EMMA, By Jane Austen

Emma, By Jane Austen - - CHAPTER I

2008-02-20T19:17:00.000-08:00

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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

2008-02-20T19:16:00.002-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:16:00.001-08:00

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. Woodhouses 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

2008-02-20T19:15:00.001-08:00

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 your's--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

2008-02-20T19:14:00.002-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:14:00.001-08:00

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 naivete,

"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 naivete 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

2008-02-20T19:13:00.004-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:13:00.003-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:13:00.001-08:00

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 what 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

2008-02-20T19:12:00.003-08:00

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 within side 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 cellery,
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

2008-02-20T19:12:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:11:00.003-08:00

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 tolerable;--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

2008-02-20T19:11:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:10:00.002-08:00

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 teazed, 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

2008-02-20T19:10:00.001-08:00

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 tete-a-tete 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

2008-02-20T19:09:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:08:00.002-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:08:00.001-08:00

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 `aimable,' 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

2008-02-20T19:07:00.002-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:07:00.001-08:00

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 fondling 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 actions 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

2008-02-20T19:06:00.004-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:06:00.003-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:06:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:05:00.003-08:00

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

2008-02-20T19:05:00.001-08:00

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.