHAPTER II





No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,

the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank

Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls

before dinner, and every thing was safe.



No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room at

the Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a common

meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his

entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,

for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort

of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse

him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s

company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good

time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.



Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not

say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.

They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it

should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of

another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first,

without great surprize. “So unreasonably early!” she was going to

exclaim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends,

who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr.

Weston’s judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another

carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same

distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if

half the company might soon be collected together for the purpose of

preparatory inspection.



Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.

Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a

man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first

distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a

little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher

character.—General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man

what he ought to be.—She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked

about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to

do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their

various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though _May_, a

fire in the evening was still very pleasant.



Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the number of privy

councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door

to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be

brought by the Eltons.



Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,

which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to

the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,—impatient

to begin, or afraid of being always near her.



Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” said he. “I

have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.

It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.”



A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,

said,



“I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen

either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.”



Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties

passed.



“But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, looking about. “We

thought you were to bring them.”



The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma

longed to know what Frank’s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how

he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of

graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,

by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.



In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of rain.—“I

will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank to his father:

“Miss Bates must not be forgotten:” and away he went. Mr. Weston was

following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion

of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,

though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.



“A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you

I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely

pleased with him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a

very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and

approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.

You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies—quite a horror of them.

They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me

had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very

cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them

much better.”



While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was chained; but

when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies

just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.



Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its being our

carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so

extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.—What a

pleasure it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!—I understand you

were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite

unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_.”



Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into

the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.

Weston’s to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be

understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every

body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates,

who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes

after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door

opened she was heard,



“So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not

care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares—Well!—(as soon as

she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is

admirable!—Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could

not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane, look!—did you

ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin’s

lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as

I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs. Stokes,’ said

I—but I had not time for more.” She was now met by Mrs. Weston.—“Very

well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear

it. So afraid you might have a headache!—seeing you pass by so often,

and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it

indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the

carriage!—excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the

horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and I am sure our

thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most

kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But two such offers in

one day!—Never were such neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my

word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr.

Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—for the evenings are not

warm—her large new shawl— Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So kind of her

to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice.

There were three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some

time. Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you

sure you did not wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so

afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to

step upon—I shall never forget his extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank

Churchill, I must tell you my mother’s spectacles have never been in

fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of

your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank

Churchill?—Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you

do?—Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in

fairy-land!—Such a transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing

Emma most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss

Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s hair?—You are a

judge.—She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her

hair!—No hairdresser from London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I

declare—and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a

moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you. This is

delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—Oh! there he is. Don’t

disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How do

you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the other day as you rode through the

town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss

Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!—How do

you do? How do you all do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never

better.—Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the

worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among

such friends! And such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I

thank you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir,

by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!”



Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss

Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the

discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little

way behind her.—He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she

could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress

and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was

evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it was, “How do you

like my gown?—How do you like my trimming?—How has Wright done my

hair?”—with many other relative questions, all answered with patient

politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, “Nobody can think less of dress in

general than I do—but upon such an occasion as this, when every body’s

eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons—who I have

no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour—I would not wish

to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except

mine.—So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.—We shall

see if our styles suit.—A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.

I like him very well.”



At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not

but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear

more;—and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till

another suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly

forward.—Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,



“Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?—I was

this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for

tidings of us.”



“Jane!”—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and

displeasure.—“That is easy—but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I

suppose.”



“How do you like Mrs. Elton?” said Emma in a whisper.



“Not at all.”



“You are ungrateful.”



“Ungrateful!—What do you mean?” Then changing from a frown to a

smile—“No, do not tell me—I do not want to know what you mean.—Where is

my father?—When are we to begin dancing?”



Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked

off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and

Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be

laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton

must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which

interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.—Emma

heard the sad truth with fortitude.



“And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said Mr. Weston.

“She will think Frank ought to ask her.”



Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and

boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most

perfect approbation of—and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was

wanting _him_ to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business

was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr.

Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss

Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton,

though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was

almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly

the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though

she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by

the change. Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of this

little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see

the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that

she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.—She was more

disturbed by Mr. Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There

he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be

dancing,—not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and

whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance

till their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—He could not

have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had

placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms

and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must

draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not

one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with him.—He

moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in

how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must have

danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his eye, she

forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished he

could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.—He

seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that he

thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she

did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and

her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.

That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was

indubitable.



The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant

attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed

happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom

bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in

the very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very

recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings

usually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something

of.—The two last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no

partner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been

hitherto the number of dancers, that how there could be any one

disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon afterwards,

on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance

if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she

was expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.



Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room

where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in

front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of

maintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss

Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.—Emma saw it. She was

not yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had

therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little

she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were

exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch;

but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue

which just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she

perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was

not only listening also, but even encouraging him by significant

glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join

him and say, “Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to which his prompt reply

was, “Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”



“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no

dancer.”



“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great

pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old

married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very

great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.

Gilbert.”



“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady

disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.” “Miss

Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging—and if I were

not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You

will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your

command—but my dancing days are over.”



Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and

mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton!

the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round for a moment;

he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging

himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed

between him and his wife.



She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her

face might be as hot.



In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley leading

Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom more

delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,

both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though

too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could

catch his eye again.



His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;

and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for

the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment

and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features

announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,

flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.



Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very

foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though

growing very like her;—_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing

audibly to her partner,



“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very good-natured,

I declare.”



Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard

from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table

and taking up her spoon.



“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet. Mrs.

Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there

will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One

door nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr.

Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so

gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I

said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody

missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.

Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a

vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits

and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of

her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were

amused, and who were your partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not

forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love

to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.

Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’

My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would not

rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane

on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little

back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she

looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen

of the evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take

care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded

there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there

is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and

style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama,

Jane,—There was a little disappointment.—The baked apples and biscuits,

excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of

sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr.

Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all

out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread

and asparagus—so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would

not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss

Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!—Well, this is

brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such

elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since—Well, where

shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a

draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this

side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as

you please. What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane,

how shall we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too!

Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent,

and I cannot help beginning.”



Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;

but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited him

irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his

reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;

and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of censure.



“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma, why is it

that they are your enemies?”



He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,

“_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may

be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,

that you did want him to marry Harriet.”



“I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”



He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he

only said,



“I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”



“Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever tell

me I am wrong?”



“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you wrong,

I am sure the other tells you of it.”



“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There

is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not:

and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was

through a series of strange blunders!”



“And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the

justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has

chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which

Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless

girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a

woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected.”



Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle of

Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.



“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all

doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!

Every body is asleep!”



“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”



“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.



She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask

me.”



“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.



“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are

not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”



“Brother and sister! no, indeed.”









CHAPTER III





This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable

pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball, which

she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely

glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting the

Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so much

alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour, was

peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few

minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the

occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward

to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.—From

Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted

the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were

suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the

superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma

could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by

injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for

supplying all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther

requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and

Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer

must be before her!



She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her that

he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as he

was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.



Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them

all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened

up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their

grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons

entered whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank

Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment

sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.

Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer

her.—The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards

asunder;—they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately

sinking into a chair fainted away.



A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,

and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting, but the

suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted

with the whole.



Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at Mrs.

Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together, and

taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public enough

for safety, had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury,

making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it became

for a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had

advanced some way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small

distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a

party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and

Miss Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and

calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight

hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back to

Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much

from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank

brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in

this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.



How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been more

courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack could

not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen

children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and

impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and more

frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her

purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to

use her ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and was

moving away—but her terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was

followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding more.



In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling and

conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate chance his

leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance

at this critical moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced

him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road,

a mile or two beyond Highbury—and happening to have borrowed a pair of

scissors the night before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to

restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a

few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on

foot, was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The

terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then

their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Harriet

eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength

enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It

was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other

place.



This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and of

Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He dared

not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not

another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her

safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people

in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the

grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.



Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman

thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain

ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at

least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a mathematician

have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and

heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been

at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How much

more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with speculation and

foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation as her

mind had already made.



It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever

occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no

rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very

person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing

to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And

knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this

period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his

attachment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr.

Elton. It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most

interesting consequences. It was not possible that the occurrence

should not be strongly recommending each to the other.



In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him, while

Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror, her

naïveté, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a

sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own

account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the

abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing

was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.

She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of

interference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive

scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account

proceed.



Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of

what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion: but

she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour

it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those

who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and servants in

the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last

night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as

he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without

their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some

comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse

(for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well

as Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had

the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very

indifferent—which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,

and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had

an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for

she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent

illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.



The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took

themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have

walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history

dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her

nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and

John were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the

gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the

slightest particular from the original recital.









CHAPTER IV





A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one

morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down

and hesitating, thus began:



“Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I should

like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you know, it

will be over.”



Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a

seriousness in Harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much as

her words, for something more than ordinary.



“It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,” she continued, “to have

no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered

creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have the

satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is

necessary—I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and

I dare say you understand me.”



“Yes,” said Emma, “I hope I do.”



“How I could so long a time be fancying myself!...” cried Harriet,

warmly. “It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary

in him now.—I do not care whether I meet him or not—except that of the

two I had rather not see him—and indeed I would go any distance round

to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire

her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and

all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall

never forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you, Miss

Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together,

it will not give me another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I

have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought to

have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have kept—I know that

very well (blushing as she spoke).—However, now I will destroy it

all—and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you

may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel

holds?” said she, with a conscious look.



“Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any thing?”



“No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued

very much.”



She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_

_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.

Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within

abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which

Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,

excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.



“Now,” said Harriet, “you _must_ recollect.”



“No, indeed I do not.”



“Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what

passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last

times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my

sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think the

very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new

penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as you had none

about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took

mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he

cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before

he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help

making a treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used, and looked at

it now and then as a great treat.”



“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and

jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.

Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this

relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting the

finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about

me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while in my

pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual

blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go on—what

else?”



“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected

it, you did it so naturally.”



“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!”

said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided

between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord

bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a

piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I

never was equal to this.”



“Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is something

still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because

this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister

never did.”



Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of

an old pencil,—the part without any lead.



“This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one

morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget exactly

the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_

_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was

about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about

brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out

his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and

it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the

table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I

dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment.”



“I do remember it,” cried Emma; “I perfectly remember it.—Talking about

spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and

Mr. Elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly

remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I

have an idea he was standing just here.”



“Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but I cannot

recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I

am now.”—



“Well, go on.”



“Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say—except that

I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to

see me do it.”



“My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in

treasuring up these things?”



“Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I

could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you

know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but

had not resolution enough to part with them.”



“But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I have not a

word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be

useful.”



“I shall be happier to burn it,” replied Harriet. “It has a

disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—There it goes,

and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.”



“And when,” thought Emma, “will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?”



She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was

already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had

_told_ no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a

fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and

quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which

made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in

the course of some trivial chat, “Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I

would advise you to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after

a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I

shall never marry.”



Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a

moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not,

replied,



“Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”



“It is one that I shall never change, however.”



After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I hope

it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”



“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and Emma could

just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”



She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no

farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—Perhaps

Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she

were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to

hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had

been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she

was perfectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say

and know at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was

always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed,

on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have

the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was

decided, and thus spoke—



“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your

resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from

an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly

your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?”



“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose—

Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a

distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of

the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so

proper, in me especially.”



“I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you

was enough to warm your heart.”



“Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very

recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him

coming—his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one

moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”



“It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes,

honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it

will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not

advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for

its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be

wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not

let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be

observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I

give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on

the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I

know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were

very wrong before; we will be cautious now.—He is your superior, no

doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious

nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there

have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I

would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured

your raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I

shall always know how to value.”



Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was

very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her

friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind—and it must

be saving her from the danger of degradation.









CHAPTER V





In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened upon

Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The

Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use

to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her

grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was

again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was

likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she

were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save

herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her

will.



Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had

certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing

to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in

his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.

Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his

mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, conduct,

discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many

were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet,

Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with

Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of

intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration

on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself

to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any

of Emma’s errors of imagination. _She_ was not present when the

suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and

Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look,

at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed

somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not

help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations

which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,



“Myself creating what I saw,”





brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of

private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill

and Jane.



He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend

his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he

joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who,

like themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the

weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates

and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on

reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of

visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in

and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately;

and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons

listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s

most obliging invitation.



As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on

horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.



“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what

became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”



Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he ever

had any such plan.”



“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago.”



“Me! impossible!”



“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was

certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was

extremely happy about it. It was owing to _her_ persuasion, as she

thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You

must remember it now?”



“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”



“Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then I must have

dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you

were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”



“What is this?—What is this?” cried Mr. Weston, “about Perry and a

carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I am glad he

can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”



“No, sir,” replied his son, laughing, “I seem to have had it from

nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston’s having

mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago, with

all these particulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of

it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I

dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—and when I have gone

through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs.

Perry.”



“It is odd though,” observed his father, “that you should have had such

a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you

should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and

his wife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what

will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a little

premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream!

And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your

dream certainly shews that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are

absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?”



Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to

prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of

Mr. Weston’s hint.



“Why, to own the truth,” cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain

to be heard the last two minutes, “if I must speak on this subject,

there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean

to say that he did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest

dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge

that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself

mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as

ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only

thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should

have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning

because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember

grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had

been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to

Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I

do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;

she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go

beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that

I know of. At the same time, I will not positively answer for my having

never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing

before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and

now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not

like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it _she_ never betrayed the

least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly

remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, indeed!”



They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss

Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he

thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had

involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy

with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen

waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank

Churchill the determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her

intently—in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between them into

the hall, and looked at neither.



There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be

borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round

the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,

and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and

persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke, on

which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded. Tea

passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.



“Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind

him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away

their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is

it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated

rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters

one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”



Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was

quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much

disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words

for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The

quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,

who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.

Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in

lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the “poor

little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter

near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.



Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight

glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to

Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them

all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as little

apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile

pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and

buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of

looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after

every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell

to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.

The word was _blunder_; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there

was a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise

ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could

all be, was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion

of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must

be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed

to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for

gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper

game on Frank Churchill’s part.



With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great alarm

and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a

short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look sly and

demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly

entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper to

appear to censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard Frank

Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it to

her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing

warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”



It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without

feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directly handed

over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate

civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curiosity

to know what this word might be, made him seize every possible moment

for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to

be _Dixon_. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his; her

comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the

superior intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was

evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed

more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, “I did not

know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away the letters with even

an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word

that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the

attack, and turned towards her aunt.



“Aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken

a word—“I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be

going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama will be looking

for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good

night.”



Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had

preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit the table;

but so many were also moving, that she could not get away; and Mr.

Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed

towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was

afterwards looking for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking also—it

was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; and how they parted,

Mr. Knightley could not tell.



He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what

he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist his

observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an anxious

friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her

in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was

his duty.



“Pray, Emma,” said he, “may I ask in what lay the great amusement, the

poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw

the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining

to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”



Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true

explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed, she

was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.



“Oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment, “it all meant nothing; a mere

joke among ourselves.”



“The joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and Mr.

Churchill.”



He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather

busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little while in

doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference—fruitless

interference. Emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed

to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to

her, to risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome

interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing, rather

than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.



“My dear Emma,” said he at last, with earnest kindness, “do you think

you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the

gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”



“Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.—Why

do you make a doubt of it?”



“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or

that she admired him?”



“Never, never!” she cried with a most open eagerness—“Never, for the

twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me. And how could

it possibly come into your head?”



“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between

them—certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be

public.”



“Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can

vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry

to check you in your first essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no

admiration between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which

have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings

rather of a totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to

explain:—there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is

capable of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as far

from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any two beings in

the world can be. That is, I _presume_ it to be so on her side, and I

can _answer_ for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman’s

indifference.”



She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which

silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have

prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his

suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a

circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet

hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much

irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute

fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost

every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty

leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.









CHAPTER VI





After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs.

Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification

of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such

importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at

present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again

restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’

coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,

whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the

situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might

eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of

all her neighbours was by the approach of it.



Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal

of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all

wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought

at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that every thing

need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box Hill though the

Sucklings did not come? They could go there again with them in the

autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was

to be such a party had been long generally known: it had even given the

idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see

what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had

agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more

of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be

done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the

bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic

parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.



This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could not but

feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.

Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and

sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go

together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it

was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing

but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must

already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it

could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain

to his wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an

arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an

arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of

being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and

the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of

secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr.

Weston’s temper.



“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very comfortably.

“But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without

numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its

own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not

leave her out.”



Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.



It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton was

growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to

pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing

into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,

before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured

on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were

inadequate to such an attack.



“Is not this most vexatious, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such weather

for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What

are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.

Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful

exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”



“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That may

be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are

ripening fast.”



If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed so,

for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should like

it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was

famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:

but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt

the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again

and again to come—much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely

gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment

as she chose to consider it.



“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name your

day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”



“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others whom

I would wish to meet you.”



“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady

Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”



“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you to

give any other invitations.”



“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be afraid

of delegating power to _me_. I am no young lady on her preferment.

Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.

Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”



“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in the world

whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell, and

that one is—”



“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.



“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such

matters myself.”



“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one

preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you like.

Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her

aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting

the Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”



“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on

Miss Bates in my way home.”



“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It is

to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I

shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging

on my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be

more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to be

no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your

gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under

trees;—and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out

of doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural

and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?”



“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have the

table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of

gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is

best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating

strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”



“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the bye,

can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—Pray be

sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to

inspect anything—”



“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”



“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely

clever.”



“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and

would spurn any body’s assistance.”



“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on

donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I

really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I

conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so

many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at

home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in

winter there is dirt.”



“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane

is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however,

if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing

to be as much to your taste as possible.”



“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.

Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the

warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes,

believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in

the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please

me.”



Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He

wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;

and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors to eat

would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the

specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at

Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.



He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid him

for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for

two years. “Some very fine morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go

very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear

girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp

now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house

again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton,

and any other of his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all

to his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine morning.

He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them—very kind

and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not fond of dining

out.”



Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready concurrence. The

invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if, like

Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment

to themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of

pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over

to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which

could have been dispensed with.—Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say

that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no

time in writing, and spare no arguments to induce him to come.



In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party to

Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell was

settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing

exactly right.



Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse was

safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of

this al-fresco party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the

Abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was

happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what

had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not

to heat themselves.—Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on

purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all

the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and

sympathiser.



It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she

was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leave him, and

look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more

particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds

which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.



She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with

the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed

the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming,

characteristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens

stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with

all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance

of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance

had rooted up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike

it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many

comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought

to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect

for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted

in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had;

but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them

neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These

were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it

was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the

strawberry-beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank

Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton,

in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was

very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or

talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or

spoken of.—“The best fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always

wholesome.—These the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather

for one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly

the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely

superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very

scarce—Chili preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of

strawberries in London—abundance about Bristol—Maple

Grove—cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly

different—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their

way—delicious fruit—only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to

cherries—currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering

strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no

longer—must go and sit in the shade.”



Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once by

Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to

inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some fears

of his horse.



Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged to

overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.—A situation,

a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received

notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs.

Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it

fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an

acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful,

charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every

thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with

immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she

positively refused to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax

continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in any

thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge

before.—Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an

acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane could bear it at all, was

astonishing to Emma.—She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at

last, with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a

removal.—“Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the

gardens—all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole extent.”—The

pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear.



It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a

scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly

followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of

limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the

river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.—It led to nothing;

nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars,

which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the appearance of an

approach to the house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,

as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a

charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty.—The

considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood,

gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a

mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well

clothed with wood;—and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed

and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the

river making a close and handsome curve around it.



It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,

English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without

being oppressive.



In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled; and

towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet

distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and

Harriet!—It was an odd tête-à-tête; but she was glad to see it.—There

had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and

turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant

conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been

sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm;

but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its

appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading

flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She

joined them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in

looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of

agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These

are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without

being suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him.

It was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of

Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade was

most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.



The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and they

were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs.

Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own himself

uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing

that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to

coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was so much better,

that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs. Churchill’s

state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such

sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable

dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say,

that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented

coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;

she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.



The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see

what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as

far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at

any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.

Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part

of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by

him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,

that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise

and variety which her spirits seemed to need.



Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s

entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,

shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been

prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the

kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly

well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he

would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance

to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was

slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking over was

begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few

moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the

house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly

in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expecting to meet

Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse

was the very person she was in quest of.



“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I am

gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how late it is,

nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and

I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any

body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to

the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I shall not

be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I

am gone?”



“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to Highbury

alone?”



“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty

minutes.”



“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my

father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be

round in five minutes.”



“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather walk.—And for

_me_ to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard

others!”



She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied, “That

can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the

carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.”



“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort of

fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all know at

times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are

exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me

have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”



Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering into

her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched

her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was

grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of

being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and

to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practised by her,

even towards some of those who loved her best.



“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned back into

the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you betray of

their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”



Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only

accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank

Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she had

forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston

would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; _they_ were right who

had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a

temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had

lasted some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming,

till very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how

late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have

come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing

like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like

heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was

intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the

slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.



“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.



“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be

spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all be

going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met _one_ as I

came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”



Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill’s

state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of

humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be

his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often

the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some

refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in the

dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.



“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him

hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; and

muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all

her attention to her father, saying in secret—



“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man

who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet easy

temper will not mind it.”



He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came

back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, like

himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their

employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.

He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,

at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking

over views in Swisserland.



“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall

never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my

sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem.

I shall do something to expose myself.”



“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never go to

Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave

England.”



“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed for

her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I

assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I

shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I

want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating

eyes may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I

could.”



“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few

hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”



“_I_ sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do

not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in

every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate

person.”



“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and

eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice

of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make you

nearly on a par with the rest of us.”



“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”



“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not

Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want

of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”



“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”



“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”



“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”



“Then pray stay at Richmond.”



“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of

you all there without me.”



“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse your

own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”



The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.

With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill; others

took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress and

disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it

was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short

final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank

Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much,

that his last words to Emma were,



“Well;—if _you_ wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”



She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from

Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.









CHAPTER VII





They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward

circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in

favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating

safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good

time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with

the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr.

Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there.

Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body

had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount

of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of

spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated

too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took

charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank

Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise

better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never

materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness

to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole

hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of

separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine

prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to

remove.



At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank

Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked

without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without knowing

what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet

should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.



When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,

for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first

object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to

her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he

cared for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,

was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the

admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most

animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own

estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people

looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but

flirtation could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss

Woodhouse flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves

open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple

Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and

thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less

happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;

and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all,

whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious,

they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her

friend.



“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come

to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all

the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”



“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that

you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than

you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to

come.”



“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”



“It is hotter to-day.”



“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”



“You are comfortable because you are under command.”



“Your command?—Yes.”



“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,

somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your own

management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always

with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command

rather than mine.”



“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a

motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be always

with me. You are always with me.”



“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could not

begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour

before.”



“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen you

first in February.”



“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—nobody

speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking

nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”



“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively

impudence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill

hear me if they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and

Dorking on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then

whispering—“Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to

rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They _shall_ talk. Ladies and

gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is,

presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking

of?”



Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great

deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr.

Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.



“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all

thinking of?”



“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“Upon no

account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt

of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are all

thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,

(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be

afraid of knowing.”



“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which _I_

should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,

perhaps, as the _Chaperon_ of the party—_I_ never was in any

circle—exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”



Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in reply,



“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard of—but

some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every body

knows what is due to _you_.”



“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them

affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—I

am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of

knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires

something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here

are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very

entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one

thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two

things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she

engages to laugh heartily at them all.”



“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy.

‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I

shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,

shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on

every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”



Emma could not resist.



“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be

limited as to number—only three at once.”



Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not

immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not

anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.



“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.

Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very

disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old

friend.”



“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my

best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”



“Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be

indulgent—especially to any one who leads the way.”



“No, no,” said Emma, “it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr.

Weston’s shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me

hear it.”



“I doubt its being very clever myself,” said Mr. Weston. “It is too

much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters of the alphabet

are there, that express perfection?”



“What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do not know.”



“Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will never

guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—Do you understand?”



Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very

indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and

enjoy in it—and so did Frank and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the

rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.

Knightley gravely said,



“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston

has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every body

else. _Perfection_ should not have come quite so soon.”



“Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton; “_I_

really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had

an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all

pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!—You know

who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are very well

at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of

place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in

summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have

witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I

have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be

allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if

you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We

have nothing clever to say—not one of us.



“Yes, yes, pray pass _me_,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering

consciousness; “_I_ have nothing to say that can entertain Miss

Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for

nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?”



“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot.

Come, Jane, take my other arm.”



Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. “Happy

couple!” said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out of

hearing:—“How well they suit one another!—Very lucky—marrying as they

did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew

each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—for as to

any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that Bath, or any public

place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is

only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as

they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it

is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man

has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest

of his life!”



Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own

confederates, spoke now.



“Such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—She was stopped by a cough. Frank

Churchill turned towards her to listen.



“You were speaking,” said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.



“I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate

circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot

imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may

arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I

would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute

characters, (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)

who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an

oppression for ever.”



He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon

afterwards said, in a lively tone,



“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I

marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you? (turning

to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any

body fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a

smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt

her, educate her.”



“And make her like myself.”



“By all means, if you can.”



“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming

wife.”



“She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.

I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come

to you for my wife. Remember.”



Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every

favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?

Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.

He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could

say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.



“Now, ma’am,” said Jane to her aunt, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”



“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was

ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall

soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s somebody else. That’s one of

the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.—Well, I

declare—”



They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr.

Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young man’s

spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at

last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking

quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and

quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views

beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to

give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of

collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to

have _her_ carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the

quiet drive home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments of

this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many

ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.



While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He

looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,



“Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a

privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use

it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could

you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your

wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—Emma, I had not

thought it possible.”



Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.



“Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could have helped it.

It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me.”



“I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it

since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what

candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your

forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as she was for

ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be

so irksome.”



“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the world:

but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are most

unfortunately blended in her.”



“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,

I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over

the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless

absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any

liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma,

consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk

from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must

probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was

badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she

had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have

you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at

her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of

whom (certainly _some_,) would be entirely guided by _your_ treatment

of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from

pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can;

satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and

trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than

you can do now.”



While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was

ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had

misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her

tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself,

mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and,

on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then

reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no

acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with

voice and hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He

had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look

back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they

were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was

vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she

could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at

any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth

of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.

How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could

she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And

how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of

concurrence, of common kindness!



Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but to feel

it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary

to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,

fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running

down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble

to check them, extraordinary as they were.









CHAPTER VIII





The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s thoughts all the

evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party, she could

not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different ways,

might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it was a

morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational

satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than

any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with her

father, was felicity to it. _There_, indeed, lay real pleasure, for

there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his

comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond

affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct,

be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not

without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, “How could

you be so unfeeling to your father?—I must, I will tell you truths

while I can.” Miss Bates should never again—no, never! If attention, in

future, could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had

been often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in

thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.

In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the very next

morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular,

equal, kindly intercourse.



She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that

nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she

might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while

she were paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be

ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers.

Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.



“The ladies were all at home.” She had never rejoiced at the sound

before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,

with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of

deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.



There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.

She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the

maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait

a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed

both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse

of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she

heard Miss Bates saying, “Well, my dear, I shall _say_ you are laid

down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill enough.”



Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did

not quite understand what was going on.



“I am afraid Jane is not very well,” said she, “but I do not know; they

_tell_ me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,

Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I

am very little able—Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like?

I am sure she will be here presently.”



Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s fear of Miss Bates

keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came—“Very happy and

obliged”—but Emma’s conscience told her that there was not the same

cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very

friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way to a

return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.



“Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose you have heard—and are

come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy, indeed, in

me—(twinkling away a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to

part with her, after having had her so long, and she has a dreadful

headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters, you

know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’

said I, ‘you will blind yourself’—for tears were in her eyes

perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great

change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation, I

suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do

not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good

fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were

to see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one

cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as

possible. To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy

she is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming

to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie

down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down

upon the bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room.

But, now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be

well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,

but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I

was quite ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so

happened that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the

stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’

said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said

she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.’

But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss

Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’

said she; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us

keep you waiting—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must

go, my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon

the bed.’”



Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing

kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted

as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing

but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle

sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very

naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when

she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest

regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that the circumstances which

she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might

be as much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. “It

must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be

delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.”



“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always kind.”



There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her

dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—



“Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”



“To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have the charge

of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible that any

situation could be more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps,

Mrs. Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is

intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only four

miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.”



“Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes—”



“Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend. She

would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, ‘No;’ for when

Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday, the very

morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite

decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention;

exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till

Colonel Campbell’s return, and nothing should induce her to enter into

any engagement at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over

again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her

mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw

farther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood out in

such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she

positively declared she would _not_ write any such denial yesterday, as

Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yesterday evening it

was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not

the least idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that

upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge’s situation, she

had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I did not know a word of it

till it was all settled.”



“You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?”



“Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so, upon

the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. ‘You _must_

_all_ spend your evening with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you

_all_ come.’”



“Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?”



“No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I

thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let

him off, he did not;—but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there,

and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss

Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body seemed

rather fagged after the morning’s party. Even pleasure, you know, is

fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have

enjoyed it. However, _I_ shall always think it a very pleasant party,

and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.”



“Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been

making up her mind the whole day?”



“I dare say she had.”



“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her

friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is

possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”



“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing in

the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and

Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal

and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most

delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and as

to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there

are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with

such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of

pleasure.—And her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary to

you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would

hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like

Jane.”



“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I

remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of

what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly

earned.”



“You are so noble in your ideas!”



“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”



“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a

fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not

know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and

say, Come ma’am, do not let us think about it any more.”



“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and

Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before

their return?”



“Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a

situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so

astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs.

Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me

upon it! It was before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because

we were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea, because I

remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it; something

happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room

before tea, old John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old

John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my poor father

twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very

poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—I must go and see him

to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor

John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he

is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at the Crown,

ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his

father without some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us

what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out about the

chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to

Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane

spoke to Mrs. Elton.”



Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this

circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possible that she

could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s

going, she proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.



What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the

accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledge of the

servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond

soon after the return of the party from Box Hill—which messenger,

however, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr. Churchill had

sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable

account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming

back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having

resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse

seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the

Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy

going a good pace, and driving very steady.



There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it

caught Emma’s attention only as it united with the subject which

already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s

importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every

thing, the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of

woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,

till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,



“Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become

of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.—‘You

must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business

here.—Let it stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel

Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for

me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—And to this day, I do

believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”



Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of

all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,

that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long

enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to

say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.









CHAPTER IX





Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;

but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her. Mr.

Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting

with her father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner

decidedly graver than usual, said,



“I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,

and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London, to spend

a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,

besides the ‘love,’ which nobody carries?”



“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”



“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.”



Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself. Time,

however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends

again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father

began his inquiries.



“Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how did you find my

worthy old friend and her daughter?—I dare say they must have been very

much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and

Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so

attentive to them!”



Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,

and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr.

Knightley.—It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in

her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that

had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.—

He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified—and in

another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common

friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;—whether she had not herself

made the first motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, have

rather offered it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was

on the point of carrying it to his lips—when, from some fancy or other,

he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a scruple, why he should

change his mind when it was all but done, she could not perceive.—He

would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—The

intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his

manners had in general so little gallantry, or however else it

happened, but she thought nothing became him more.—It was with him, of

so simple, yet so dignified a nature.—She could not but recall the

attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He left

them immediately afterwards—gone in a moment. He always moved with the

alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but

now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.



Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she

had left her ten minutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure

to talk over Jane Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.—Neither would

she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew

how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a

better time—and to have had longer notice of it, would have been

pleasanter.—They parted thorough friends, however; she could not be

deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinished

gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered

his good opinion.—He had been sitting with them half an hour, she

found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!



In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the

disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and going so

suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad;

Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the

effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,—interested,

without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax’s

going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr.

Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpected blow.



“I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably

settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say

her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry

situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to

be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me.

You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor

was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be

induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”



The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every thing else

into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to announce the

death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular reason

to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty

hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from any

thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off after a short

struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.



It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of

gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the

surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where

she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops

to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be

disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame.

Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was

now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully

justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The

event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of

imaginary complaints.



“Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:

more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try the

temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what

would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be

dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr.

Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman,

who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be

as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over

her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.

How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It

was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.

Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both

with awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on how

Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw

in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith

would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his

wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into

any thing by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the

nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the

cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed.



Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great

self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed

nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of

strengthened character, and refrained from any allusion that might

endanger its maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s

death with mutual forbearance.



Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all

that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill

was better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the

departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a

very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a

visit the last ten years. At present, there was nothing to be done for

Harriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible

on Emma’s side.



It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax, whose

prospects were closing, while Harriet’s opened, and whose engagements

now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her

kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely

a stronger regret than for her past coldness; and the person, whom she

had been so many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she

would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted

to be of use to her; wanted to shew a value for her society, and

testify respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to

spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation

was refused, and by a verbal message. “Miss Fairfax was not well enough

to write;” and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it

appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,

though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering

under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him

doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time

proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged—appetite

quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms,

nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing

apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought

she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so

herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her

present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous

disorder:—confined always to one room;—he could have wished it

otherwise—and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must

acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of that

description. Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were,

in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived

more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;

grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover some

way of being useful. To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her

aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational

conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good; and the

following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language

she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any

hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s decided

opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient. The answer was

only in this short note:



“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any

exercise.”



Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it was

impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality shewed

indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best

counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the

answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s,

in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not

do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing

with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest

service—and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in

vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite

unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her

worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers;

but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear

that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in.

“Indeed, the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any

body—any body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs.

Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except

them, Jane would really see nobody.”



Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,

and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither could

she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore, and

only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet,

which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates

was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any

thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they

could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was

distasteful.



Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an

examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality

was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In

half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from

Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being

sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she

insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”



When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering

about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of

the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any

exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage,

she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that Jane was

resolved to receive no kindness from _her_. She was sorry, very sorry.

Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable

from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and

inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so little

credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:

but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good,

and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been

privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have

seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any

thing to reprove.









CHAPTER X





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.”



Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She

asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and

that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money

concern—something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the

circumstances of the family,—something which the late event at Richmond

had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural

children, perhaps—and poor Frank cut off!—This, though very

undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little

more than an animating curiosity.



“Who is that gentleman on horseback?” said she, as they

proceeded—speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret,

than with any other view.



“I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is not Frank, I assure

you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time.”



“Has your son been with you, then?”



“Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.”



For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded

and demure,



“Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did.”



They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—“Well, my dear,” said

he, as they entered the room—“I have brought her, and now I hope you

will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in

delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me.”—And Emma distinctly

heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,—“I have

been as good as my word. She has not the least idea.”



Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,

that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she

eagerly said,



“What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I

find, has occurred;—do let me know directly what it is. I have been

walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do

not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your

distress, whatever it may be.”



“Have you indeed no idea?” said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.

“Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form a guess as to what you are to

hear?”



“So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess.”



“You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;”

(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) “He has

been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is

impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a

subject,—to announce an attachment—”



She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of

Harriet.



“More than an attachment, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Weston; “an

engagement—a positive engagement.—What will you say, Emma—what will any

body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are

engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!”



Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, exclaimed,



“Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?”



“You may well be amazed,” returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her

eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to

recover— “You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a

solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth,

and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but

themselves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.—It is so

wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet

almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.—I thought I knew

him.”



Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was divided between two

ideas—her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and

poor Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and require

confirmation, repeated confirmation.



“Well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a

circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at

all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all the winter—before either of

them came to Highbury?”



“Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt me, Emma, very

much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we

cannot excuse.”



Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, “I will not pretend _not_ to

understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured

that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are

apprehensive of.”



Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s countenance was as

steady as her words.



“That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my

present perfect indifference,” she continued, “I will farther tell you,

that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I

did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay,

was attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder.

Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past,

for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may

believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.”



Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find

utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good

than any thing else in the world could do.



“Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “On

this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you

might be attached to each other—and we were persuaded that it was so.—

Imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”



“I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful

wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston;

and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to

come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so

_very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he

certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering

attention, as he certainly did—while he really belonged to another?—How

could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—How could he tell that

he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrong

indeed.”



“From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine—”



“And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to

look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,

before her face, and not resent it.—That is a degree of placidity,

which I can neither comprehend nor respect.”



“There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said so expressly.

He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a

quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the

full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had been

misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed

to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might very

possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”



“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much, much

beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has sunk him

in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of that upright

integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain

of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every

transaction of his life.”



“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been wrong

in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his having

many, very many, good qualities; and—”



“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge, too!

Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he mean by

such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to suffer her

even to think of such a measure!”



“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit

him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at

least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday, I

know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I

do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery

of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined

him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on

his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of

concealment that had been carrying on so long.”



Emma began to listen better.



“I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told me at

parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which

seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let

us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It

may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not to be

understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry to

condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now that I am

satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious

for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must

both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and

concealment.”



“_His_ sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to have done him

much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”



“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a

difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that

family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have

been a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at

rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly

opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when

undue influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent with

very little persuasion.”



“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for Harriet.”



“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this

morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some time—and

then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle,

to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you,

he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very much

agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a

different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—In

addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so

very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was

every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”



“And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with

such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know

of the engagement?”



Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.



“None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being

in the world but their two selves.”



“Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the

idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very

abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of

hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us with

professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to

judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring,

completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth

and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been

carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and

words that were never meant for both to hear.—They must take the

consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not

perfectly agreeable!”



“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am very sure

that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might

not have heard.”



“You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you

imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”



“True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss

Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and

as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe.”



At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the

window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited

him in; and, while he was coming round, added, “Now, dearest Emma, let

me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at

ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the

best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her

favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not

feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance

for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a

girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always

given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her credit for, in

spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And

how much may be said in her situation for even that error!”



“Much, indeed!” cried Emma feelingly. “If a woman can ever be excused

for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane

Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is not their’s,

nor the world’s law.’”



She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,

exclaiming,



“A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word! This was a

device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise my talent

of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half

your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of

condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate

you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of

the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your

daughter.”



A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as

right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits

was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness: he

shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the

subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and

persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions

suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth objections;

and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked

it all over again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was

become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best

thing that Frank could possibly have done.









CHAPTER XI





“Harriet, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the

tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted

the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved

very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much _his_

behaviour as her _own_, which made her so angry with him. It was the

scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the

deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe

of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken

prophetically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to

Harriet Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but

disservice.—It was true that she had not to charge herself, in this

instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of

the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise

never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged

her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill before she had ever

given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of

having encouraged what she might have repressed. She might have

prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence

would have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she ought

to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her friend’s

happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common sense would have

directed her to tell Harriet, that she must not allow herself to think

of him, and that there were five hundred chances to one against his

ever caring for her.—“But, with common sense,” she added, “I am afraid

I have had little to do.”



She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been angry

with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for Jane

Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present

solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no

longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health

having, of course, the same origin, must be equally under cure.—Her

days of insignificance and evil were over.—She would soon be well, and

happy, and prosperous.—Emma could now imagine why her own attentions

had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No

doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival;

and well might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be

repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,

and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She

understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself from

the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that

Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her

desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was

little sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful

that this second disappointment would be more severe than the first.

Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; and

judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing

reserve and self-command, it would.—She must communicate the painful

truth, however, and as soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had

been among Mr. Weston’s parting words. “For the present, the whole

affair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of

it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost; and

every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum.”—Emma had

promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her superior duty.



In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost

ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicate

office to perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through

by herself. The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to

her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat

quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, had

poor Mrs. Weston felt when _she_ was approaching Randalls. Could the

event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!—But of that,

unfortunately, there could be no chance.



“Well, Miss Woodhouse!” cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room—“is

not this the oddest news that ever was?”



“What news do you mean?” replied Emma, unable to guess, by look or

voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.



“About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange? Oh!—you

need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has told me

himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be a great secret;

and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but

you, but he said you knew it.”



“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.



“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill

are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged to one

another this long while. How very odd!”



It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that

Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared

absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or

disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at

her, quite unable to speak.



“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with her?—You,

perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into every

body’s heart; but nobody else—”



“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any such talent.

Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached to

another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly, if not

openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had

the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank

Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very

sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”



“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should you caution

me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”



“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied

Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—and

not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand that you

did care about him?”



“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?”

turning away distressed.



“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—“What do you mean?—Good

Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—”



She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat down,

waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.



Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from

her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it was

in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.



“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could

have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but

considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else, I should

not have thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any other

person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look

at him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste than

to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And

that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but for

believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my

attachment, I should have considered it at first too great a

presumption almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not

told me that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been

matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—I should not

have dared to give way to—I should not have thought it possible—But if

_you_, who had been always acquainted with him—”



“Harriet!” cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—“Let us understand

each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake. Are you

speaking of—Mr. Knightley?”



“To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else—and so I

thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as

possible.”



“Not quite,” returned Emma, with forced calmness, “for all that you

then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. I could

almost assert that you had _named_ Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the

service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from

the gipsies, was spoken of.”



“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!”



“My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I said on

the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at your attachment; that

considering the service he had rendered you, it was extremely

natural:—and you agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to

your sense of that service, and mentioning even what your sensations

had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impression of

it is strong on my memory.”



“Oh, dear,” cried Harriet, “now I recollect what you mean; but I was

thinking of something very different at the time. It was not the

gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with some

elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance—of Mr.

Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not

stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That

was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity;

that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he was to

every other being upon earth.”



“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—most

deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”



“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? At

least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if the

other had been the person; and now—it _is_ possible—”



She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.



“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a

great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You must

think one five hundred million times more above me than the other. But

I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may

appear—. But you know they were your own words, that _more_ wonderful

things had happened, matches of _greater_ disparity had taken place

than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if

such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be

so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should

really—if _he_ does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss

Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to put

difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I am sure.”



Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round to look

at her in consternation, and hastily said,



“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”



“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that I

have.”



Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,

in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient

for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers, once

opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—she admitted—she

acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet

should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why

was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a

return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr.

Knightley must marry no one but herself!



Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same

few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never blessed

her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet! How

inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been

her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck

her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in

the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in spite of

all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance, and a strong

sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of _compassion_ to

the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice

required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave

Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with even

apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit that the

utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into; and Harriet

had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so

voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the

person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from

reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet

again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as

to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of

Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but

of Mr. Knightley and themselves.



Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad

to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,

and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to

give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling

delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were

better concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was

not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a

development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion

of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She listened with much

inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet’s

detail.—Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could

not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the

feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her

spirit—especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own

memory brought in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of

Harriet.



Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since

those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,

found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at

least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of

him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more

than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different

manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she

had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking

together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very

delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it

to have been very much the case. She had often observed the change, to

almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and

praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with

what she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being

without art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,

feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had

dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s

memory, many little particulars of the notice she had received from

him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a

compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because

unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s

relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had

passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest

occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet,

were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The first,

was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at

Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came, and he

had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to

himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way

than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(Harriet

could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost asking

her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she (Miss

Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and

began talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talking

with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit, the

very last morning of his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came

in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his having told

her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London, it

was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which

was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to _her_. The

superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article

marked, gave her severe pain.



On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a

little reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is

not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of

your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr.

Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with

spirit.



“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I hope I

know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected of

it.”



When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss

Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.



“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she, “but

for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour be

the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may

deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so

very wonderful.”



The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter

feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable

her to say on reply,



“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the

last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea

of his feeling for her more than he really does.”



Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so

satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which

at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her

father’s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too

much agitated to encounter him. “She could not compose herself— Mr.

Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready

encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through

another door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous

burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”



The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for her

thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had

rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought a

fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to

her.—How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she had

been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The blunders, the

blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about,

she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every

posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had

been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had

been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was

wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of

wretchedness.



To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first

endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her father’s

claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary absence of mind.



How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling

declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?—

When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank

Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she

compared the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her

estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to her—and as

they must at any time have been compared by her, had it—oh! had it, by

any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—She

saw that there never had been a time when she did not consider Mr.

Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had

not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading herself,

in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a

delusion, totally ignorant of her own heart—and, in short, that she had

never really cared for Frank Churchill at all!



This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection. This was the

knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which she

reached; and without being long in reaching it.—She was most

sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed

to her—her affection for Mr. Knightley.—Every other part of her mind

was disgusting.



With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of

every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange

every body’s destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken;

and she had not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had

brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.

Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to take place, on

her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning; for his

attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of

Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would never have known

Harriet at all but for her folly.



Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every

wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax

became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no

surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or

thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her

side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it

must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the

sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification

and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to

himself.—Could it be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very

far, from impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate

abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one,

perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek

him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal,

inconsistent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as second

causes) to direct the human fate?



Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she

ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a folly

which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the

unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy and respectable

in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would have been

safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.



How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts

to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the chosen of

such a man till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less humble,

had fewer scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of mind or

situation, seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of Mr.

Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.

Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at

pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but

herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,

and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If

Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.









CHAPTER XII





Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known

how much of her happiness depended on being _first_ with Mr. Knightley,

first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling

it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the

dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had

been.—Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no

female connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims

could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far

he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him for

many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent

or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,

insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he

would not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own—but

still, from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of

mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an

endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no

other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew

she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?—When the suggestions

of hope, however, which must follow here, presented themselves, she

could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself

not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by

Mr. Knightley. _She_ could not. She could not flatter herself with any

idea of blindness in his attachment to _her_. She had received a very

recent proof of its impartiality.—How shocked had he been by her

behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had he expressed

himself to her on the subject!—Not too strongly for the offence—but

far, far too strongly to issue from any feeling softer than upright

justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no hope, nothing to deserve

the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herself

which was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one,

at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have deceived herself, and

be overrating his regard for _her_.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be

the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his

life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at

all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let him but

continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr.

Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of

their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace

would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It

would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what

she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She

would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.



It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and she

hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least be

able to ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them

henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had

hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know

how to admit that she could be blinded here.—He was expected back every

day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully soon it

appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the meanwhile, she

resolved against seeing Harriet.—It would do neither of them good, it

would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was

resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had

no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk would be only

to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to

beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it

to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of _one_

topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were

allowed to pass before they met again, except in the company of

others—she objected only to a tête-à-tête—they might be able to act as

if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted,

and approved, and was grateful.



This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s

thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,

sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had

been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her

way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to

relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.



Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through his

share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having then

induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned with

much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a

quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the

encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.



A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her

friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal

of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at

all at present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead,

and to defer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and

Mr. Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known;

as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid

without leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he

was extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her

family, and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it;

or if it were, that it would be of any consequence; for “such things,”

he observed, “always got about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston

had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very

great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had

hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn

how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt

satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her

daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a

gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly

respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation;

thought so much of Jane; so much of every body, and so little of

themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss

Fairfax’s recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to

invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but,

on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, Mrs.

Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her

embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on the important subject.

Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first

reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always

feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the

cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good

deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.

Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief

to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so

long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the

subject.



“On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so

many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This was one

of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into the

engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I

have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering

lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my

heart.”



“Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for having

consented to a private engagement?”



“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to

blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of

perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the

punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.

Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting

contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every

thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my

conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she

continued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on

the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error

has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that

present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the

story known to Colonel Campbell.’”



“Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then excessively, I

suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led

to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her

judgment.”



“Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.”



“I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often have

contributed to make her unhappy.”



“On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably

had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the

misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural

consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was

that of making her _unreasonable_. The consciousness of having done

amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious

and irritable to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for

him to bear. ‘I did not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought

to have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and

that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other

circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to

me, as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of the

great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush

which shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an

opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you too much—for every wish

and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had never

received any proper acknowledgment from herself.”



“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seriously, “which,

in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience, she

must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there

were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss

Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this is

all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting

particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she is

very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune

should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.”



Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She thought

well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more, she loved

him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with

a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but she had too

much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick Square

or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston

ended with, “We have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you

know, but I hope it will soon come,” she was obliged to pause before

she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could

at all recollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.



“Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.



“Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me

intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”



Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more food for

unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her

sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted

not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the

envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause.

Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention

to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know her

better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to

find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all

probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her

now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as

an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what

was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;

that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this

important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she

ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the

abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she

had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so

unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been made a

subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by the

levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil

surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded

that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a

perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without

her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a thousand instances; and on

Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no

more.



The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.

The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in,

and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the

wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such

cruel sights the longer visible.



The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably

comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s side, and

by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. It reminded

her of their first forlorn tête-à-tête, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s

wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon after tea, and

dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of

Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly

be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the

approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them,

no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings she feared

would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,

was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that

might not be even partially brightened. If all took place that might

take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be

comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the

spirits only of ruined happiness.



The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than

herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would be occupied by it. They

should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband

also.—Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss

Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to

Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or near

Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these

losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added, what would remain of

cheerful or of rational society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be

no longer coming there for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at

all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How

was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s

sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s

society all that he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the

first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the

best blessings of existence; what could be increasing Emma’s

wretchedness but the reflection never far distant from her mind, that

it had been all her own work?



When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from

a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few

seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation or

composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better

conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might

be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it

would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and

leave her less to regret when it were gone.









CHAPTER XIII





The weather continued much the same all the following morning; and the

same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign at

Hartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a

softer quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was

summer again. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives,

Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had the

exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and

brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to her. She longed for

the serenity they might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming

in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her father, she

lost no time in hurrying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits

freshened, and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,

when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden door, and coming

towards her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from

London. She had been thinking of him the moment before, as

unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There was time only for the

quickest arrangement of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a

minute they were together. The “How d’ye do’s” were quiet and

constrained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they

were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that morning. He must have

had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant to walk with her, she found. “He had just

looked into the dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred

being out of doors.”—She thought he neither looked nor spoke

cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by her

fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his

brother, and was pained by the manner in which they had been received.



They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking

at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to

give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to

speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for

encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the

way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not

bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She

considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—



“You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather

surprize you.”



“Have I?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”



“Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.”



After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more,

he replied,



“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that

already.”



“How is it possible?” cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards

him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called

at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way.



“I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and

at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened.”



Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more

composure,



“_You_ probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have

had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give

me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and

a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”



For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of

having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn

within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying,

in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,



“Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent

sense—your exertions for your father’s sake—I know you will not allow

yourself—.” Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken

and subdued accent, “The feelings of the warmest

friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!”—And in a louder, steadier

tone, he concluded with, “He will soon be gone. They will soon be in

Yorkshire. I am sorry for _her_. She deserves a better fate.”



Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter

of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,



“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am

not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going

on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,

and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may

well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason

to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”



“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—but

checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that

you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it

will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment

of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not

farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure

myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that

there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to

deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded

with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable

creature.”



“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—“I

am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your

error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I

have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been

at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be

natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I

never have.”



He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would

not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his

clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself

in his opinion. She went on, however.



“I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his

attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,

probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my

sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up

as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation.

He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—I always found him

very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the

causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity

was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some

time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought

them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side.

He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been

attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He

never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real

situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and

no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except

that I was _not_ blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I

was somehow or other safe from him.”



She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her

conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as

she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual

tone, he said,



“I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I can suppose,

however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has

been but trifling.—And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he

may yet turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no

motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be

involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him

well.”



“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma; “I believe

them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”



“He is a most fortunate man!” returned Mr. Knightley, with energy. “So

early in life—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a

wife, he generally chuses ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a

prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has

before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love,

for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her disinterestedness; every

thing in his favour,—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards

society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in

every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not

to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his

to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man would always wish to

give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who

can do it, where there is no doubt of _her_ regard, must, I think, be

the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of

fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young

woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her

by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the

world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her

superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to

speak.—His friends are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used

every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a

fortunate man indeed!”



“You speak as if you envied him.”



“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”



Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of

Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if

possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally

different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for

breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,



“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I

see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but _I_ cannot be wise. Emma, I

must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the

next moment.”



“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a

little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”



“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not

another syllable followed.



Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in

her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen.

She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give

just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own

independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be

more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had

reached the house.



“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.



“No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he

still spoke—“I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not

gone.” And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—“I stopped you

ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you

pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to

ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a

friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I

will tell you exactly what I think.”



“As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma, that I fear is a word—No,

I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far

already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it

may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me,

then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”



He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression

of his eyes overpowered her.



“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever

the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved

Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.”—She could really

say nothing.—“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation;

“absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”



Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The

dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most

prominent feeling.



“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such

sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably

convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it

more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I

have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other

woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell

you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner,

perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a

very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you

understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I

ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”



While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful

velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to

catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that

Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as

complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that

she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to

Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and

that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had

been all received as discouragement from herself.—And not only was

there time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant

happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not

escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was

all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any of

that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him

to transfer his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the

most worthy of the two—or even the more simple sublimity of resolving

to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,

because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for

Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run

mad, opposing all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her

brain. She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her

for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong

as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him,

as most unequal and degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite

smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just

what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew

there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He

_had_ despaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to

caution and silence, as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun

by refusing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat

sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the

conversation which she had just put an end to, might be a little

extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so

obliging as to put up with it, and seek no farther explanation.



Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human

disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little

disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the

conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very

material.—Mr. Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart

than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to accept of his.



He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He had

followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had come,

in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with

no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed

him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work

of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings.

The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank

Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had

given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection

himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momentary

conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did

not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which

gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, which

he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already

his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed

state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could

bear no other name.



_Her_ change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same

precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same

degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been

a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation,

of Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank

Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably

enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill

that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him

on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such

permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be

indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much

domestic happiness in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a

form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in those

striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy

before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been

longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this

very morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then,

with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to

feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving

Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her,

that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and

had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best

of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the

discovery.



He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill was a villain.— He

heard her declare that she had never loved him. Frank Churchill’s

character was not desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word,

when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of

Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of

fellow.









CHAPTER XIV





What totally different feelings did Emma take back into the house from

what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hope for a

little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of

happiness, and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be

greater when the flutter should have passed away.



They sat down to tea—the same party round the same table—how often it

had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the same

shrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the

western sun!—But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing

like it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her

usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the attentive

daughter.



Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting against him in

the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, and so

anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have

seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the lungs; but

without the most distant imagination of the impending evil, without the

slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of

either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news

he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much

self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could have told him

in return.



As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s fever continued;

but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillised and

subdued—and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for

such an evening, she found one or two such very serious points to

consider, as made her feel, that even her happiness must have some

alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling

the full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort

of both to the utmost, was the question. With respect to her father, it

was a question soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley

would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart produced the most

solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—She even wept over the

idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it must be only an

engagement; but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger

of drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort to him.—How

to do her best by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;—how to spare

her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;

how to appear least her enemy?—On these subjects, her perplexity and

distress were very great—and her mind had to pass again and again

through every bitter reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever

surrounded it.—She could only resolve at last, that she would still

avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by

letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed

just now for a time from Highbury, and—indulging in one scheme

more—nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to get an invitation

for her to Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet;

and a few weeks spent in London must give her some amusement.—She did

not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape being benefited by novelty

and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.—At any rate,

it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom

every thing was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the

evil day, when they must all be together again.



She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an employment which

left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that Mr. Knightley, in walking

up to Hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half

an hour stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with him,

literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a

proper share of the happiness of the evening before.



He had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the

slightest inclination for thinking of any body else, when a letter was

brought her from Randalls—a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must

contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.—She was now in

perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations, she

wanted only to have her thoughts to herself—and as for understanding

any thing he wrote, she was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be

waded through, however. She opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a

note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to

Mrs. Weston.



“I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forwarding to you the

enclosed. I know what thorough justice you will do it, and have

scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I think we shall never materially

disagree about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long

preface.—We are quite well.—This letter has been the cure of all the

little nervousness I have been feeling lately.—I did not quite like

your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and though you

will never own being affected by weather, I think every body feels a

north-east wind.—I felt for your dear father very much in the storm of

Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing

last night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill.



“Yours ever,

“A. W.”





[_To Mrs. Weston_.]





Windsor—July.





MY DEAR MADAM,





“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected;

but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and

indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of

even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.—But

I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage

rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be

humble. I have already met with such success in two applications for

pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours,

and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.—You

must all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when

I first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret

which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to

place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is another

question. I shall not discuss it here. For my temptation to _think_ it

a right, I refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below,

and casements above, in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my

difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to

require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail, before we

parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the

creation to stoop in charity to a secret engagement.—Had she refused, I

should have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say, what was your hope

in doing this?—What did you look forward to?—To any thing, every

thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,

perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every possibility of

good was before me, and the first of blessings secured, in obtaining

her promises of faith and correspondence. If you need farther

explanation, I have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s

son, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good,

which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the value

of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriving on my first visit

to Randalls;—and here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might

have been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did not come

till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as _you_ were the person

slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s

compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented myself from

his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour,

during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you, did not, I

hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one point. And now I

come to the principal, the only important part of my conduct while

belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires very

solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest

friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps will think I

ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—A few words which dropped

from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge

myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indicated, I believe,

more than it ought.—In order to assist a concealment so essential to

me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of

intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss

Woodhouse was my ostensible object—but I am sure you will believe the

declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would

not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—Amiable and

delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the idea of a young

woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any

tendency to being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my

wish.—She received my attentions with an easy, friendly, goodhumoured

playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to understand each

other. From our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and

were felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to understand

me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot say;—when I called

to take leave of her, I remember that I was within a moment of

confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion;

but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some

degree.—She may not have surmised the whole, but her quickness must

have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the

subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not take

her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember

her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for her

attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I hope this history of my conduct towards

her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of what

you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned against Emma

Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and

procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of

that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much brotherly

affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in love as

myself.—Whatever strange things I said or did during that fortnight,

you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to

get my body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspicion.

If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the right account.—Of

the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only necessary to say, that

its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never

have allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—The delicacy

of her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear madam, is much

beyond my power of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope,

know her thoroughly yourself.—No description can describe her. She must

tell you herself what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a

human creature who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I

began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard

from her.—She gives a good account of her own health; but as she never

complains, I dare not depend. I want to have your opinion of her looks.

I know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit.

Perhaps it is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am

impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few minutes I was at

Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: and I am not much

better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. When I think

of the kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence and

patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I

recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve

to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her again!—But

I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to

encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have not heard all

that you ought to hear. I could not give any connected detail

yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness

with which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the

event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me

the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such early

measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which left me not

an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty,

and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength

and refinement.—But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had

entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam, I was obliged to

leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I have been

walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make

the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most

mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can

admit, that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were

highly blameable. _She_ disapproved them, which ought to have been

enough.—My plea of concealing the truth she did not think

sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought

her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I

thought her even cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her

judgment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed

proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I have ever

known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember the morning spent at

Donwell?—_There_ every little dissatisfaction that had occurred before

came to a crisis. I was late; I met her walking home by herself, and

wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely

refused to allow me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now,

however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent degree

of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our engagement, was

behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,

was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made

every previous caution useless?—Had we been met walking together

between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.—I was

mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her affection. I doubted it

more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my

side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent

devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any woman of

sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of words perfectly

intelligible to me.—In short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless

on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to

Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next morning,

merely because I would be as angry with her as possible. Even then, I

was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; but I was

the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went away determined

that she should make the first advances.—I shall always congratulate

myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my

behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well

of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolution it

produced: as soon as she found I was really gone from Randalls, she

closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of

whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation

and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance which has

been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, I should loudly

protest against the share of it which that woman has known.—‘Jane,’

indeed!—You will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling

her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured in

hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vulgarity of

needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority.

Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—She closed with this

offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to

tell me that we never were to meet again.—_She_ _felt_ _the_

_engagement_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _source_ _of_ _repentance_ _and_ _misery_

_to_ _each_: _she_ _dissolved_ _it_.—This letter reached me on the very

morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from

the confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on

me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other

letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and I, trusting

that I had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her,

remained without any uneasiness.—I was rather disappointed that I did

not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was

too busy, and—may I add?—too cheerful in my views to be captious.—We

removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I received a parcel from

her, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines at the same time by

the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest

reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point could

not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to both to

have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she

now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that

if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury

within a week, I would forward them after that period to her at—: in

short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me

in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it, and

instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with

that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the

secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter,

was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would

not she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how,

till I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of

the post.—What was to be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my

uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—I

spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened

away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,

wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with

a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the

marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different

sort.—Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in

opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No;

do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her.

Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached Highbury at

the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I

was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not

disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object

of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I

had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much

dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us

again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude

before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have

ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will

dictate towards her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than I

deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good

fortune. I hope she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is

undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,



Your obliged and affectionate Son,



F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.









CHAPTER XV





This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged, in

spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the

justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name,

it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,

and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the

subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her

former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any

picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till

she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to

feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had

supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and he was so grateful

to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so

happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have

entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as

ever.



She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,

she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to

be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen

so much to blame in his conduct.



“I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it seems long. I

will take it home with me at night.”



But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she

must return it by him.



“I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it seems a

matter of justice, it shall be done.”



He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say, “Had I been offered

the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-law a few

months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.”



He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a

smile, observed, “Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his

way. One man’s style must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be

severe.”



“It will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to speak my

opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you.

It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it—”



“Not at all. I should wish it.”



Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.



“He trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. He knows he is

wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He ought not to have

formed the engagement.—‘His father’s disposition:’—he is unjust,

however, to his father. Mr. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on

all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every

present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—Very true; he did not

come till Miss Fairfax was here.”



“And I have not forgotten,” said Emma, “how sure you were that he might

have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely—but you

were perfectly right.”



“I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but yet, I think—had

_you_ not been in the case—I should still have distrusted him.”



When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it

aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the

head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as

the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady

reflection, thus—



“Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing a most dangerous

game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.—No judge of his

own manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and

regardless of little besides his own convenience.—Fancying you to have

fathomed his secret. Natural enough!—his own mind full of intrigue,

that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they pervert

the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more

and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with

each other?”



Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet’s

account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.



“You had better go on,” said she.



He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, “the pianoforte! Ah! That

was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider

whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the

pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing

to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather

dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the

instrument’s coming if she could.”



After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill’s

confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for

more than a word in passing.



“I perfectly agree with you, sir,”—was then his remark. “You did behave

very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line.” And having gone through

what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his

persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of

right, he made a fuller pause to say, “This is very bad.—He had induced

her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme

difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to

prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must have had much more

to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He

should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such;

but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and

remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the

engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of

punishment.”



Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew

uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was

deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read,

however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,

excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear

of giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist.



“There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the

Eltons,” was his next observation.—“His feelings are natural.—What!

actually resolve to break with him entirely!—She felt the engagement to

be a source of repentance and misery to each—she dissolved it.—What a

view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a most

extraordinary—”



“Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suffers.”



“I hope he does,” replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the

letter. “‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? What is all this?”



“She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s children—a

dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the

bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?”



“Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read—not even of

Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter

the man writes!”



“I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him.”



“Well, there _is_ feeling here.—He does seem to have suffered in

finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of

her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ I hope he may long continue to

feel all the value of such a reconciliation.—He is a very liberal

thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I

deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me the

child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?—

And a fine ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!

That was your name for him, was it?”



“You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I am; but still

you must, at least I hope you must, think the better of him for it. I

hope it does him some service with you.”



“Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of

inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much of his opinion

in thinking him likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he

is, beyond a doubt, really attached to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it

may be hoped, have the advantage of being constantly with her, I am

very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers

the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And now, let me

talk to you of something else. I have another person’s interest at

present so much at heart, that I cannot think any longer about Frank

Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been

hard at work on one subject.”



The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike

English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love

with, how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the

happiness of her father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word.

“While her dear father lived, any change of condition must be

impossible for her. She could never quit him.” Part only of this

answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting her

father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the

inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. He had been

thinking it over most deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to

induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had wanted to

believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not

suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his

persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s

comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.

Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought not to be

attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of this, he

trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objectionable;

it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her

father’s happiness—in other words, his life—required Hartfield to

continue her home, it should be his likewise.



Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own passing

thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such

an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible of all

the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must

be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that

in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there

would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of

it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced,

that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the

subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm

consideration; he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole

morning, to have his thoughts to himself.



“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am sure

William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you

ask mine.”



She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,

moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good

scheme.



It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view in

which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck

with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as

heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she

must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she

only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement

in detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s

marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had

wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.



This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at

Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.

His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their

mutual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself in

the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner in

all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of

melancholy!



She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every blessing

of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her friend,

who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family

party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere

charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a loser in

every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as any deduction

from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead

weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a

peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state

of unmerited punishment.



In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is,

supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr.

Knightley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like

Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly

considerate for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped

than now; and it really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she

could be in love with more than _three_ men in one year.









CHAPTER XVI





It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as

herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by

letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!



Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without

reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there

was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her

style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It

might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only

could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.



She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was

fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without

resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished,

and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was

delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to

her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was

quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on

her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very

persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a

fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was

all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick

Square.



Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she could

talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by that sense

of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted

her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how much

might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the

feelings which she had led astray herself.



The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made perhaps

an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could not

think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,

which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.



She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the place

in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communication

before her, one which _she_ only could be competent to make—the

confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have nothing

to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till

Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be

thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act

on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight, at

least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more

agitating, delight, should be hers.



She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an

hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought

to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present

situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a

_secret_ satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of

prospect would certainly add to the interest with which she should

attend to any thing Jane might communicate.



She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had not

been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane

had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all

the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being

still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,

to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty

announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had

before made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the

instant reply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was

met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no

other reception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her

look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness,

animation, and warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or

manner could ever have wanted.— She came forward with an offered hand;

and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,



“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for me to

express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely without

words.”



Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the

sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked her,

and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her

congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.



Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which

accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.

Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every

body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped

the rencontre would do them no harm.



She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and

understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being in

Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what

was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately

in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to

Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she

saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which

she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it

into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant

nods,



“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall not want

opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential already.

I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is

not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet

creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word

more. Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You

remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:



“For when a lady’s in the case,

“You know all other things give place.”





Now I say, my dear, in _our_ case, for _lady_, read——mum! a word to the

wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I want to set your

heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—_My_ representation, you see, has quite

appeased her.”



And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look at Mrs. Bates’s

knitting, she added, in a half whisper,



“I mentioned no _names_, you will observe.—Oh! no; cautious as a

minister of state. I managed it extremely well.”



Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeated on every

possible occasion. When they had all talked a little while in harmony

of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed

with,



“Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is

charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her cure does Perry the highest

credit?—(here was a side-glance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my

word, Perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—Oh! if you had

seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!”—And when Mrs. Bates was

saying something to Emma, whispered farther, “We do not say a word of

any _assistance_ that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young

physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the credit.”



“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she

shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant

party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not

seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So

it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think

it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to

our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while

the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the

same party, not _one_ exception.”



Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being

diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,

she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say

every thing.



“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is impossible

to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest Jane’s prospects—that

is, I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—How is Mr.

Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—Such a happy little

circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming young man!—that is—so

very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such attention to Jane!”—And from

her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton

for being there, Emma guessed that there had been a little show of

resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which was now

graciously overcome.—After a few whispers, indeed, which placed it

beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder, said,



“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that

anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth

is, that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me

here, and pay his respects to you.”



“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That will

be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits,

and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”



“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morning to

night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some pretence or

other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always

wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without

him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—I do not

know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half

so many applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them

both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this

fortnight.—However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose

to wait on you all.” And putting up her hand to screen her words from

Emma—“A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes, quite indispensable.”



Miss Bates looked about her, so happily—!



“He promised to come to me as soon as he could disengage himself from

Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut up together in deep

consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s right hand.”



Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “Is Mr. Elton

gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have a hot walk.”



“Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Weston and

Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak only of those who

lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have every thing their own way.”



“Have not you mistaken the day?” said Emma. “I am almost certain that

the meeting at the Crown is not till to-morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at

Hartfield yesterday, and spoke of it as for Saturday.”



“Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,” was the abrupt answer, which

denoted the impossibility of any blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.—“I do

believe,” she continued, “this is the most troublesome parish that ever

was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.”



“Your parish there was small,” said Jane.



“Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard the subject

talked of.”



“But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I have heard

you speak of, as under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge;

the only school, and not more than five-and-twenty children.”



“Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a thinking brain you

have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I should make, if

we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would

produce perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however, that

_some_ people may not think _you_ perfection already.—But hush!—not a

word, if you please.”



It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to give her words,

not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw.

The wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very

evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.



Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of her

sparkling vivacity.



“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an

encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But

you knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I

should not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been

sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal

obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”



Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.

His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent

object was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and

the walk he had had for nothing.



“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found. Very

odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning, and

the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.”



“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been to

Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the Crown.”



“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knightley

to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I went

over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made

it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I

am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The

housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very

extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps to

Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—Miss

Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?”



Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,

indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.



“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife

ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of

all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect to

be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am

sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his

servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely

to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often

observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such

a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.

And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She

promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”



“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the house,

and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did not

believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what

was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get

the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it

really is of very great importance that _I_ should see Knightley

to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious

inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”



Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all

probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr.

Knightley might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards

Mr. Elton, if not towards William Larkins.



She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to

attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her

an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,



“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had you

not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to

introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than might

have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been

impertinent.”



“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma thought

infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual

composure—“there would have been no danger. The danger would have been

of my wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than by

expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speaking more

collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of misconduct, very

great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to know that those

of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are not

disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could

wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for

myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if your

compassion does not stand my friend—”



“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly, and

taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you

might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted

even—”



“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So cold and

artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know

that I must have disgusted you.”



“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.

Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done

quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you

have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”



“Very.”



“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as

I begin to know you.”



“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am here

till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”



“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma,

smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”



The smile was returned as Jane answered,



“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you, (I

am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill

at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of

deep mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing

more to wait for.”



“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured of.—Oh!

if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and

open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”









CHAPTER XVII





Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the

satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by

knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in

wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with

any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of

Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both

father and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as

he grew older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years

hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense,

the freaks and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and

Mrs. Weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her;

and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to

teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.



“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she

continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame

de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little

Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”



“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more than

she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will

be the only difference.”



“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”



“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in

infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my

bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing

all my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me

to be severe on them?”



Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your

endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt

whether my own sense would have corrected me without it.”



“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss Taylor

gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite

as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what

right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for you to

feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did

you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of

the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much

without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many

errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at

least.”



“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often

influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am

very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be

spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her

as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is

thirteen.”



“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your

saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I

may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did

not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad

feelings instead of one.”



“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my speeches

in such affectionate remembrance.”



“‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’ and, from

habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet it is formal. I want

you to call me something else, but I do not know what.”



“I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my amiable fits, about

ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as

you made no objection, I never did it again.”



“And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?”



“Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr. Knightley.’ I will

not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by

calling you Mr. K.—But I will promise,” she added presently, laughing

and blushing—“I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I

do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in

which N. takes M. for better, for worse.”



Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important

service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advice

which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly

follies—her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a

subject.—She could not enter on it.—Harriet was very seldom mentioned

between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not

being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to

delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship

were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other

circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that

her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on

Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being

obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior

to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.



Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be

expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits,

which appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be

consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appear

to find Harriet different from what she had known her before.—Isabella,

to be sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been

equal to playing with the children, it would not have escaped her.

Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s

being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least.

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were to come down in August, and she was

invited to remain till they could bring her back.



“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley. “Here is

his answer, if you like to see it.”



It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma

accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to

know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that

her friend was unmentioned.



“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr.

Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to

have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from

making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather

cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”



“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read the

letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the

good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not

without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as

you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different

construction, I should not have believed him.”



“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”



“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”

interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than

he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the

subject.”



“Emma, my dear Emma—”



“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your brother

does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,

and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from

doing _you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the

advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish

I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion

towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”



“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced

as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give,

to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you

notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly

by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of

the kind.”



“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some

thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly

unprepared for that.”



“Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my

feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am not conscious of any

difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this

time for my marrying any more than at another.—But it was so, I

suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them

the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much

as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems

always tired now.’”



The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other

persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently

recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that

her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first

to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.—But how to break it to

her father at last!—She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of

Mr. Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart would

have failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to

come at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She

was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it

a more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.

She must not appear to think it a misfortune.—With all the spirits she

could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,

in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be

obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,

since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—she and Mr.

Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the

constant addition of that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next

to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.



Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried

earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of

having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be

a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor

Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about

him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he

must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages

taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but

she was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was

introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the

better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier

for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to

the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny

that he did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business

but Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his

letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so

attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?—Yes.

That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he

should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day as

it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?



Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,

the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.—To

Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose fond

praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon

used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—They had all the

assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest

approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to

consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled,

and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance

of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon,

as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be guided

assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some

feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some

time or other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very

bad if the marriage did take place.



Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she

said to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized,

never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she

saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in

urging him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as

to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect

so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one

respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,

so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely

have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself

been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it

long ago.—How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma

would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.

Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an

arrangement desirable!—The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.

Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for

a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe

and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr.

Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able to finish the

subject better than by saying—“Those matters will take care of

themselves; the young people will find a way.” But here there was

nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was

all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the

name. It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and

without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.



Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections

as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing

could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon

have outgrown its first set of caps.



The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston

had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to

familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—He saw the advantages of

the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but

the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he

was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.



“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are always

a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me

be told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.”



He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that

point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest

daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed, of

course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately

afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they

had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon

it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the

evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.



In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him,

and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend

their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John

Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their

servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection

raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was

not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it,

compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride would now

be contented;” and supposed “she had always meant to catch Knightley if

she could;” and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly

exclaim, “Rather he than I!”—But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed

indeed.—“Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for him.”—She was

extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good

qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in

love—not in the least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all

pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine

with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.—Poor

fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh! no;

there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every

thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she

had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan, living

together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had

tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first

quarter.









CHAPTER XVIII





Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London would

be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking of it one

morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,

when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. After

the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone,

began with,



“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”



“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.



“I do not know which it ought to be called.”



“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying not

to smile.”



“I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very much afraid,

my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.”



“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which pleases

or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”



“There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which we do not

think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes fixed on

her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—Do not you recollect?—Harriet

Smith.”



Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,

though she knew not what.



“Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he. “You have, I

believe, and know the whole.”



“No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”



“You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet

Smith marries Robert Martin.”



Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her eyes,

in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impossible!” but her lips were

closed.



“It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from Robert

Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”



She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.



“You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions were

the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make one

or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need

not talk much on the subject.”



“You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exerting herself.

“It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy, but I

cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say,

that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he

has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he intends it.”



“I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling but

determined decision, “and been accepted.”



“Good God!” she cried.—“Well!”—Then having recourse to her workbasket,

in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all the exquisite

feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be

expressing, she added, “Well, now tell me every thing; make this

intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was

more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.—How—how

has it been possible?”



“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days ago,

and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting to send

to John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was

asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s. They

were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to be

our brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert

could not resist. They called for him in their way; were all extremely

amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which

he did—and in the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an

opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in

vain.—She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is

deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me this

morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first

on my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of

the how, where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer

history when you see her.—She will give you all the minute particulars,

which only woman’s language can make interesting.—In our communications

we deal only in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s

heart seemed for _him_, and to _me_, very overflowing; and that he did

mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their

box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and

little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one

time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”



He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To speak, she

was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.

She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence

disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,



“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now make you

unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected. His

situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your

friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and better of him as

you know him more. His good sense and good principles would delight

you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish your friend in

better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could, which is

saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William

Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”



He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself not

to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,



“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think

Harriet is doing extremely well. _Her_ connexions may be worse than

_his_. In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they

are. I have been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You

cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly

unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more

determined against him, much more, than she was before.”



“You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley; “but I

should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl, not likely to be

very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”



Emma could not help laughing as she answered, “Upon my word, I believe

you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mr. Knightley, are you

perfectly sure that she has absolutely and downright _accepted_ him. I

could suppose she might in time—but can she already?—Did not you

misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other things; of business,

shows of cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of

so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was

certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.”



The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. Knightley and

Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong to Emma’s feelings, and so

strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on

Harriet’s side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such

emphasis, “No, I hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,”

that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some

measure, premature. It could not be otherwise.



“Do you dare say this?” cried Mr. Knightley. “Do you dare to suppose me

so great a blockhead, as not to know what a man is talking of?—What do

you deserve?”



“Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with

any other; and, therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. Are

you quite sure that you understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and

Harriet now are?”



“I am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that he told

me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing

doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that

it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew

of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of

her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be

done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then,

he said, he would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.”



“I am perfectly satisfied,” replied Emma, with the brightest smiles,

“and most sincerely wish them happy.”



“You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.”



“I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.”



“And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all

Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and

for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as

much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have

often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.

Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of

pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all

my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl,

with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her

happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this,

I have no doubt, she may thank you for.”



“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor Harriet!”



She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more

praise than she deserved.



Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her

father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a

state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be

collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till

she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected,

she could be fit for nothing rational.



Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put the

horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she

had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.



The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be

imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of

Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for

security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of

him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her

own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her

humility and circumspection in future.



Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her

resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the

very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the

doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!



Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a

pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.



High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the

reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would

soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to

practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him

that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready

to welcome as a duty.



In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not

always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in

speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being

obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be

disappointed.



They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had

they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for

coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the

blind, of two figures passing near the window.



“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just going to

tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.

He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend

the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”



In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see

him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing

recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a

consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all

sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,

that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had

long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with

Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined

the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer

a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank

Churchill to draw near her and say,



“I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving message

in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you less

willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”



“No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. I am

particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy

in person.”



He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak

with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.



“Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.

“Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Weston

doat upon her.”



But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after

mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of

Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.



“I can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”



“The shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. But is it

possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you

had none.”



“I never had the smallest, I assure you.”



“That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I had—it

would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things,

they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It

would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of

secrecy and told you every thing.”



“It is not now worth a regret,” said Emma.



“I have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being persuaded to pay a

visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells

are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I

trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a

distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—Till this morning, we

have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?”



Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay

thought, he cried,



“Ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the

moment—“I hope Mr. Knightley is well?” He paused.—She coloured and

laughed.—“I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish

in your favour. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I

have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a

man whom I cannot presume to praise.”



Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but

his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane,

and his next words were,



“Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet

without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most

uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most

distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just colour

enough for beauty.”



“I have always admired her complexion,” replied Emma, archly; “but do

not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so

pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?”



“Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—”



But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not

help saying,



“I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you

had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I am

sure it was a consolation to you.”



“Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most

miserable wretch!”



“Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was

a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us

all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the

truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same

situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.”



He bowed.



“If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of true

sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which

bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our

own.”



“True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your side. You can

have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look

at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her

throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will

be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my

uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set. I

am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be

beautiful in her dark hair?”



“Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that

he gratefully burst out,



“How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent

looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should

certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.”



The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an account

of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the

infant’s appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,

but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of

sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston

had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the

child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and

particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her

very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that

she had not done it. “She should always send for Perry, if the child

appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment.

She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was

a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child

seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been

better if Perry had seen it.”



Frank Churchill caught the name.



“Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss

Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr.

Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has

he set up his carriage?”



Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the

laugh, it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was really

hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.



“Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can never think of

it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see

it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do

not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,

which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole

blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else,

though pretending to listen to the others?”



Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly

remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet

steady voice,



“How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They _will_

sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!”



He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but

Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving

Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she

felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really

regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more

sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of character. The

happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the

animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.









CHAPTER XIX





If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a

momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her

attachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from

unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the

recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party

from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour

alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable

as it was!—that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley,

and was now forming all her views of happiness.



Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at first: but

having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and

self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with

the words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the

fullest exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s

approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by

meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.—Harriet was most

happy to give every particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the

dinner the next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.

But what did such particulars explain?—The fact was, as Emma could now

acknowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his

continuing to love her had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever

be unintelligible to Emma.



The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her fresh

reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage became known. She proved to

be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the

comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to

have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gentility

which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It was likely to be

as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a

connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the

Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached

by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.



No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man was treated

liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became acquainted

with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield, she fully

acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth which could

bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s

happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the home he

offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability, and

improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her,

and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and

occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into

temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable

and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the

world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a

man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.



Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Martins,

was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—The

intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must change

into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and

must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, natural

manner.



Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and saw

her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfaction, as

no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them,

could impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw Mr. Elton,

but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might next fall on

herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest couple engaged of

the three, were the first to be married.



Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the

comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills

were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.



The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared, by

Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage ought

to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to

allow them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was

the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in

approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to

consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a

distant event.



When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were

almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—He began to

think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very promising

step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not

happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage

failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying

himself neglected; and though her understanding almost acquiesced in

the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys, that when once the event were

over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not

proceed.



In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any sudden

illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any wonderful change of his

nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in another

way.—Mrs. Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her

turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the

neighbourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was _housebreaking_ to Mr.

Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his

son-in-law’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm every

night of his life. The strength, resolution, and presence of mind of

the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. While either of

them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.—But Mr. John Knightley

must be in London again by the end of the first week in November.



The result of this distress was, that, with a much more voluntary,

cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope for at the

moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called

on, within a month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to

join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.



The wedding was very much like other weddings, where the parties have

no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton, from the particulars

detailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very

inferior to her own.—“Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a

most pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heard of it.”—But,

in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence,

the predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed the

ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness of the union.



FINIS









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