Jane Austen Emma
Jane Austen Emma
Jane Austen Emma
Jane Austen
Volume I
Chapter I
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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.”
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“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 wel-
come, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly
from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late din-
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ner, 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 satisfacto-
rily. 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 break-
fast. 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
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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 per-
sons 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 charm-
ingly. 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 af-
ter 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. We-
ston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like
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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. Knight-
ley. “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,” re-
joined 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.”
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“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
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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
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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 accom-
plished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his
wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probabil-
ity 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 re-
turned 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
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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 congratula-
tion which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortu-
nate 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 ceas-
ing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Wood-
house. 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 peo-
ple to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he
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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 ap-
plied 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 influ-
ence 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
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She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s
conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging—not inconve-
niently 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 appear-
ance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had been used
to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement. Encour-
agement 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 unwor-
thy 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 do-
ing 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 oys-
ters, 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 war-
fare. 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 hospi-
tality would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their
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Chapter IV
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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 ad-
mirer, but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be
no serious difficulty, on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly arrange-
ment 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 gentle-
men, 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 smil-
ing 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.”
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“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 com-
pare 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 per-
son 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 recom-
mended. 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
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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, al-
most 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, command-
ing 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, Har-
riet, 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 excel-
lent 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 gentle-
man 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
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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 bat-
tle.”
“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 yes-
terday, 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
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EMMA
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
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Chapter VI
E MMA 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 man-
ners; and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his
admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of creating
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EMMA
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 disposi-
tion 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
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31
EMMA
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 des-
tined, 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
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Chapter VII
T HE VERY DAY of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a fresh oc-
casion 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 sis-
ters 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
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EMMA
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 disap-
pointment.”
“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, con-
templating the letter. For a little while Emma persevered in her silence;
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37
EMMA
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?”
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Chapter VIII
H ARRIET 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.
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EMMA
“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
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a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any infor-
mation. 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
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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. Knight-
ley 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 mis-
chief. 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 some-
body 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
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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
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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 indis-
tinctness 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 consid-
ered 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 resent-
fully 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 oth-
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EMMA
erwise 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 overcom-
ing 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
M R . K NIGHTLEY might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel
with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual
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EMMA
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,
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EMMA
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 .
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.’
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all epithets, the
justest that could be given.
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EMMA
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?
Can it be Neptune?
That is court.
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EMMA
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EMMA
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EMMA
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 under-
stand 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. Mar-
tin’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 beau-
tiful 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
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EMMA
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 dec-
laration 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 con-
scious 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 busi-
ness. 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 sup-
pose, 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
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EMMA
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.
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.”
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EMMA
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 inim-
itable 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
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EMMA
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
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EMMA
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 let-
ter 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
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EMMA
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 de-
pendence 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 lac-
ing 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 com-
fort 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 ques-
tion 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 obliga-
tion 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
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EMMA
Chapter XI
67
EMMA
68
EMMA
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70
EMMA
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 ex-
pectation 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
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EMMA
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 hon-
ourable 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
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EMMA
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 princi-
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EMMA
pally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most com-
municative, 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 equal-
ity 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 en-
joying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daugh-
ter.
“My poor dear Isabella,” said he, fondly taking her hand, and inter-
rupting, 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 dis-
course 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.”
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“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 sur-
prized 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
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Chapter XIII
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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 infec-
tious 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
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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 ap-
probation, 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
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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 daugh-
ter, 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 to-
wards 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 sug-
gestion 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 draw-
ings 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 condi-
tion. 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
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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 be-
ing 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 hap-
pily 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 as-
sented 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
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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
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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 de-
gree 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 imag-
ine 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 jeal-
ous 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
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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 natu-
ral, that while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband,
to whom she owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice to-
wards 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
M R . W OODHOUSE 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
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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 in-
formation of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snow-
ing 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 sur-
prized, 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
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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 ex-
traordinary 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 ex-
amine, 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 im-
mediately 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
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Chapter XVI
T HE 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 develop-
ment 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 er-
ror 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 con-
viction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly;
and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had
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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 Hart-
field, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and that the Eltons
were nobody. The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsid-
erable, 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. El-
ton 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
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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 rav-
ing a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a con-
ceited 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 unper-
ceived) 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 awk-
wardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinu-
ing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and
avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflec-
tions 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 tem-
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porary 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 prin-
cipals, 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 inter-
course 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 per-
plexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her
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Chapter XVII
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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
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Chapter XVIII
M R . F RANK C HURCHILL 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 Ran-
dalls at no distant period.”
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more disap-
pointed, 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 com-
ing 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 Ran-
dalls. 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 look-
ing at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the sight
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of him would have made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills
again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knight-
ley; 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; when-
ever 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
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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 di-
rectly 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
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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 flour-
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Volume II
Chapter I
E MMA AND H ARRIET 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 calcu-
late, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.
The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates oc-
cupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized
apartment, which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cor-
dially and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with
her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up
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her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, al-
most 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 in-
commoded 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—
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most 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
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“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 Camp-
bells 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
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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 re-
gained 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
J ANE 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 consola-
tion, 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
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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 Fair-
fax 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 ac-
cusation 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 consid-
erable 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 particu-
larly graceful; her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin,
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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 opin-
ion. 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 re-
served 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 be-
lieved 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.
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Chapter III
E MMA could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation nor resent-
ment 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 foun-
dation 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 ques-
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“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 them-
selves, 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 High-
bury, 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 ex-
cellent 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
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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 wonder-
ings, Emma said,
“You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to take an inter-
est 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 Wood-
house,” said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.—A Miss Hawkins!—
Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady here-
abouts; not that I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I im-
mediately 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, no-
body 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.”
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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 conversa-
tion 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 twelve-
month might pass without their being thrown together again, with any
necessity, or even any power of speech.
Chapter IV
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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 cer-
tainly 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,
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 Mar-
tin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared, would cure
her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once begun, would be al-
ways 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
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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 sur-
prize 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 discus-
sion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess—all that
had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his af-
fairs, 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 cease-
less 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 pre-
dominated, 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 re-
turn, 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 considera-
tion. 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,
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Chapter V
S MALL 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 deter-
mined 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 under-
stand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had
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seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubt-
ingly, 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 busi-
ness. 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 consola-
tion, 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
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a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as be-
fore. 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 faith-
ful 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 fid-
gets, 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 actu-
ally 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 con-
vinced 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
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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 compla-
cency. 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 situ-
ation, 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 acquain-
tance. 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 propor-
tionably 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 ad-
miration, 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
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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 Wood-
house’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 feel-
ings,” 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 ex-
pected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong posses-
sion 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 object-
ing 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
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Chapter VI
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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 ex-
claimed, “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 him-
self, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s.
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If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove my-
self 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 Camp-
bells 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
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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 agree-
able 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
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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 house-
keeper’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
E MMA’ 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, ex-
travagance, 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;
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he became liable to all these charges. His father only called him a cox-
comb, 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 hith-
erto 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 unfor-
tunate 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 reso-
lution 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
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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 op-
portune. 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 soci-
ety, 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 re-
gretted 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
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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 persuad-
able; 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 go-
ing 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 numer-
ous. 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
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Chapter VIII
F RANK C HURCHILL came back again; and if he kept his father’s din-
ner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston was too
anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any
imperfection which could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with
a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what
he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer, to conceal any
confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent, to improve
his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things
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first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite be-
wildered to think who could possibly have ordered it—but now, they
were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—of
course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane, it seems,
had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said about it.
She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any
reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to
surprize her.”
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Camp-
bell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there
were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and
still listen to Mrs. Cole.
“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has
given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fair-
fax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed
quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where
fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving our-
selves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole,
I really was ashamed to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-
room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls,
who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it;
and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not any
thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest old spinet
in the world, to amuse herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but
yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of
music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping
that some of our good neighbours might be so obliging occasionally to
put it to a better use than we can; and that really is the reason why the
instrument was bought—or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of
it.—We are in great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with
to try it this evening.”
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that
nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs.
Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill.
“Why do you smile?” said she.
“Nay, why do you?”
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the months of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages
would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health,
and I dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,
though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell
you what they are.”
“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability. Mr.
Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer for being
very decided.”
“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?—A water
party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
“He did. I was there—one of the party.”
“Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of course, for
it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been there, I think I should
have made some discoveries.”
“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact,
that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon
caught her.—It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent
shock and alarm was very great and much more durable—indeed I be-
lieve it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again—yet
that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar anxiety to be
observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have
made discoveries.”
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share
in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and
obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table
was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly
right, and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,
“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know
a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it, we shall
soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we
must conclude it to come from the Campbells.”
“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows
it is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first.
She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not
have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that
Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.”
“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your rea-
sonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I
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supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it
only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the
world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more
probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And
now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love.”
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction
seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more, other subjects
took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away; the dessert
succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid
the usual rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright
silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other—
nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and
heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other
ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree
of her own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dig-
nity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the
artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful,
unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of
pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she
sat—and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately
shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others
nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was
enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and
move superior; but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change
feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of
having loved—yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain—by the sur-
render of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the
husband of her friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach
her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much in the
secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and
therefore purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject
was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of conscious-
ness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which
accompanied the name of “my excellent friend Colonel Campbell.”
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested
by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and
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evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had
persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laugh-
ing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two
points) he could with time persuade her to any thing. One of those
points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted
very much to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to be allowed to
travel—but she would not hear of it. This had happened the year before.
Now, he said, he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed
to be good behaviour to his father.
“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short
pause.—“I have been here a week to-morrow—half my time. I never
knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!—And I have hardly begun to
enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!—I
hate the recollection.”
“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day,
out of so few, in having your hair cut.”
“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all. I have no
pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself fit to be seen.”
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found her-
self obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored
as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at
Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
“What is the matter?” said she.
He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe I
have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair in so
odd a way—so very odd a way—that I cannot keep my eyes from her.
I never saw any thing so outree!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy
of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!—I must go and ask her
whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?—Yes, I will—I declare I will—and
you shall see how she takes it;—whether she colours.”
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before
Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady,
as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly
in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.
“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:—“one can get near
every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk
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to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like
yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how
Miss Bates and her niece came here?”
“How?—They were invited, were not they?”
“Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the manner of
their coming?”
“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”
“Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad
it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night, and
cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw
her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could
not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room,
and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may
guess how readily he came into my wishes; and having his approbation,
I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to assure her that the carriage
would be at her service before it took us home; for I thought it would
be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!’—
but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occasion to trouble us, for
Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.’
I was quite surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an attention!—the sort
of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from knowing
his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their
accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not
have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse
for assisting them.”
“Very likely,” said Emma—“nothing more likely. I know no man
more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing—to do any thing
really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a
gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane
Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for
an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix
on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day—for we
arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word
that could betray.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for more
simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do; for while
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Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have
never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more prob-
able it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley
and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company!—What
do you say to it?”
“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs.
Weston, how could you think of such a thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr.
Knightley must not marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out
from Donwell?—Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all
consent to Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely.
I am amazed that you should think of such a thing.”
“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it. I do not
want the match—I do not want to injure dear little Henry—but the idea
has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished
to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of
six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”
“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.—Mr.
Knightley marry!—No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot
adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”
“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you very
well know.”
“But the imprudence of such a match!”
“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”
“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation
than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you,
would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard
for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax—and is always
glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to
match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of the Abbey!—
Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have
him do so mad a thing.”
“Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting inequality of
fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuit-
able.”
“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the
least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?—He
is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and
his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of
his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his
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Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices
gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s
marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it.
It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently
to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a most mortifying change, and
material loss to them all;—a very great deduction from her father’s daily
comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane
Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way
to!—No—Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain
the heir of Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by
her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was
certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not
have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak
of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer
was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate
only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own.
“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage
more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but
you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should
put-to for such a purpose.”
“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he replied;—
“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with such seem-
ing pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.
“This present from the Campbells,” said she—“this pianoforte is
very kindly given.”
“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.—“But they would have done better had they given her
notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced,
and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected
better judgment in Colonel Campbell.”
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr.
Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether
he were entirely free from peculiar attachment—whether there were no
actual preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end
of Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.
“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud—“you
have sung quite enough for one evening—now be quiet.”
Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;—they
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would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for
one more.” And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could
manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength
of the song falls on the second.”
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing
off his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates, who at
that moment passed near—“Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece
sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no
mercy on her.”
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be
grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing.
Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and
Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within
five minutes) the proposal of dancing—originating nobody exactly knew
where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every
thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston,
capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible
waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry
to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her
voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knight-
ley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were
to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something.
There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole—
he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and
he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe;
and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more
than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness
of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
partner. They were a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was
growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her
mother’s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to
begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful,
and have done.
“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to
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her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing
would not have agreed with me, after your’s.”
Chapter IX
E MMA did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit
afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she
might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must
be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted
the Coles—worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left
a name behind her that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were
two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she
had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her
suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly
right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and
his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration,
which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have
held her tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and
there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret
the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily
grieve over the idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s
praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”
“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her’s,
than a lamp is like sunshine.”
“Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think you play
quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Every
body last night said how well you played.”
“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference.
The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”
“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does,
or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr.
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Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a
great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than
execution.”
“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”
“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had
any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.—There
is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well,
you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have
to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether she would get
into any great family. How did you think the Coxes looked?”
“Just as they always do—very vulgar.”
“They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly;“ but it
is nothing of any consequence.”
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of
its producing Mr. Elton.
“They told me—that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”
“Oh!”
“He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to
stay to dinner.”
“Oh!”
“They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not
know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and
stay there again next summer.”
“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox
should be.”
“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by
her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would be very glad
to marry him.”
“Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury.”
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most prudent to
go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible,
and in her present state, would be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was
always very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging
over muslins and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for
amusement.—Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the bus-
iest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox
letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning
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Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies:
Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
“My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run across
to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith.
How do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged
Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”
“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—”
“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully
well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I
am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were
here.—Oh! then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse
will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother
will be so very happy to see her—and now we are such a nice party, she
cannot refuse.—‘Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Wood-
house’s opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’—But, said I, I
shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me.—‘Oh,’
said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished my job;’—For, would
you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is, in the most obliging man-
ner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The
rivet came out, you know, this morning.—So very obliging!—For my
mother had no use of her spectacles—could not put them on. And, by
the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should
indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the
first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning;
first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one
time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweep-
ing. Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here
is the rivet of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked apples
came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil
and obliging to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say
that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have
never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it can-
not be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of
bread, you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and
she really eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be
quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little
she eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But
about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she
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likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,
for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened
to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I have so of-
ten heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the
only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome.
We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excel-
lent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope,
and these ladies will oblige us.”
Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they
did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates
than,
“How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see
you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from
town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very
well—only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.”
“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were
all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.
“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my
mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’
said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind
excessively.’—Which you know shewed him to be so very. . . . In-
deed I must say that, much as I had heard of him before and much as I
had expected, he very far exceeds any thing. . . . I do congratulate you,
Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent
could. . . . ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that
sort excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought
out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be
so very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is nothing
in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-
baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so very. . . .
And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are
very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—only we
do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us
promise to have them done three times—but Miss Woodhouse will be so
good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort
for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley’s
most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there
never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees—I believe
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there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in
her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the other day—for Mr.
Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples, and we
talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked
whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must
be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another supply; for I have a great many
more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity
than usual this year. I will send you some more, before they get good for
nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to ours being gone, I
could not absolutely say that we had a great many left—it was but half
a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could not
at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been
already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost
quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we never had
a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed that I had owned
the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we
had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could.
However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large
basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was
very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and
said every thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old
acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found after-
wards from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of that sort his
master had; he had brought them all—and now his master had not one
left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so
pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William, you know,
thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing; but Mrs. Hodges, he
said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away. She could not
bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this
spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to
say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would be cross sometimes,
and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the
remainder. And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed!
I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for the world!
He would be so very. . . . I wanted to keep it from Jane’s knowledge;
but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware.”
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pur-
sued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.
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“Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray
take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase—rather
darker and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care.
Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot.
Miss Smith, the step at the turning.”
Chapter X
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ston had been delighted before, and was delighted again; Emma joined
her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every proper discrimina-
tion, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill,
with a smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good
deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the
upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and all that party would partic-
ularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very
minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think
so?”
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston
had been speaking to her at the same moment.
“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random guess.
Do not distress her.”
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,
“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure
on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you, and
wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s com-
ing to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to
be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the con-
sequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have
sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend
upon contingencies and conveniences?”
He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,
“Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice of
forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must
be all conjecture.”
“Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes
one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make
this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when
hard at work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold
their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—
Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is done. I
have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,
healed for the present.”
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to es-
cape a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged Miss
Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.
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“If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes we
danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them
as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we
danced no longer; but I would have given worlds—all the worlds one
ever has to give—for another half-hour.”
She played.
“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happy!—
If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played
something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,
and turning to Emma, said,
“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?—Cramer.—
And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one
might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of
Colonel Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no
music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to
have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing
incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being
amused; and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught
the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of con-
sciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple
in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her.—
This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing
very reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.—
Emma took the opportunity of whispering,
“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the
least ashamed of my meaning.”
“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the
idea.”
“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I
have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her. If
she does wrong, she ought to feel it.”
“She is not entirely without it, I think.”
“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin Adair at this
moment—his favourite.”
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, descried
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Chapter XI
I T MAY BE POSSIBLE to do without dancing entirely. Instances have
been known of young people passing many, many months successively,
without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury
accrue either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—when
the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it
must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance
again; and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the
two young people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea;
and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge
of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and ap-
pearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing people again
how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced—
for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane
Fairfax—and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked
aids of vanity—to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in
to see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the dimen-
sions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that
Mr. Weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the
largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s
should be finished there—that the same party should be collected, and
the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. We-
ston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance;
and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning up exactly
who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of
space to every couple.
“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two
Miss Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there will
be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr.
Knightley. Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss
Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and
for five couple there will be plenty of room.”
But soon it came to be on one side,
“But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do not think
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there will.”
On another,
“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while
to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about
it. It will not do to invite five couple. It can be allowable only as the
thought of the moment.”
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and
must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed Mrs. Gilbert
would have danced the other evening, if she had been asked. A word
was put in for a second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming
one family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old
acquaintance who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the
five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in
what possible manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “Might
not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?” It seemed
the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that many of them
wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in
distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on
the score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could
not be persevered in.
“Oh! no,” said he; “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I
could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong. She would catch a
dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs.
Weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild
thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower)
is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not
quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening,
and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the
draught. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
quite the thing!”
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance
of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door was
now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing
only in the room they were in resorted to again; and with such good-
will on Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an
hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was now
endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.
“We were too magnificent,” said he. “We allowed unnecessary room.
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EMMA
“Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have supposed it.
But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear. How-
ever, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it
over—but these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One
cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so
obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what
can be done.”
“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”
“Oh!” interrupted Emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking
every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at
the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be
so near their own stable.”
“So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever
complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could
be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be
trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.”
“I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be un-
der Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole.”
“There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own dear Mrs. We-
ston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry
said, so many years ago, when I had the measles? ‘If Miss Taylor under-
takes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How
often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”
“Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor
little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is, you would
have been very bad, but for Perry’s great attention. He came four times
a day for a week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—which
was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope
whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will send for
Perry.”
“My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,” said
Frank Churchill, “examining the capabilities of the house. I left them
there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping
you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot.
I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to
them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing
satisfactorily without you.”
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people
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EMMA
set off together without delay for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs.
Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and
very happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and he,
finding every thing perfect.
“Emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than I expected. Look! in
places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and
forlorn than any thing I could have imagined.”
“My dear, you are too particular,” said her husband. “What does
all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight. It will be as
clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any thing of it on our
club-nights.”
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “Men never
know when things are dirty or not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought
each to himself, “Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
cares.”
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom’s being built, sup-
pers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the
only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted
as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by
their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper?
Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose; but
it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must
be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was
afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and neither
Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably
crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,
&c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched sugges-
tion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced
an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston
must not speak of it again. She then took another line of expediency,
and looking into the doubtful room, observed,
“I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many, you know.”
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps
through the passage, was calling out,
“You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear. It is a
mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from the stairs.”
“I wish,” said Mrs. Weston, “one could know which arrangement
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our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most gener-
ally pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would
be.”
“Yes, very true,” cried Frank, “very true. You want your neighbours’
opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief
of them—the Coles, for instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon
them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.—And I do not know whether
Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of
the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I
go and invite Miss Bates to join us?”
“Well—if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you
think she will be of any use.”
“You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,” said Emma.
“She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She
will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting
Miss Bates.”
“But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond of
hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you
know.”
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed,
gave it his decided approbation.
“Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the mat-
ter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know a
properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss
Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how
to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.”
“Both sir! Can the old lady?” . . .
“The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a
great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect. Un-
doubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.” And
away he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving
aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered
woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the
evils of it much less than she had supposed before—indeed very trifling;
and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation
at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and
chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves; or were left
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EMMA
as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes.—Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already
written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,
which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to
be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer
character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general
and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and for another
half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms,
some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the
future. The party did not break up without Emma’s being positively
secured for the two first dances by the hero of the evening, nor without
her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, “He has asked her, my
dear. That’s right. I knew he would!”
Chapter XII
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EMMA
to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there
whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him; and that he might
be expected at Hartfield very soon.”
This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast. When once
it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim.
The loss of the ball—the loss of the young man—and all that the young
man might be feeling!—It was too wretched!—Such a delightful evening
as it would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and her partner
the happiest!—“I said it would be so,” was the only consolation.
Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of
Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated; and
as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed; but
they would all be safer at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared; but
if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total
want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going
away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing
himself, it was only to say,
“Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”
“But you will come again,” said Emma. “This will not be your only
visit to Randalls.”
“Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I may be able
to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will be the object of all my
thoughts and cares!—and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring—
but I am afraid—they did not stir last spring—I am afraid it is a custom
gone for ever.”
“Our poor ball must be quite given up.”
“Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the
pleasure at once?—How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!—You told us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Wood-
house, why are you always so right?”
“Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would much
rather have been merry than wise.”
“If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends
on it. Do not forget your engagement.”
Emma looked graciously.
“Such a fortnight as it has been!” he continued; “every day more
precious and more delightful than the day before!—every day making
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EMMA
me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain at
Highbury!”
“As you do us such ample justice now,” said Emma, laughing, “I
will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure
you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long
in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.”
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment,
Emma was convinced that it had been so.
“And you must be off this very morning?”
“Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and
I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will
bring him.”
“Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and
Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s powerful, argumentative mind
might have strengthened yours.”
“Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it better. It
was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was detained
by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was out; and I felt it impossible not to
wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must laugh
at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit,
then”—
He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think you can
hardly be quite without suspicion”—
He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly
knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely
serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in
the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,
“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit,
then”—
He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflect-
ing on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner. She
heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh.
He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward mo-
ments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more determined manner
said,
“It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given
to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm”—
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EMMA
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EMMA
a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others. I shall
have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill; but
Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear
William Larkins now if he likes.”
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could
not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look
would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily,
that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with consid-
erable kindness added,
“You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are
really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!”
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her honest
regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composure
was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from
headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was
charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the languor
of ill-health.
Chapter XIII
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EMMA
thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still they were
to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could
not be very much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed deter-
mination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment
certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her
own feelings.
“I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice,” said
she.—“In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there
any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really
necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not
persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I
should be sorry to be more.”
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his
feelings.
“He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very
much in love indeed!—and when he comes again, if his affection con-
tinue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it.—It would be most
inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not
that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No,
if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been
so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and
language at parting would have been different.—Still, however, I must
be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing
what it now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look
upon him to be quite the sort of man—I do not altogether build upon
his steadiness or constancy.—His feelings are warm, but I can imagine
them rather changeable.—Every consideration of the subject, in short,
makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—I
shall do very well again after a little while—and then, it will be a good
thing over; for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I
shall have been let off easily.”
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it;
and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made
her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had
undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the
particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection,
gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describ-
ing every thing exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with
spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or con-
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EMMA
cern; it was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the
transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places
in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on
to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been
said but for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own name
was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once, and never
without a something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her
taste, or a remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last time
of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of
gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and acknowl-
edge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into
the very lowest vacant corner were these words—“I had not a spare mo-
ment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little
friend. Pray make my excuses and adieus to her.” This, Emma could
not doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being
her friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither
worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recov-
ering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for
coming to Randalls again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material
part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up and returned
to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she
could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without
her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only
grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent
consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words
which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the idea
of Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible?—No.—
Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he
had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm
simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of circumstance and
connexion were in her favour.—For Harriet, it would be advantageous
and delightful indeed.
“I must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“I must not think of it. I
know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things
have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now,
it will be the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested
friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure.”
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, though it
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EMMA
might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil in that quarter
was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s
engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had
entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s disappear-
ance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most irresistible form.—
His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again;
Mr. Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first
letter from Enscombe before “Mr. Elton and his bride” was in every
body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at
the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. El-
ton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately
gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at least, there had
been a great deal of insensibility to other things; but it was now too evi-
dent that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand
against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reason-
ings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give.
Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a
right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work
to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed
to, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened
submissively, and said “it was very true—it was just as Miss Woodhouse
described—it was not worth while to think about them—and she would
not think about them any longer” but no change of subject could avail,
and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons
as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground.
“Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr.
Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me.
You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was
all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.—Deceived
myself, I did very miserably deceive you—and it will be a painful reflec-
tion to me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.”
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager
exclamation. Emma continued,
“I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less, talk
less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather, I would
wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my com-
fort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your
duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions
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EMMA
of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity.
These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very
important—and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act
upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration.
I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes
have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due—or rather what
would be kind by me.”
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of
wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she
really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the
violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough
to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.
“You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life—Want
gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I care for nobody as I do
for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!”
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and
manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so
well, nor valued her affection so highly before.
“There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,” said she after-
wards to herself. “There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and
tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the
clearness of head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is
tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved—
which gives Isabella all her popularity.—I have it not—but I know how
to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm and
all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change you for the
clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the
coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for
a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention no names; but
happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!”
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EMMA
Chapter XIV
M RS . E LTON was first seen at church: but though devotion might be
interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it
must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle
whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty
at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to
make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects; and she
made a point of Harriet’s going with her, that the worst of the business
might be gone through as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room
to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago, to
lace up her boot, without recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts
would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too; but
she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was
of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation
of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to
form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the
nothing-meaning terms of being “elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.”
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.—
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there
was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not unpretty;
but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant. Emma
thought at least it would turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would
not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. It
was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits,
and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The
woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and
the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense
to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor
Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with the woman he
had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman
whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the
right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little
really easy as could be.
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EMMA
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Harriet, when they had quitted the
house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “Well, Miss
Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—Is not she
very charming?”
There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
“Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”
“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”
“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”
“I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love.”
“Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pretty fortune;
and she came in his way.”
“I dare say,” returned Harriet, sighing again, “I dare say she was
very much attached to him.”
“Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to marry the
woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home,
and thought this the best offer she was likely to have.”
“Yes,” said Harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody could
ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now,
Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He
is just as superior as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a
different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid;
I can sit and admire him now without any great misery. To know that
he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!—She does seem a
charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He
called her ‘Augusta.’ How delightful!”
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could
then see more and judge better. From Harriet’s happening not to be at
Hartfield, and her father’s being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had
a quarter of an hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could
composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced
her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with
herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that she meant to
shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in
a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawn from
one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was
ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined her-
self, she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss
Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been
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EMMA
the best of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the
pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of
him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, “My
brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;”—a comparison of Hartfield to Maple
Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty;
and the house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most
favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that
she could see or imagine. “Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was
quite struck by the likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of
the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—Mr.
Elton was appealed to.—“Was not it astonishingly like?—She could re-
ally almost fancy herself at Maple Grove.”
“And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed how very
like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I
really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it
is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so extremely
partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!
(with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly. Every
body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a
home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you
will understand how very delightful it is to meet with any thing at all
like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils
of matrimony.”
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.
“So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house—
the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly like.
The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand
very much in the same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse
of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in
mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. People
who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with any
thing in the same style.”
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that
people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for the
extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth while to attack
an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
“When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will
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to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully.
I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight
to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot
do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always
been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath,
it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to
Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his
fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and the inferiority
of the house too—knowing what I had been accustomed to—of course
he was not wholly without apprehension. When he was speaking of
it in that way, I honestly said that the world I could give up—parties,
balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many re-
sources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. I could do
very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different
thing; but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-
sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought.
I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description. Cer-
tainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did
assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor
were spacious apartments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do not
think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for
nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.’ ”
“We cannot suppose,” said Emma, smiling, “that Mr. Elton would
hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury;
and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than may
be pardoned, in consideration of the motive.”
“No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted
to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little
concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a
musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours.
Will not it be a good plan? If we exert ourselves, I think we shall not be
long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be particularly
desirable for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married
women, you know—there is a sad story against them, in general. They
are but too apt to give up music.”
“But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be no danger,
surely?”
“I should hope not; but really when I look around among my ac-
quaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music—never touches
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the instrument—though she played sweetly. And the same may be said
of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans,
now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumer-
ate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite
angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married
woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an
hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper.”
“But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon be in so regu-
lar a train—”
“Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had
nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s pause, Mrs. Elton chose
another subject.
“We have been calling at Randalls,” said she, “and found them both
at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely.
Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite with
me already, I assure you. And she appears so truly good—there is some-
thing so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one
directly. She was your governess, I think?”
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton
hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.
“Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so
very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman.”
“Mrs. Weston’s manners,” said Emma, “were always particularly
good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the
safest model for any young woman.”
“And who do you think came in while we were there?”
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance—
and how could she possibly guess?
“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!—Was not
it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the other day, I had
never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr.
E.’s, I had a great curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my
caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I
think, a very gentleman-like man.”
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma
could breathe.
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Chapter XV
E MMA was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such
as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she ap-
peared whenever they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar,
ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplish-
ment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with supe-
rior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neigh-
bourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in
society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently
from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He
had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman
to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater
part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit
of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or taking it for
granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed
herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed from
one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse,
who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good
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bells were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh invita-
tions had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—
it all came from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would
Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived—
no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declined it!
“She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refus-
ing this invitation,” was Emma’s conclusion. “She must be under some
sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is
great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.—She is not to be
with the Dixons. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she
consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.”
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject,
before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ven-
tured this apology for Jane.
“We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the
Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being always at home.
Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be
very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we
condemn her taste for what she goes to.”
“You are right, Mrs. Weston,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “Miss
Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs.
Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not
have chosen her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives
attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.”
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance;
and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she
presently replied,
“Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, would
rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I
should have imagined any thing but inviting.”
“I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to
have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eager-
ness in accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may
very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater ap-
pearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in
spite of the very natural wish of a little change.”
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,
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“No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-
making, for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I
said just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course,
without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have
not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body.
You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you
were married.”
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was,
“No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever
take me by surprize.—I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure
you.” And soon afterwards, “Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has
not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “Well,”
said she, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”
“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser
or wittier than his neighbours.”
“In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser
and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles—
what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep
enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do
for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts
her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation
of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s
acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her
a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring
parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”
“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Mr. Knightley—“I do not accuse
her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong—and her
temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-controul; but
it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she
used to be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my
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Chapter XVI
E VERY BODY in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton,
was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed
in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.
“I see how it is,” said she. “I see what a life I am to lead among you.
Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite
the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable.
From Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged
day!—A woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have been
at a loss.”
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-
parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste
for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms,
at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury
card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others, were a
good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon
shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. In the course of the
spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party—in
which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and
unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters engaged for the
evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the
refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner
at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others, or she
should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful
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resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with
the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the El-
tons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of
course—and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be
asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with equal
satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by
Harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “She would rather not be
in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able
to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling un-
comfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would
rather stay at home.” It was precisely what Emma would have wished,
had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with
the fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in her
to give up being in company and stay at home; and she could now in-
vite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane
Fairfax.—Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knight-
ley, she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had
often been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said that
Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody else
paid her.
“This is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which
was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of the same age—
and always knowing her—I ought to have been more her friend.—She
will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew
her greater attention than I have done.”
Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all
happy.—The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet
over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of
some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them,
and staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one day would be the
very day of this party.—His professional engagements did not allow of
his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its
happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner to-
gether as the utmost that his nerves could bear—and here would be a
ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth very much out
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have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth
going through the rain for.”
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
“I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every
dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing
older should make me indifferent about letters.”
“Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could become indif-
ferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse.”
“You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters of friend-
ship.”
“I have often thought them the worst of the two,” replied he coolly.
“Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever
does.”
“Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well—
I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body.
I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to
me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the
difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to
you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; and therefore till I
have outlived all my affections, a post-office, I think, must always have
power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.”
“When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of
years,” said John Knightley, “I meant to imply the change of situation
which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time
will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily
circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend,
you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may
have as many concentrated objects as I have.”
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant
“thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip,
a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention
was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his cus-
tom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his
particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her—and with all
his mildest urbanity, said,
“I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morn-
ing in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.—Young
ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their health and
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Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know
whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected
that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but
in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had
not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than
usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and
the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—but she
abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should
hurt Jane Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the
room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to
the beauty and grace of each.
Chapter XVII
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EMMA
“I not aware!” said Jane, shaking her head; “dear Mrs. Elton, who
can have thought of it as I have done?”
“But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not
know how many candidates there always are for the first situations. I
saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A
cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applica-
tions; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the
first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how de-
sirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would
most wish to see you in.”
“Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsum-
mer,” said Jane. “I must spend some time with them; I am sure they
will want it;—afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself.
But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at
present.”
“Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me
trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be
more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in
a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for
any thing eligible.”
“Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject
to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body
trouble.”
“But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and
June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish
before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as
you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday
occurrence, is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we
must begin inquiring directly.”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; I make
no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.
When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of
being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where in-
quiry would soon produce something—Offices for the sale—not quite
of human flesh—but of human intellect.”
“Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling
at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend
to the abolition.”
“I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,” replied Jane;
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“governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely differ-
ent certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater
misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say
that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should
have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do.”
“Something that would do!” repeated Mrs. Elton. “Aye, that may
suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what a modest creature you
are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any
thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family
not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of
life.”
“You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it
would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think,
would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A
gentleman’s family is all that I should condition for.”
“I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but
I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will
be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to
move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle
you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix
in the family as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know—if you
knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as
well as play;—yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp,
stipulate for what you chose;—and you must and shall be delightfully,
honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any
rest.”
“You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of
such a situation together,” said Jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;
however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted
at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am
obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing
nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I
shall remain where I am, and as I am.”
“And I am quite serious too, I assure you,” replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
“in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to
watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us.”
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till
Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of
object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
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he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all the right of
being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere from home confers,
was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the
inquiries of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and spread
abroad what public news he had heard, was proceeding to a family
communication, which, though principally addressed to Mrs. Weston,
he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body
in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he
had met with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
“Read it, read it,” said he, “it will give you pleasure; only a few
lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking
to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to
every body.
“Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you
say to it?—I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I?—
Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe
me?—In town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she is
as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most
likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all
nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us
again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted.
Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read
it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other
time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance
to the others in a common way.”
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion. Her
looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy, she knew
she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. Her congratulations
were warm and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. She was
a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand
the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too commu-
nicative to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she
did say, and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by
a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheard
already.
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It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, or he might
not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley particularly
delighted. They were the first entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to
be made happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax,
but she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it would
have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs.
Elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject
with her.
Chapter XVIII
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winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her—so they are all to move
southward without loss of time.”
“Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?”
“Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London. a
considerable journey.”
“Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther than
from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston, to peo-
ple of large fortune?—You would be amazed to hear how my brother,
Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me—but
twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again
with four horses.”
“The evil of the distance from Enscombe,” said Mr. Weston, “is, that
Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able to leave the sofa for
a week together. In Frank’s last letter she complained, he said, of being
too weak to get into her conservatory without having both his arm and
his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—but
now she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two
nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies
have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant me
that.”
“No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take the part of my
own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will find me a formidable
antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women—and I assure
you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn,
you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions
to avoid it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have
caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an
excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?”
“Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other fine
lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady in the land
for”—
Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
“Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady, I assure
you. Do not run away with such an idea.”
“Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is as thor-
ough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.”
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so
warmly. It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister
was not a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of
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it;—and she was considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
Weston went on.
“Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may
suspect—but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank,
and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of health
now; but that indeed, by her own account, she has always been. I would
not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs.
Churchill’s illness.”
“If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To Bath, or
to Clifton?” “She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too cold
for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe. She has
now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and
she begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very
retired.”
“Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more re-
tired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all
round it! You seem shut out from every thing—in the most complete
retirement.—And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like
Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have
resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. I always
say a woman cannot have too many resources—and I feel very thankful
that I have so many myself as to be quite independent of society.”
“Frank was here in February for a fortnight.”
“So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition to the society
of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume to call
myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard of there being
such a creature in the world.”
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by, and Mr.
Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,
“My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing
possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have
been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton.”
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
“When Frank left us,” continued he, “it was quite uncertain when
we might see him again, which makes this day’s news doubly welcome.
It has been completely unexpected. That is, I always had a strong per-
suasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something favourable
would turn up—but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were
both dreadfully desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And
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how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him
again?’ and so forth—I always felt that something would happen in
our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton, in the
course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month, they
are sure to mend the next.”
“Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used to say to
a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship, when, because
things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity which
suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was
sure at this rate it would be May before Hymen’s saffron robe would be
put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those gloomy ideas
and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments
about the carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came to me quite in
despair.”
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
seized the opportunity of going on.
“You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs.
Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer
place than Enscombe—in short, to spend in London; so that we have
the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring—
precisely the season of the year which one should have chosen for it:
days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting
one out, and never too hot for exercise. When he was here before, we
made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless
weather; there always is in February, you know, and we could not do
half that we intended. Now will be the time. This will be complete
enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty
of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will be of his
coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more
friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house. I think it
is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most spirit and delight.
I hope you will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a
prodigy. He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a
prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s partiality for him is very great, and, as you may
suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.”
“And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my
opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much in praise
of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the same time it is fair to observe, that I
am one of those who always judge for themselves, and are by no means
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implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so
I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.”
Mr. Weston was musing.
“I hope,” said he presently, “I have not been severe upon poor Mrs.
Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice; but there are
some traits in her character which make it difficult for me to speak of her
with the forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton,
of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with;
and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She
was the instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been slighted as
she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to
his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would
harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but
her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less to
bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody when
he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever since her
being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high
and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.”
“Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite
a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust to
people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood who
are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs they give
themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them
directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there, and
encumbered with many low connexions, but giving themselves immense
airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old established families.
A year and a half is the very utmost that they can have lived at West
Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from
Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. We-
ston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say there is
something direful in the sound: but nothing more is positively known
of the Tupmans, though a good many things I assure you are suspected;
and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to
my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest neigh-
bours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years
a resident at Maple Grove, and whose father had it before him—I be-
lieve, at least—I am almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed
the purchase before his death.”
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston,
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EMMA
having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking
away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr.
Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,
and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed
little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which
nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits
which would have made her prefer being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother. He was
to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—
“Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about
the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at full
length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise
than her’s, and probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic
them.”
“I rather hope to satisfy you both,” said Emma, “for I shall do all in
my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and
happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”
“And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home
again.”
“That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”
“I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or
even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements
continue to increase as much as they have done lately.”
“Increase!”
“Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made a
great difference in your way of life.”
“Difference! No indeed I am not.”
“There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with
company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come
down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!—
When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood
is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter
to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s,
or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone
makes in your goings-on, is very great.”
“Yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is Randalls that does it all.”
“Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
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Volume III
Chapter I
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EMMA
well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. Absence,
with the conviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very
natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories: and he
was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that she read
his comparative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently
fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed
a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her belief on
the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying
away to make other calls in Highbury. “He had seen a group of old
acquaintance in the street as he passed—he had not stopped, he would
not stop for more than a word—but he had the vanity to think they
would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished to
stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.” She had no doubt as to
his being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits, nor his hurrying
away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was rather inclined to think it
implied a dread of her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not
trusting himself with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course of ten
days. He was often hoping, intending to come—but was always pre-
vented. His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his
own account at Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to
come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had
been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That she
was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of it,
at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not doubt, when
he looked back, that she was in a weaker state of health than she had
been half a year ago. He did not believe it to proceed from any thing
that care and medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not
have many years of existence before her; but he could not be prevailed
on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaints were merely
imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could
not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation and
suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her nephew’s letter to Randalls com-
municated a change of plan. They were going to remove immediately to
Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill
of an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the place.
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EMMA
235
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Chapter II
N O MISFORTUNE OCCURRED , again to prevent the ball. The day ap-
proached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watch-
ing, Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Ran-
dalls before dinner, and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The
room at the Crown was to witness it;—but it would be better than a
common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in
his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,
for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort
of the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse
him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s
company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in
good time, the Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he
did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful
evening. They all walked about together, to see that every thing was
as it should be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents
of another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first,
without great surprize. “So unreasonably early!” she was going to ex-
claim; but she presently found that it was a family of old friends, who
were coming, like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston’s
judgment; and they were so very closely followed by another carriage
of cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the same distin-
guishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the
company might soon be collected together for the purpose of prepara-
tory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr.
Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a
man who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little
less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.—
General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he
ought to be.—She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked
about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to
do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various
modes, till other subjects were started, that, though May, a fire in the
evening was still very pleasant.
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EMMA
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the number of
privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates’s
door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be
brought by the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restless-
ness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was
going to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,—
impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. “I think she must be here soon,” said he.
“I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes.”
A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming
back, said,
“I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward.”
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
passed.
“But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!” said Mr. Weston, looking about.
“We thought you were to bring them.”
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now.
Emma longed to know what Frank’s first opinion of Mrs. Elton might
be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her
smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form
an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction
had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody talked of rain.—
“I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said Frank to his father: “Miss
Bates must not be forgotten:” and away he went. Mr. Weston was
following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion
of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,
though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
“A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly
told you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that
I am extremely pleased with him.—You may believe me. I never com-
pliment. I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners
are precisely what I like and approve—so truly the gentleman, without
the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to
puppies—quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple
Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them;
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EMMA
and we used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild
almost to a fault, bore with them much better.”
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was chained; but
when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies
just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. “I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so
extremely expeditious!—I believe we drive faster than any body.—What
a pleasure it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!—I understand you
were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of them.”
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked
into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty
as Mrs. Weston’s to receive them. Her gestures and movements might
be understood by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words,
every body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss
Bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many
minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door
opened she was heard,
“So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do
not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares—Well!—(as
soon as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This
is admirable!—Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting.
Could not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!—Jane, Jane, look!—
did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have
had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room
again. I saw her as I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh!
Mrs. Stokes,’ said I—but I had not time for more.” She was now met by
Mrs. Weston.—“Very well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite
well. Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headache!—
seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must
have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged
to you for the carriage!—excellent time. Jane and I quite ready. Did
not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.—Oh! and
I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs.
Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—But
two such offers in one day!—Never were such neighbours. I said to
my mother, ‘Upon my word, ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is re-
markably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—
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EMMA
for the evenings are not warm—her large new shawl—Mrs. Dixon’s
wedding-present.—So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at
Weymouth, you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were three others,
Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell
rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not wet
your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:—but Mr. Frank
Churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to step upon—I shall
never forget his extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must
tell you my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet
never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature. Does
not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?—Ah!
here’s Miss Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?—
Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!—
Such a transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma
most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss
Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s hair?—You are a
judge.—She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!—
No hairdresser from London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare—
and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a
moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. Richard?—Oh! there
he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young
ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the other day as you
rode through the town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!—and good Mr. Otway,
and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr.
George and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all do?—Quite
well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.—Don’t I hear another
carriage?—Who can this be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon my
word, this is charming to be standing about among such friends! And
such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for
me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,—no
hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing so good!”
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as
Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the dis-
course of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way
behind her.—He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too,
she could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on
her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs.
Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it was,
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EMMA
240
EMMA
ing him to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to
help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.—Mr. Weston
and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though
she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost
enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly
the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified; for though
she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by
the change. Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.—In spite of this
little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see
the respectable length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she
had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.—She was more dis-
turbed by Mr. Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There
he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to
be dancing,—not classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and
whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till
their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—He could not
have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he
had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms
and stooping shoulders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must
draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was not
one among the whole row of young men who could be compared with
him.—He moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to
prove in how gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must
have danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his
eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She
wished he could love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill
better.—He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that
he thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she
did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her
partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That
Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant at-
tentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed
happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom be-
stowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the
very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very record-
able events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually are.
There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.—The two
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EMMA
last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;—
the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been hitherto the
number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was
the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing
Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it
were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and she was
expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room
where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in
front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining
it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.—Emma saw it. She was not
yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had
therefore leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little
she saw it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were
exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but
Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which
just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived
that his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only
listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.—The
kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say,
“Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?” to which his prompt reply was, “Most
readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”
“Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am
no dancer.”
“If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,” said he, “I shall have great plea-
sure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old mar-
ried man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great
pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.”
“Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You are extremely obliging—
and if I were not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over,
Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most
happy to do, at your command—but my dancing days are over.”
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what
surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was
Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.—She looked round
for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and
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EMMA
was arranging himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee
passed between him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared
her face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. Knightley lead-
ing Harriet to the set!—Never had she been more surprized, seldom
more delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,
both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely
good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not
been for the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete en-
joyment and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than
ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of
smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted)
very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife,
though growing very like her;—she spoke some of her feelings, by ob-
serving audibly to her partner,
“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—Very goodna-
tured, I declare.”
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be
heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at
table and taking up her spoon.
“Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your tippet.
Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there
will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—One
door nailed up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must.
Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so
gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said
I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told you. Grand-
mama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, bis-
cuits and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck
in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how
you were amused, and who were your partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall
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not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will
love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was
Mr. Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William
Cox.’ My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would
not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word,
Jane on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little
back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!—
Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train. Quite the queen of the
evening!—Well, here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care
of the two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there
were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were two, and there is
but one. I never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style—Candles
everywhere.—I was telling you of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a
little disappointment.—The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their
way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and
some asparagus brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not think-
ing the asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now there
is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus—so
she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it to
any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who
would be so very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all
amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such elegance and
profusion!—I have seen nothing like it since—Well, where shall we sit?
where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where
I sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?—Well, I
am sure, Mr. Churchill—only it seems too good—but just as you please.
What you direct in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall
we ever recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I
should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I cannot
help beginning.”
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after
supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited
him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his
reprobation of Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of censure.
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,” said he. “Emma,
why is it that they are your enemies?”
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer,
added, “She ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
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be.—To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
that you did want him to marry Harriet.”
“I did,” replied Emma, “and they cannot forgive me.”
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and
he only said,
“I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections.”
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain spirit ever
tell me I am wrong?”
“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one leads you
wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.”
“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton.
There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did
not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was
through a series of strange blunders!”
“And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl—infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such
a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I ex-
pected.”
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted by the bustle
of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
“Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you
all doing?—Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every
body is lazy! Every body is asleep!”
“I am ready,” said Emma, “whenever I am wanted.”
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, “With you, if you will ask
me.”
“Will you?” said he, offering his hand.
“Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know
we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all im-
proper.”
“Brother and sister! no, indeed.”
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Chapter III
T HIS LITTLE EXPLANATION with Mr. Knightley gave Emma consid-
erable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball,
which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—She was
extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respect-
ing the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were
so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour,
was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for a
few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward
to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.—From Har-
riet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the
ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly
opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was not the supe-
rior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could
harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious cour-
tesy. She depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the
discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther requisite.—Harriet ra-
tional, Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not
wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before
her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told her
that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at Hartfield, as
he was to be at home by the middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put
them all to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits fresh-
ened up for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grand-
papa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered
whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank Churchill,
with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment sufficed
to convince her that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet
looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.—The iron
gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;—they were
all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair
fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be an-
swered, and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting,
but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma
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their own portion. He had left them completely frightened; and Har-
riet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength
enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits were quite overcome. It
was his idea to bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his communication and
of Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—He
dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him
not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her
safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people
in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful
blessings that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young
woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting
certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma
thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a
mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance
together, and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances
had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—
How much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with specula-
tion and foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation
as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever oc-
curred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory; no
rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very
person, and at the very hour, when the other very person was chancing
to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And
knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each at this period,
it struck her the more. He was wishing to get the better of his attach-
ment to herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It
seemed as if every thing united to promise the most interesting conse-
quences. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly
recommending each to the other.
In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had with him,
while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her ter-
ror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized and clung to his arm, with a
sensibility amused and delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own
account had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abom-
inable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every thing was
to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. She
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EMMA
would not stir a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of inter-
ference. There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It
was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account proceed.
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge
of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion:
but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half an
hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to engage
those who talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and ser-
vants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful news. The last
night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as
he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without
their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery again. It was some
comfort to him that many inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse
(for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as
Miss Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the
pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent—
which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and Harriet
not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with. She had an un-
happy state of health in general for the child of such a man, for she
hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses
for her, she could make no figure in a message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took them-
selves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have walked
again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled
soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—
in her imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John were
still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still
tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightest particular from
the original recital.
Chapter IV
A VERY FEW DAYS HAD PASSED after this adventure, when Harriet came
one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting
down and hesitating, thus began:
“Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have something that I
should like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then, you
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what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
times we ever met in it!—It was but a very few days before I had my
sore throat—just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came—I think
the very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his finger with
your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—But, as
you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply
him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal
too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what
was left, before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I
could not help making a treasure of it—so I put it by never to be used,
and looked at it now and then as a great treat.”
“My dearest Harriet!” cried Emma, putting her hand before her
face, and jumping up, “you make me more ashamed of myself than I
can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your
saving this relic—I knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cut-
ting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had
none about me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while
in my pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a
continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)—go
on—what else?”
“And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never sus-
pected it, you did it so naturally.”
“And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!”
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided be-
tween wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, “Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
never was equal to this.”
“Here,” resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, “here is some-
thing still more valuable, I mean that has been more valuable, because
this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never
did.”
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end
of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
“This was really his,” said Harriet.—“Do not you remember one
morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning—I forget ex-
actly the day—but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before
that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it
was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something
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a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, “I shall
never marry.”
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,
“Never marry!—This is a new resolution.”
“It is one that I shall never change, however.”
After another short hesitation, “I hope it does not proceed from—I
hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?”
“Mr. Elton indeed!” cried Harriet indignantly.—“Oh! no”—and
Emma could just catch the words, “so superior to Mr. Elton!”
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed
no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—
Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps
if she were totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to
hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been,
such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was per-
fectly resolved.—She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know
at once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always
best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on
any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the
judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.—She was decided,
and thus spoke—
“Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly
your superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?”
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to
suppose—Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a pleasure to me to admire
him at a distance—and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest
of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially.”
“I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered
you was enough to warm your heart.”
“Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—The very rec-
ollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—when I saw him coming—
his noble look—and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In one
moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!”
“It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—Yes, hon-
ourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.—But that it will be
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Chapter V
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EMMA
and indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were devot-
ing him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr.
Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane
Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms of intelli-
gence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admiration
on his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself
to think entirely void of meaning, however he might wish to escape any
of Emma’s errors of imagination. She was not present when the suspi-
cion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the
Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fair-
fax, which, from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat
out of place. When he was again in their company, he could not help
remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which,
unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
“Myself creating what I saw,”
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of
private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill
and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend
his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk; he
joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like
themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather
threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and
her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united; and, on reaching
Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that
would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink
tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a
pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she
also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging
invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horse-
back. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
“By the bye,” said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, “what
became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, “I did not know that he
ever had any such plan.”
“Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months
ago.”
“Me! impossible!”
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but it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of
about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a
carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because
she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember grandmama’s
telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking
to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry
was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed I do not know who
is not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had no ob-
jection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and,
from that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At
the same time, I will not positively answer for my having never dropt
a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am
aware. I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then
I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I
wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in
the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs.
Perry’s coming.—Extraordinary dream, indeed!”
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had preceded Miss
Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill’s face, where he
thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involun-
tarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her
shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at
the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the
determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her intently—
in vain, however, if it were so—Jane passed between them into the hall,
and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream
must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the
rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced
at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to
place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized
Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been
crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.
“Miss Woodhouse,” said Frank Churchill, after examining a table
behind him, which he could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken
away their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where
is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated
rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those
letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”
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EMMA
Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the
table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so
much disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming
words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled. The
quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,
who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr.
Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied
in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the “poor
little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter
near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight
glance round the table, and applied herself to it. Frank was next to
Emma, Jane opposite to them—and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see
them all; and it was his object to see as much as he could, with as lit-
tle apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint
smile pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the oth-
ers, and buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead
of looking just across, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after
every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to
work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The
word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a
blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensi-
ble. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; but how it could all be,
was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his
favourite could have been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some
decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to
meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry
and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on
Frank Churchill’s part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great
alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He
saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look
sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it
highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it proper
to appear to censure; for she said, “Nonsense! for shame!” He heard
Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane, “I will give it
to her—shall I?”—and as clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager
laughing warmth. “No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.”
It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love
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EMMA
Chapter VI
A FTER BEING LONG FED with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and
Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortifi-
cation of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No
such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at
present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again restricted
to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’ coming had
been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health
seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.
Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might eventually be as
much increased by the arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours
was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great
deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations
must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So
she thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her that ev-
ery thing need not be put off. Why should not they explore to Box
Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could go there again
with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill.
That there was to be such a party had been long generally known: it had
even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she
wished to see what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and
Mr. Weston had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither.
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them,
and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely
superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking,
and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
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This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could
not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing from Mr.
Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and
sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go together;
and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be,
if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was nothing but her
very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be
perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it could not
be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his
wife; and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrange-
ment which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement
which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said
to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbear-
ance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity
in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.
“I am glad you approve of what I have done,” said he very com-
fortably. “But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing
without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party
secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out.”
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as
to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every
thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days,
before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were
inadequate to such an attack.
“Is not this most vexations, Knightley?” she cried.—“And such
weather for exploring!—These delays and disappointments are quite
odious. What are we to do?—The year will wear away at this rate,
and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a
delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.”
“You had better explore to Donwell,” replied Mr. Knightley. “That
may be done without horses. Come, and eat my strawberries. They are
ripening fast.”
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged to proceed
so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “Oh! I should
like it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell
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EMMA
was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the in-
vitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been
enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.
She promised him again and again to come—much oftener than he
doubted—and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such
a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.
“You may depend upon me,” said she. “I certainly will come. Name
your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax?”
“I cannot name a day,” said he, “till I have spoken to some others
whom I would wish to meet you.”
“Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I am Lady
Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me.”
“I hope you will bring Elton,” said he: “but I will not trouble you
to give any other invitations.”
“Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you need not be
afraid of delegating power to me. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.
Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests.”
“No,”—he calmly replied,—“there is but one married woman in
the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to
Donwell, and that one is—”
“—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,” interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather morti-
fied.
“No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will manage such
matters myself.”
“Ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried, satisfied to have no one
preferred to herself.—“You are a humourist, and may say what you
like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me—Jane and her
aunt.—The rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the
Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.”
“You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call on
Miss Bates in my way home.”
“That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as you like. It
is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing. I
shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on
my arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can
be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to
be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk about your
gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—
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and whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of doors—a
table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing as natural and simple
as possible. Is not that your idea?”
“Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have
the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of
gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best
observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawber-
ries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house.”
“Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And, by the
bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?—
Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to
inspect anything—”
“I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.”
“Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is ex-
tremely clever.”
“I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever, and would
spurn any body’s assistance.”
“I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come on
donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. I
really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I
conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many
resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and
very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in winter
there is dirt.”
“You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell
Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey,
however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish
every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.”
“That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.—Yes,
believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the
whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me.”
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade.
He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the
party; and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors
to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under
the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
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grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with
the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the
respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, charac-
teristic situation, low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching down
to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with all the old
neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its abundance of timber in
rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted
up.—The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, cover-
ing a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfort-
able, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what it ought to
be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in
blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John Knightley had;
but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them
neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These
were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it
was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry-
beds.—The whole party were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill,
who was expected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all
her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very
ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking—strawberries,
and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken of.—“The best
fruit in England—every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These
the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—
the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning decidedly the best
time—never tired—every sort good—hautboy infinitely superior—no
comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili
preferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
London—abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cultivation—beds
when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactly different—no general
rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—
only too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—currants more
refreshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the stooping—
glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—must go and sit
in the shade.”
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted only once
by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law,
to inquire if he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—She had some
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oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled;
and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and
Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley
and Harriet!—It was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—
There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion,
and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant
conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been
sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but
now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages
of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard
in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined them
at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in looking
around. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture,
etc. and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, “These are my
own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects, without being
suspected of introducing Robert Martin.”—She did not suspect him. It
was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of
Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the walk.—The shade
was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in and eat;—and
they were all seated and busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come.
Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in vain. His father would not own
himself uneasy, and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured
of wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed
himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. “His aunt was
so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—Mrs.
Churchill’s state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable
to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most
reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to be-
lieve, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he
was prevented coming.—Emma looked at Harriet while the point was
under consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to
see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get
as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at
any rate, have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr.
Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part
of the gardens, where no damps from the river were imagined even by
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EMMA
him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that
Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse’s en-
tertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,
shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been
prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning; and the kind-
ness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well
amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him, and now he
would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate in having no other resem-
blance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for
he was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second looking
over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of
a few moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of
the house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming
quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.—Little expect-
ing to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first; but Miss
Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.
“Will you be so kind,” said she, “when I am missed, as to say that I
am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My aunt is not aware how
late it is, nor how long we have been absent—but I am sure we shall be
wanted, and I am determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about
it to any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are
gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all come in I
shall not be missed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to
say that I am gone?”
“Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to High-
bury alone?”
“Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at home in
twenty minutes.”
“But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my
father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the carriage. It can be round
in five minutes.”
“Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would rather
walk.—And for me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, who may so soon
have to guard others!”
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied,
“That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must
order the carriage. The heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued
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EMMA
already.”
“I am,”—she answered—“I am fatigued; but it is not the sort
of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss Woodhouse, we all
know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess, are
exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me
have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.”
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and en-
tering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately,
and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look
was grateful—and her parting words, “Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the com-
fort of being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burst from an overcharged
heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be prac-
tised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.
“Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said Emma, as she turned
back into the hall again. “I do pity you. And the more sensibility you
betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.”
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him, she
had forgotten to think of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs.
Weston would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; they were right
who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a
temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted
some hours—and he had quite given up every thought of coming, till
very late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have, and how
late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come
at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing like it—
almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he
could bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—and he
sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of
Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very deplorable.
“You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said Emma.
“As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be
spared—but such a point had been made of my coming! You will all
be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up. I met one as I
came—Madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank
Churchill’s state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of be-
ing out of humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot.
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EMMA
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drink-
ing were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended
his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of every thing in
the dining-room—and she humanely pointed out the door.
“No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make
him hotter.” In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour;
and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma re-
turned all her attention to her father, saying in secret—
“I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like
a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet’s sweet
easy temper will not mind it.”
He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and
came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners,
like himself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late.
He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and,
at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking
over views in Swisserland.
“As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,” said he. “I shall
never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my
sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my
poem. I shall do something to expose myself.”
“That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will never
go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave
England.”
“They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed
for her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I
assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning, that I shall
soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a
change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes
may fancy—I am sick of England—and would leave it to-morrow, if I
could.”
“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a
few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?”
“I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken. I do
not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in
every thing material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.”
“You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came.
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another
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EMMA
slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water, will make
you nearly on a par with the rest of us.”
“No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure.”
“We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us. It is not
Swisserland, but it will be something for a young man so much in want
of a change. You will stay, and go with us?”
“No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening.”
“But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning.”
“No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross.”
“Then pray stay at Richmond.”
“But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you
all there without me.”
“These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Chuse
your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more.”
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon col-
lected. With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill;
others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress
and disturbance on Miss Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That
it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a
short final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted. Frank
Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself increased so much, that
his last words to Emma were,
“Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.
Chapter VII
T HEY HAD A VERY FINE DAY for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were
in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating
safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, with
the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with
Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got
there. Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and ev-
ery body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but in the general
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amount of the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want
of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They sepa-
rated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley
took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged
to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them har-
monise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never
materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness
to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole
hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation,
between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold
collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing—looked
without seeing—admired without intelligence—listened without know-
ing what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To
amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—
and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and
easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission
to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating
period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation,
meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it
must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation
could very well describe. “Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
flirted together excessively.” They were laying themselves open to that
very phrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one
lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless
from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she
had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though
she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friend-
ship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not win-
ning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.
“How much I am obliged to you,” said he, “for telling me to come
to-day!—If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the
happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again.”
“Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except
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EMMA
that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend
than you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be com-
manded to come.”
“Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me.”
“It is hotter to-day.”
“Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.”
“You are comfortable because you are under command.”
“Your command?—Yes.”
“Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You
had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from
your own management; but to-day you are got back again—and as I
cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your
own command rather than mine.”
“It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without
a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can be
always with me. You are always with me.”
“Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influence could
not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humour
before.”
“Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen
you first in February.”
“Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)—
nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking
nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people.”
“I say nothing of which I am ashamed,” replied he, with lively impu-
dence. “I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if
they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking
on the other. I saw you first in February.” And then whispering—“Our
companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them?
Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am or-
dered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that
she desires to know what you are all thinking of?”
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a
great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse’s presid-
ing; Mr. Knightley’s answer was the most distinct.
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are
all thinking of?”
“Oh! no, no”—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—
“Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand
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EMMA
the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather than what you are
all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps,
(glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be
afraid of knowing.”
“It is a sort of thing,” cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, “which I
should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. Though,
perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party—I never was in any circle—
exploring parties—young ladies—married women—”
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured, in
reply,
“Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite unheard
of—but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke. Every
body knows what is due to you.”
“It will not do,” whispered Frank to Emma; “they are most of them
affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen—
I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of
knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here
are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very
entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either
one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two
things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she en-
gages to laugh heartily at them all.”
“Oh! very well,” exclaimed Miss Bates, “then I need not be uneasy.
‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I
shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth,
shan’t I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on
every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?”
Emma could not resist.
“Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will
be limited as to number—only three at once.”
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not
anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.
“Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr.
Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”
“I like your plan,” cried Mr. Weston. “Agreed, agreed. I will do my
best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?”
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EMMA
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EMMA
for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must
be so irksome.”
“Oh!” cried Emma, “I know there is not a better creature in the
world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are
most unfortunately blended in her.”
“They are blended,” said he, “I acknowledge; and, were she prosper-
ous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous
over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harm-
less absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—but, Emma, con-
sider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from
the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must proba-
bly sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was
badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom
she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour,
to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment,
laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before oth-
ers, many of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your
treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far
from pleasant to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I
can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel,
and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than
you can do now.”
While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was
ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He
had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and
her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against her-
self, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak;
and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—then
reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledg-
ment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and
hand eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned
away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but
in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half
way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was vexed be-
yond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could
conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any cir-
cumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of this
representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could
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EMMA
she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have ex-
posed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! And how suffer
him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence,
of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed but
to feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it was not
necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits
herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears
running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at
any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.
Chapter VIII
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EMMA
headache she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel
any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look
at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have se-
cured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming to you—she is
not able—she is gone into her own room—I want her to lie down upon
the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’
but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But, now that
she has written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be
extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kind-
ness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door—I was quite
ashamed—but somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened
that we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we
did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘de-
pend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘it
must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.’ But then
Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss Woodhouse:
I am sure you will like to see her.’—‘I can see nobody,’ said she; and
up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you
waiting—and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go,
my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the
bed.’ ”
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long grow-
ing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but
pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of
the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on
seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear
to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—
sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected from Miss
Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss
Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. “It must be a severe trial
to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Camp-
bell’s return.”
“So very kind!” replied Miss Bates. “But you are always kind.”
There was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her
dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of—
“Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?”
“To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have
the charge of her three little girls—delightful children. Impossible that
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enjoyed it. However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and
feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.”
“Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?”
“I dare say she had.”
“Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all
her friends—but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that
is possible—I mean, as to the character and manners of the family.”
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing
in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings and
Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and
elegant, in all Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most de-
lightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—and
as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little Bragges, there
are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with
such regard and kindness!—It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of
pleasure.—And her salary!—I really cannot venture to name her salary
to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums,
would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person
like Jane.”
“Ah! madam,” cried Emma, “if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount of
what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly
earned.”
“You are so noble in your ideas!”
“And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?”
“Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. Within a fort-
night. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not
know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of her thoughts, and
say, Come ma’am, do not let us think about it any more.”
“Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel and
Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their
return?”
“Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such a situation
as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished
when she first told me what she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and
when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon
it! It was before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because we
were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea, because I remember
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‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must part. You will have no business
here.—Let it stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel
Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me;
he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—And to this day, I do believe,
she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remem-
brance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little
pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long
enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to
say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.
Chapter IX
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her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry
situation, and that her health will be taken good care of. It ought to be
a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me. You
know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be
induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”
The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every
thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls to an-
nounce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew had had no
particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above
six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different na-
ture from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried her off
after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a degree of
gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the
surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she
would be buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to
folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to be dis-
agreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs.
Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spo-
ken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justi-
fied. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event
acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of imaginary
complaints.
“Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain would try
the temper. It was a sad event—a great shock—with all her faults, what
would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be
dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.”—Even Mr. We-
ston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, “Ah! poor woman,
who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning should be
as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over
her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady.
How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It
was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.
Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them both
with awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on
how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed.
She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to
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plaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry
was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she
was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it.
Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but ob-
serve, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confined always to one
room;—he could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though
his very old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion
for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be
questioned; they were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that
Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened
with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked
around eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her—be it
only an hour or two—from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene,
and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her
good; and the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most
feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the
carriage at any hour that Jane would name—mentioning that she had
Mr. Perry’s decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.
The answer was only in this short note:
“Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any
exercise.”
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but
it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality
shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might
best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the
answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates’s, in
the hope that Jane would be induced to join her—but it would not do;—
Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with
her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—
and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in vain. Miss
Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was quite unpersuad-
able; the mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma
wished she could have seen her, and tried her own powers; but, almost
before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had
promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. “Indeed,
the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body—any
body at all—Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied—and Mrs. Cole
had made such a point—and Mrs. Perry had said so much—but, except
them, Jane would really see nobody.”
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Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Per-
rys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere; neither
could she feel any right of preference herself—she submitted, therefore,
and only questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet,
which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates
was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any
thing:—Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they
could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was
distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an ex-
amination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In
half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but “dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent
back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she insisted on
her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wan-
dering about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the
afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being
unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in
the carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—
that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry,
very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more
pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action,
and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so lit-
tle credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but
she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and
of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy
to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen
into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to
reprove.
Chapter X
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door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice,
sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
“Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?—Do, if it be
possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you.”
“Is she unwell?”
“No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ordered
the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you alone, and that you
know—(nodding towards her father)—Humph!—Can you come?”
“Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse
what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?—Is she really
not ill?”
“Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will know it all
in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!”
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Some-
thing really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend
was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her fa-
ther, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon
out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls.
“Now,”—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep
gates,—“now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened.”
“No, no,”—he gravely replied.—“Don’t ask me. I promised my wife
to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not
be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon.”
“Break it to me,” cried Emma, standing still with terror.—“Good
God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has happened in
Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this
moment what it is.”
“No, indeed you are mistaken.”—
“Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many of my dear-
est friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?—I charge
you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment.”
“Upon my word, Emma.”—
“Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon your hon-
our, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!—What
can be to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”
“Upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. It is not
in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of
Knightley.”
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
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allow the full use even of the time he could stay—but that there had
been misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandings might
very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”
“Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. Much,
much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I cannot say how it has
sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!—None of
that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that
disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every trans-
action of his life.”
“Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been
wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer for his
having many, very many, good qualities; and—”
“Good God!” cried Emma, not attending to her.—“Mrs. Smallridge,
too! Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he
mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself—to
suffer her even to think of such a measure!”
“He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit
him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him—or
at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.—Till yesterday,
I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him,
I do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the
discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers, which
determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw
himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state
of concealment that had been carrying on so long.”
Emma began to listen better.
“I am to hear from him soon,” continued Mrs. Weston. “He told me
at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now.
Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations.
It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are not
to be understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in a hurry
to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him; and now
that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely
anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They
must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secresy and
concealment.”
“His sufferings,” replied Emma dryly, “do not appear to have done
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him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?”
“Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a
difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family!
While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been
a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest in
the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite
to what she would have required. What a blessing it is, when undue
influence does not survive the grave!—He gave his consent with very
little persuasion.”
“Ah!” thought Emma, “he would have done as much for Harriet.”
“This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this
morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, I fancy, some time—
and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get back to his
uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell
you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—He was very
much agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear
quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.—
In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so
very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—and there was
every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”
“And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with
such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them
know of the engagement?”
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.
“None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no
being in the world but their two selves.”
“Well,” said Emma, “I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled
to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a
very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of
hypocrisy and deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—To come among us
with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret
to judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, com-
pletely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and
honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying
round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that
were never meant for both to hear.—They must take the consequence, if
they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!”
“I am quite easy on that head,” replied Mrs. Weston. “I am very
sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might
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Chapter XI
“H ARRIET, poor Harriet!”—Those were the words; in them lay the tor-
menting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved
very ill by herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much his
behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with him. It was the
scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave the
deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe
of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken prophet-
ically, when he once said, “Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet
Smith.”—She was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.—It
was true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in the for-
mer, with being the sole and original author of the mischief; with having
suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered Harriet’s
imagination; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and prefer-
ence of Frank Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the
subject; but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she
might have repressed. She might have prevented the indulgence and in-
crease of such sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And
now she was very conscious that she ought to have prevented them.—
She felt that she had been risking her friend’s happiness on most insuf-
ficient grounds. Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet,
that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were
five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.—“But, with
common sense,” she added, “I am afraid I have had little to do.”
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been
angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—As for
Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings from any present
solicitude on her account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need
no longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose ill-health
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therefore, I should not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but
he said you knew it.”
“What did Mr. Weston tell you?”—said Emma, still perplexed.
“Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank
Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately engaged
to one another this long while. How very odd!”
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd,
that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared
absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at
her, quite unable to speak.
“Had you any idea,” cried Harriet, “of his being in love with her?—
You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she spoke) who can see into
every body’s heart; but nobody else—”
“Upon my word,” said Emma, “I begin to doubt my having any
such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined
him attached to another woman at the very time that I was—tacitly,
if not openly—encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?—I
never had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.”
“Me!” cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. “Why should you
caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill.”
“I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied
Emma, smiling; “but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—
and not very distant either—when you gave me reason to understand
that you did care about him?”
“Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so
mistake me?” turning away distressed.
“Harriet!” cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—“What do you
mean?—Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mistake you!—Am I to
suppose then?—”
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; and she sat
down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned
from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak, it
was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma’s.
“I should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could
have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him—but
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ity; that was the service which made me begin to feel how superior he
was to every other being upon earth.”
“Good God!” cried Emma, “this has been a most unfortunate—
most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?”
“You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood
me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been, if
the other had been the person; and now—it is possible—”
She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
“I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should
feel a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body. You
must think one five hundred million times more above me than the other.
But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strange as it may
appear—. But you know they were your own words, that more wonder-
ful things had happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place
than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if
such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—and if I should be
so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if Mr. Knightley should really—
if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you
will not set yourself against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But
you are too good for that, I am sure.”
Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round
to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,
“Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your affection?”
“Yes,” replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—“I must say that
I have.”
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently medi-
tating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were suf-
ficient for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like
hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched—
she admitted—she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much
worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than with
Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s
having some hope of a return? It darted through her, with the speed of
an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the
same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had never
blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting by Harriet!
How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had
been her conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It
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struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad
name in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however, in
spite of all these demerits—some concern for her own appearance, and
a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of com-
passion to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but
justice required that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness
now,) gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness,
with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed, it was fit
that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should be enquired into; and
Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had
been so voluntarily formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted
by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—Rousing from
reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to Harriet
again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as
to the subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane
Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—Neither of them thought but of
Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very
glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a
judge, and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invi-
tation, to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were bet-
ter concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice was not
unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a devel-
opment of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of
sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.—She listened with much
inward suffering, but with great outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—
Methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be
expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness
and tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—especially
with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory brought
in favour of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
those two decisive dances.—Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at
least from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of
him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more
than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite a different
manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she
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had been more and more aware of it. When they had been all walking
together, he had so often come and walked by her, and talked so very
delightfully!—He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma
knew it to have been very much the case. She had often observed the
change, to almost the same extent.—Harriet repeated expressions of
approbation and praise from him—and Emma felt them to be in the
closest agreement with what she had known of his opinion of Harriet.
He praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple,
honest, generous, feelings.—She knew that he saw such recommenda-
tions in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than once.—Much
that lived in Harriet’s memory, many little particulars of the notice she
had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair to an-
other, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed,
because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half
an hour’s relation, and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen
them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two
latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Har-
riet, were not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.—The
first, was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at
Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came,
and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from the
rest to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular
way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—
(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to be almost
asking her, whether her affections were engaged.—But as soon as she
(Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject,
and began talking about farming:—The second, was his having sat talk-
ing with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from her visit,
the very last morning of his being at Hartfield—though, when he first
came in, he had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his having
told her, during their conversation, that though he must go to London,
it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which
was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. The
superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one article
marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after
a little reflection, venture the following question. “Might he not?—Is
not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought, into the state of
your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin—he might have Mr.
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EMMA
Martin’s interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
“Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr. Martin. I
hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be suspected
of it.”
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear Miss
Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.
“I never should have presumed to think of it at first,” said she, “but
for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let his behaviour
be the rule of mine—and so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may
deserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
very wonderful.”
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings,
made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma’s side, to enable her to say
on reply,
“Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is the last
man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of
his feeling for her more than he really does.”
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satis-
factory; and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which
at that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
father’s footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was too
much agitated to encounter him. “She could not compose herself—Mr.
Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through an-
other door—and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous
burst of Emma’s feelings: “Oh God! that I had never seen her!”
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough for
her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the confusion of all that had
rushed on her within the last few hours. Every moment had brought
a fresh surprize; and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to
her.—How to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions
she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The blun-
ders, the blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked
about, she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place,
every posture, she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she
had been imposed on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she
had been imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she
was wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of
wretchedness.
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how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the
sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification
and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.—
Could it be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from
impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abili-
ties to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for one,
perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl who would seek
him?—Was it new for any thing in this world to be unequal, inconsis-
tent, incongruous—or for chance and circumstance (as second causes)
to direct the human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where
she ought, and where he had told her she ought!—Had she not, with a
folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying the un-
exceptionable young man who would have made her happy and re-
spectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong—all would
have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her
thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare to fancy herself the
chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!—But Harriet was less
humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.—Her inferiority, whether of
mind or situation, seemed little felt.—She had seemed more sensible of
Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr.
Knightley’s.—Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been
at pains to give Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who
but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible, and
that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—If Harriet,
from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.
Chapter XII
T ILL NOW that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never
known how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr.
Knightley, first in interest and affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and
feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly important it had
been.—Long, very long, she felt she had been first; for, having no fe-
male connexions of his own, there had been only Isabella whose claims
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EMMA
could be compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how
far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself been first with him
for many years past. She had not deserved it; she had often been neg-
ligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,
insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would
not acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own—but still,
from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he
had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to
improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no other creature
had at all shared. In spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him;
might she not say, very dear?—When the suggestions of hope, however,
which must follow here, presented themselves, she could not presume to
indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being
peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could
not. She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attach-
ment to her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.—
How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly,
how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too
strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issue from any feel-
ing softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.—She had no
hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort
of affection for herself which was now in question; but there was a hope
(at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that Harriet might have
deceived herself, and be overrating his regard for her.—Wish it she must,
for his sake—be the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining
single all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never mar-
rying at all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—Let him but
continue the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr.
Knightley to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their
precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace would
be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would not do for her. It would be
incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt
for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She would not
marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed; and
she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at least
be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.—She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly as she had
hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know
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EMMA
how to admit that she could be blinded here.—He was expected back
every day. The power of observation would be soon given—frightfully
soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course. In the mean-
while, she resolved against seeing Harriet.—It would do neither of them
good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She
was resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet
had no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk would be
only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to
beg that she would not, at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it
to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one topic
had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to
pass before they met again, except in the company of others—she ob-
jected only to a tete-a-tete—they might be able to act as if they had for-
gotten the conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and approved,
and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma’s
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them, sleep-
ing or waking, the last twenty-four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been
calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way
home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to
relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and gone through
his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having
then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned
with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than
a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the encum-
brance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while her
friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit in a good deal
of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at
present, to be allowed merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to de-
fer this ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill
could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known; as, consid-
ering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paid without
leading to reports:—but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was ex-
tremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family,
and did not conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it
were, that it would be of any consequence; for “such things,” he ob-
served, “always got about.” Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston
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EMMA
had very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—and very
great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady. She had
hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action had shewn
how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her daughter—
who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet
almost an affecting, scene. They were both so truly respectable in their
happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane;
so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly
feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s recent illness had offered
a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn
back and declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the
course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, over-
come so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse on
the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence
in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she
was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily
open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a
good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.
Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief
to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so
long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the
subject.
“On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment
of so many months,” continued Mrs. Weston, “she was energetic. This
was one of her expressions. ‘I will not say, that since I entered into
the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say,
that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’—and the
quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at
my heart.”
“Poor girl!” said Emma. “She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?”
“Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed
to blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of per-
petual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that
misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation.
I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of
right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kind-
ness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to
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be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she continued, ‘that I was taught wrong.
Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends
who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure
you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to
give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.’ ”
“Poor girl!” said Emma again. “She loves him then excessively, I
suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be
led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her
judgment.”
“Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him.”
“I am afraid,” returned Emma, sighing, “that I must often have con-
tributed to make her unhappy.”
“On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she prob-
ably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the mis-
understandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural
consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was that
of making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss,
had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and
irritable to a degree that must have been—that had been—hard for him
to bear. ‘I did not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to
have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that
gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under any other circum-
stances, would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, as
they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of the great
kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which
shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever I had an
opportunity, to thank you—I could not thank you too much—for every
wish and every endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you
had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.”
“If I did not know her to be happy now,” said Emma, seriously,
“which, in spite of every little drawback from her scrupulous conscience,
she must be, I could not bear these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if
there were an account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done
Miss Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), this
is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring me these interesting
particulars. They shew her to the greatest advantage. I am sure she
is very good—I hope she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune
should be on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.”
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. Weston. She
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EMMA
thought well of Frank in almost every respect; and, what was more,
she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She
talked with a great deal of reason, and at least equal affection—but
she had too much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to
Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and
when Mrs. Weston ended with, “We have not yet had the letter we are
so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon come,” she was obliged
to pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at random,
before she could at all recollect what letter it was which they were so
anxious for.
“Are you well, my Emma?” was Mrs. Weston’s parting question.
“Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to give me
intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with more food for
unpleasant reflection, by increasing her esteem and compassion, and her
sense of past injustice towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not
having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envi-
ous feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. Had
she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention
to Miss Fairfax, which was every way her due; had she tried to know
her better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she endeav-
oured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in
all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her
now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as
an associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the other—what
was she?—Supposing even that they had never become intimate friends;
that she had never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this
important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as
she ought, and as she might, she must have been preserved from the
abominable suspicions of an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which
she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had
so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had been
made a subject of material distress to the delicacy of Jane’s feelings, by
the levity or carelessness of Frank Churchill’s. Of all the sources of
evil surrounding the former, since her coming to Highbury, she was per-
suaded that she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a
perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three together, without
her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a thousand instances; and on
Box Hill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no
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more.
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in,
and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the
wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made such
cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept
tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’s
side, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before.
It reminded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs.
Weston’s wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon af-
ter tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such delightful
proofs of Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might
shortly be over. The picture which she had then drawn of the privations
of the approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had de-
serted them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebodings
she feared would experience no similar contradiction. The prospect be-
fore her now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely
dispelled—that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place
that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be
comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the spirits
only of ruined happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even dearer than
herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time would be occupied by it. They
should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—
Frank Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax,
it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to Highbury.
They would be married, and settled either at or near Enscombe. All
that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of
Donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational
society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there
for his evening comfort!—No longer walking in at all hours, as if ever
willing to change his own home for their’s!—How was it to be endured?
And if he were to be lost to them for Harriet’s sake; if he were to be
thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s society all that he wanted; if
Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife
to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could
be increasing Emma’s wretchedness but the reflection never far distant
from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
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EMMA
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain
from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for
a few seconds—and the only source whence any thing like consolation
or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might
be the following and every future winter of her life to the past, it would
yet find her more rational, more acquainted with herself, and leave her
less to regret when it were gone.
Chapter XIII
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EMMA
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EMMA
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the
flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,
“You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you
right.—I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to
what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be
ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things
which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no
other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.”
“Emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her, “are you, indeed?”—
but checking himself—“No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am
pleased that you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, in-
deed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affec-
tions were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your
manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only
be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never
believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is
he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will
be a miserable creature.”
“Mr. Knightley,” said Emma, trying to be lively, but really
confused—“I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you
continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such
an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that
I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it
might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—
But I never have.”
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would
not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his
clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in
his opinion. She went on, however.
“I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by
his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—An old story,
probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hun-
dreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one
who sets up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the
temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was continually here—
I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let
me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at
last—my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly,
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EMMA
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EMMA
perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt
is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends are
eager to promote his happiness.—He had used every body ill—and they
are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a fortunate man indeed!”
“You speak as if you envied him.”
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my
envy.”
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sen-
tence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject,
if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally
different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for
breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
“You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined,
I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma,
I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the
next moment.”
“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take
a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”
“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not
another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in
her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen.
She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give
just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence,
relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolera-
ble than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the
house.
“You are going in, I suppose?” said he.
“No,”—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner
in which he still spoke—“I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry
is not gone.” And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—“I stopped
you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you
pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to
ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a
friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I
will tell you exactly what I think.”
“As a friend!”—repeated Mr. Knightley.—“Emma, that I fear is a
word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have
gone too far already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—
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EMMA
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EMMA
at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive, because he could
not marry them both, Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain
and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all
that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led
her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever; but her
judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as strong as it had ever been
before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequal and
degrading. Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke
then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought,
of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew there need not
be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. He had despaired at
one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence,
as for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing to hear
him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat sudden;—her proposal
of taking another turn, her renewing the conversation which she had
just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!—She felt its inconsis-
tency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek
no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human dis-
closure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or
a little mistaken; but where, as in this case, though the conduct is mis-
taken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.—Mr. Knightley
could not impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed,
or a heart more disposed to accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own influence. He
had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of trying it. He had
come, in his anxiety to see how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement,
with no selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she al-
lowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been
the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on
his feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference towards
Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him,
had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he might gain her affection
himself;—but it had been no present hope—he had only, in the momen-
tary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which gradu-
ally opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, which
he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already
his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed
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Chapter XIV
W HAT TOTALLY DIFFERENT FEELINGS did Emma take back into the
house from what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring
to hope for a little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite
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WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,
“If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be ex-
pected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with candour and
indulgence.—You are all goodness, and I believe there will be need of
even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my past conduct.—But
I have been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My courage
rises while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. I
have already met with such success in two applications for pardon, that
I may be in danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those
among your friends who have had any ground of offence.—You must
all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I
first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which
was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to place myself
in a situation requiring such concealment, is another question. I shall
not discuss it here. For my temptation to think it a right, I refer every
caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above,
in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties in the then
state of Enscombe must be too well known to require definition; and I
was fortunate enough to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to
induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charity
to a secret engagement.—Had she refused, I should have gone mad.—
But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in doing this?—What
did you look forward to?—To any thing, every thing—to time, chance,
circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness,
health and sickness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the
first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and cor-
respondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the honour, my
dear madam, of being your husband’s son, and the advantage of inher-
iting a disposition to hope for good, which no inheritance of houses or
lands can ever equal the value of.—See me, then, under these circum-
stances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;—and here I am conscious
of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You will look back
and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as
you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; but I must
work on my father’s compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I
absented myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing
you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I spent with
you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting on one
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point. And now I come to the principal, the only important part of
my conduct while belonging to you, which excites my own anxiety, or
requires very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and the
warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father perhaps
will think I ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—A few words
which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure
I acknowledge myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse in-
dicated, I believe, more than it ought.—In order to assist a concealment
so essential to me, I was led on to make more than an allowable use of
the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I cannot
deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible object—but I am sure you
will believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her indif-
ference, I would not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—
Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never gave me the
idea of a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly
free from any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my con-
viction as my wish.—She received my attentions with an easy, friendly,
goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We seemed to un-
derstand each other. From our relative situation, those attentions were
her due, and were felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began re-
ally to understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I cannot
say;—when I called to take leave of her, I remember that I was within
a moment of confessing the truth, and I then fancied she was not with-
out suspicion; but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at
least in some degree.—She may not have surmised the whole, but her
quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it. You will find,
whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that it
did not take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints of it.
I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude
for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.—I hope this history of my conduct
towards her will be admitted by you and my father as great extenua-
tion of what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having sinned
against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing from either. Acquit
me here, and procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and
good wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so
much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as hap-
pily in love as myself.—Whatever strange things I said or did during
that fortnight, you have now a key to. My heart was in Highbury, and
my business was to get my body thither as often as might be, and with
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EMMA
the least suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to
the right account.—Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel it only
necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to Miss
F—, who would never have allowed me to send it, had any choice been
given her.—The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole engagement,
my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You
will soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.—No descrip-
tion can describe her. She must tell you herself what she is—yet not by
word, for never was there a human creature who would so designedly
suppress her own merit.—Since I began this letter, which will be longer
than I foresaw, I have heard from her.—She gives a good account of
her own health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want
to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call on her;
she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid already. Let me
hear from you without delay; I am impatient for a thousand particulars.
Remember how few minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered,
how mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from
happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favour I have
met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I
am mad with joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned
her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I
could but see her again!—But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has
been too good for me to encroach.—I must still add to this long letter.
You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any
connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the
unseasonableness with which the affair burst out, needs explanation;
for though the event of the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately
opened to me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on
such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which
left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have shrunk from any thing
so hasty, and she would have felt every scruple of mine with multiplied
strength and refinement.—But I had no choice. The hasty engagement
she had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam, I was
obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—I have
been walking over the country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to
make the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most mor-
tifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit,
that my manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly
blameable. She disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—
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EMMA
My plea of concealing the truth she did not think sufficient.—She was
displeased; I thought unreasonably so: I thought her, on a thousand oc-
casions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold.
But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and subdued
my spirits to the level of what she deemed proper, I should have escaped
the greatest unhappiness I have ever known.—We quarrelled.—Do you
remember the morning spent at Donwell?—There every little dissatis-
faction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I met her
walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would
not suffer it. She absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought
most unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a very natural
and consistent degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our
engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to
another woman, was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which
might have made every previous caution useless?—Had we been met
walking together between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have
been suspected.—I was mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her
affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill; when, provoked
by such conduct on my side, such shameful, insolent neglect of her, and
such apparent devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible
for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form
of words perfectly intelligible to me.—In short, my dear madam, it was
a quarrel blameless on her side, abominable on mine; and I returned the
same evening to Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the
next morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as possible.
Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in
time; but I was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and I went
away determined that she should make the first advances.—I shall al-
ways congratulate myself that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had
you witnessed my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever
have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in the im-
mediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really gone
from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that officious Mrs. Elton; the
whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me
with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbear-
ance which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise,
I should loudly protest against the share of it which that woman has
known.—‘Jane,’ indeed!—You will observe that I have not yet indulged
myself in calling her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I
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EMMA
must have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the
vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary supe-
riority. Have patience with me, I shall soon have done.—She closed with
this offer, resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next day to
tell me that we never were to meet again.—She felt the engagement to be
a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.—This letter
reached me on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered it
within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind, and the multiplic-
ity of business falling on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent
with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-
desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few lines,
to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I was rather disap-
pointed that I did not hear from her again speedily; but I made excuses
for her, and was too busy, and—may I add?—too cheerful in my views
to be captious.—We removed to Windsor; and two days afterwards I re-
ceived a parcel from her, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines
at the same time by the post, stating her extreme surprize at not having
had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such
a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable
to both to have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as
possible, she now sent me, by a safe conveyance, all my letters, and re-
quested, that if I could not directly command hers, so as to send them
to Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that period to
her at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near Bristol,
stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew all about it,
and instantly saw what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant
with that resolution of character which I knew her to possess; and the
secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter,
was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world would not
she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how, till
I had actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders of the
post.—What was to be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my
uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—
I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened
away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly
reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep
sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage
state as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are
you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the
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EMMA
cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No; do not pity
me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not
pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.—I reached Highbury at the time
of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was
certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not disappointed;
and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey.
A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade
away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever,
and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my
dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thou-
sand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn
me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards
her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite
of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she
is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being
able to subscribe myself,
Your obliged and affectionate Son,
F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
Chapter XV
T HIS LETTER must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged,
in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the
justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own
name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting,
and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject
could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for
the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must
have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through
the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been
wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed—and he had
suffered, and was very sorry—and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston,
and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself,
that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she
must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again,
she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to
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EMMA
I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one
subject.”
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentlemanlike En-
glish, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the woman he was in love with,
how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness
of her father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. “While her
dear father lived, any change of condition must be impossible for her.
She could never quit him.” Part only of this answer, however, was ad-
mitted. The impossibility of her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as
strongly as herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could
not agree to. He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently;
he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove with her to
Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr.
Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he
confessed his persuasion, that such a transplantation would be a risk of
her father’s comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be haz-
arded. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it ought
not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice of
this, he trusted his dearest Emma would not find in any respect objec-
tionable; it was, that he should be received at Hartfield; that so long
as her father’s happiness in other words his life—required Hartfield to
continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already had her own
passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the scheme and rejected it;
but such an alternative as this had not occurred to her. She was sensible
of all the affection it evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must
be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that
in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there
would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think
of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced,
that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject.
He had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration;
he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole morning, to
have his thoughts to himself.
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,” cried Emma. “I am
sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before
you ask mine.”
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty nearly promised,
moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it a very good
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scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many, points of view
in which she was now beginning to consider Donwell Abbey, was never
struck with any sense of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as
heir-expectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she
must of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only
gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found amusement in
detecting the real cause of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s marry-
ing Jane Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly
imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continuing at
Hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.
His evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mu-
tual good to outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself
in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—Such a partner
in all those duties and cares to which time must be giving increase of
melancholy!
She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but every
blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of her
friend, who must now be even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful
family party which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must,
in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be
a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future absence as
any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would
be rather a dead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it
seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a
state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, that is, sup-
planted; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Knight-
ley himself would be doing nothing to assist the cure;—not like Mr. El-
ton. Mr. Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for
every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it
really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could be in love
with more than three men in one year.
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Chapter XVI
I T WAS A VERY GREAT RELIEF to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as
herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by
letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without
reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there
was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,
which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It might be
only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have
been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation; and she was
fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting
to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and
had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to
her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was
quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled
on her sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her
very persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a
fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was
all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick
Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; now she
could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by
that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had
haunted her when remembering how disappointed a heart was near her,
how much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring
by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in London, made
perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s sensations; but she could
not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and employment,
which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly to the
place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There was a communi-
cation before her, one which she only could be competent to make—the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would have noth-
ing to do with it at present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure
till Mrs. Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should be
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EMMA
thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not
act on herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A fortnight,
at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown every warmer, but more
agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half
an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on Miss Fairfax.—She ought
to go—and she was longing to see her; the resemblance of their present
situations increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a se-
cret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would
certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing
Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the door, but had
not been into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor
Jane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though
all the worst of her sufferings had been unsuspected.—The fear of being
still unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being at home,
to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—She heard Patty an-
nouncing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before
made so happily intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the instant re-
ply of, “Beg her to walk up;”—and a moment afterwards she was met
on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no other re-
ception of her were felt sufficient.—Emma had never seen her look so
well, so lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation, and
warmth; there was every thing which her countenance or manner could
ever have wanted.—She came forward with an offered hand; and said,
in a low, but very feeling tone,
“This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is impossible for
me to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse me for being so entirely
without words.”
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words,
if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the sitting-room had not checked
her, and made it expedient to compress all her friendly and all her con-
gratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was out, which
accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma could have wished Mrs.
Elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour to have patience with every
body; and as Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped
the rencontre would do them no harm.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s thoughts, and
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understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it was being
in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what
was still a secret to other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately
in the expression of her face; and while paying her own compliments to
Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good old lady’s replies, she
saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery fold up a letter which
she had apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it
into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant
nods,
“We can finish this some other time, you know. You and I shall
not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard all the essential
already. I only wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology,
and is not offended. You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is
a sweet creature! You would have doated on her, had you gone.—But
not a word more. Let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—
Hush!—You remember those lines—I forget the poem at this moment:
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certain young physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all
the credit.”
“I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Woodhouse,” she
shortly afterwards began, “since the party to Box Hill. Very pleasant
party. But yet I think there was something wanting. Things did not
seem—that is, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So
it appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think
it answered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both to
our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill again, while
the fine weather lasts?—It must be the same party, you know, quite the
same party, not one exception.”
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not help being
diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting, she
supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say
every thing.
“Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all kindness.—It is
impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite understand—dearest Jane’s
prospects—that is, I do not mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.—
How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—
Such a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.—Charming
young man!—that is—so very friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!—such at-
tention to Jane!”—And from her great, her more than commonly thank-
ful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there
had been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage
quarter, which was now graciously overcome.—After a few whispers,
indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton, speaking louder,
said,
“Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been so long, that
anywhere else I should think it necessary to apologise; but, the truth is,
that I am waiting for my lord and master. He promised to join me here,
and pay his respects to you.”
“What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Elton?—That
will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen do not like morning visits,
and Mr. Elton’s time is so engaged.”
“Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged from morn-
ing to night.—There is no end of people’s coming to him, on some pre-
tence or other.—The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens,
are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing
without him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.—
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EMMA
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him with some of
her sparkling vivacity.
“Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be an encum-
brance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—But you
knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. You knew I should
not stir till my lord and master appeared.—Here have I been sitting this
hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for
who can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?”
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed thrown away.
His civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequent object
was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk
he had had for nothing.
“When I got to Donwell,” said he, “Knightley could not be found.
Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent him this morning,
and the message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till
one.”
“Donwell!” cried his wife.—“My dear Mr. E., you have not been
to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from the meeting at the
Crown.”
“No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to see Knight-
ley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful broiling morning!—I
went over the fields too—(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which
made it so much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure
you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me. The
housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being expected.—Very
extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Per-
haps to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.—
Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you ex-
plain it?”
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very extraordinary,
indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.
“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife
ought to do,) “I cannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of
all people in the world! The very last person whom one should expect
to be forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I
am sure he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;—and
his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the case: and very likely
to happen with the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,
extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a
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creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And
as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She promised
Wright a receipt, and never sent it.”
“I met William Larkins,” continued Mr. Elton, “as I got near the
house, and he told me I should not find his master at home, but I did
not believe him.—William seemed rather out of humour. He did not
know what was come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly
ever get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants,
but it really is of very great importance that I should see Knightley to-
day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience
that I should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. In all
probability she was at this very time waited for there; and Mr. Knightley
might be preserved from sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton,
if not towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax determined to
attend her out of the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her
an opportunity which she immediately made use of, to say,
“It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility. Had
you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted
to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to speak more openly than
might have been strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been
impertinent.”
“Oh!” cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which Emma
thought infinitely more becoming to her than all the elegance of all
her usual composure—“there would have been no danger. The dan-
ger would have been of my wearying you. You could not have gratified
me more than by expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse,
(speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have of mis-
conduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly consoling to me to
know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth pre-
serving, are not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for
half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge
something for myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short,
if your compassion does not stand my friend—”
“Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried Emma warmly,
and taking her hand. “You owe me no apologies; and every body to
whom you might be supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so
delighted even—”
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“You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to you.—So
cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—It was a life of deceit!—
I know that I must have disgusted you.”
“Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be on my side.
Let us forgive each other at once. We must do whatever is to be done
quickest, and I think our feelings will lose no time there. I hope you
have pleasant accounts from Windsor?”
“Very.”
“And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just
as I begin to know you.”
“Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of yet. I am
here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”
“Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied Emma,
smiling—“but, excuse me, it must be thought of.”
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
“You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will own to you,
(I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our living with Mr. Churchill
at Enscombe, it is settled. There must be three months, at least, of deep
mourning; but when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more
to wait for.”
“Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be assured
of.—Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing that is decided and
open!—Good-bye, good-bye.”
Chapter XVII
M RS . W ESTON ’ S friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s
sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and
mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew
older—and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence—
to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks
and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston—
no one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would
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be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not
have their powers in exercise again.
“She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me,” she
continued—“like La Baronne d’Almane on La Comtesse d’Ostalis, in
Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her
own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan.”
“That is,” replied Mr. Knightley, “she will indulge her even more
than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will
be the only difference.”
“Poor child!” cried Emma; “at that rate, what will become of her?”
“Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable
in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my
bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing
all my happiness to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to
be severe on them?”
Emma laughed, and replied: “But I had the assistance of all your en-
deavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether
my own sense would have corrected me without it.”
“Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss
Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference
was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to
say, what right has he to lecture me?—and I am afraid very natural for
you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I
did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object
of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much
without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many
errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.”
“I am sure you were of use to me,” cried Emma. “I was very often
influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would own at the time. I am
very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be
spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her
as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is
thirteen.”
“How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one
of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa
says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew,
I did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
feelings instead of one.”
“What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should hold my
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“John does not even mention your friend,” said Mr. Knightley.
“Here is his answer, if you like to see it.”
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage.
Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive
to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing
that her friend was unmentioned.
“John enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued Mr.
Knightley, “but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him
to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from
making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather
cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”
“He writes like a sensible man,” replied Emma, when she had read
the letter. “I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers
the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is
not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection,
as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different
construction, I should not have believed him.”
“My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—”
“He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,”
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less, perhaps, than
he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject.”
“Emma, my dear Emma—”
“Oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety, “if you fancy your
brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the
secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther
from doing you justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advan-
tage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may
not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.—His tender compassion
towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”
“Ah!” he cried, “I wish your father might be half as easily convinced
as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to
be happy together. I am amused by one part of John’s letter—did you
notice it?—where he says, that my information did not take him wholly
by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of
the kind.”
“If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having
some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly
unprepared for that.”
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Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—He would not deny that he
did, she was sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business but
Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his
letters, who so glad to assist him?—Who so cheerful, so attentive, so
attached to him?—Would not he like to have him always on the spot?—
Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often;
he should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day
as it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was
overcome, the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do
the rest.—To Emma’s entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knight-
ley’s, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome;
and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—
They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the
strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting,
to consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as a settled,
and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal impor-
tance of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was
agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used
to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having
some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that
some time or other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be
so very bad if the marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
said to him in favour of the event.—She had been extremely surprized,
never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she
saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urg-
ing him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as to
think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect so
proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect,
one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly
fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached
herself to any other creature, and that she had herself been the stupidest
of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How
very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would have
renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knight-
ley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an
arrangement desirable!—The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr. Wood-
house had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own, for a
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marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of En-
scombe and Hartfield had been a continual impediment—less acknowl-
edged by Mr. Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able
to finish the subject better than by saying—“Those matters will take
care of themselves; the young people will find a way.” But here there
was nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was
all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It
was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one
real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflec-
tions as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing
could increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon
have outgrown its first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr.
Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to
familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.—He saw the advantages
of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour
he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.
“It is to be a secret, I conclude,” said he. “These matters are always
a secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be
told when I may speak out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.”
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on
that point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest
daughter?—he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,
of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately af-
terwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon
it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the
evening wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think
him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might rec-
ommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the
John Knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their
servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised,
except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize was not
softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared
with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride would now be
contented;” and supposed “she had always meant to catch Knightley
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Chapter XVIII
T IME passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the party from London
would be arriving. It was an alarming change; and Emma was thinking
of it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve
her, when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by.
After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a graver tone,
began with,
“I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.”
“Good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
“I do not know which it ought to be called.”
“Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You are trying
not to smile.”
“I am afraid,” said he, composing his features, “I am very much
afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when you hear it.”
“Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any thing which
pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”
“There is one subject,” he replied, “I hope but one, on which we
do not think alike.” He paused a moment, again smiling, with his eyes
fixed on her face. “Does nothing occur to you?—Do not you recollect?—
Harriet Smith.”
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Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something,
though she knew not what.
“Have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he. “You
have, I believe, and know the whole.”
“No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.”
“You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is. Harriet
Smith marries Robert Martin.”
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and
her eyes, in eager gaze, said, “No, this is impossible!” but her lips were
closed.
“It is so, indeed,” continued Mr. Knightley; “I have it from Robert
Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.”
She was still looking at him with the most speaking amazement.
“You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our opinions
were the same. But in time they will. Time, you may be sure, will make
one or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need
not talk much on the subject.”
“You mistake me, you quite mistake me,” she replied, exerting her-
self. “It is not that such a circumstance would now make me unhappy,
but I cannot believe it. It seems an impossibility!—You cannot mean to
say, that Harriet Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean
that he has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he
intends it.”
“I mean that he has done it,” answered Mr. Knightley, with smiling
but determined decision, “and been accepted.”
“Good God!” she cried.—“Well!”—Then having recourse to her
workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealing all
the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she
must be expressing, she added, “Well, now tell me every thing; make
this intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never
was more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure you.—
How—how has it been possible?”
“It is a very simple story. He went to town on business three days
ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers which I was wanting
to send to John.—He delivered these papers to John, at his chambers,
and was asked by him to join their party the same evening to Astley’s.
They were going to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party
was to be our brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My
friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in their way; were
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all extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the
next day—which he did—and in the course of that visit (as I understand)
he found an opportunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not
speak in vain.—She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he
is deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me this
morning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on
my affairs, and then on his own. This is all that I can relate of the how,
where, and when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history
when you see her.—She will give you all the minute particulars, which
only woman’s language can make interesting.—In our communications
we deal only in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s
heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and that he did
mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their
box at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and
little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one
time they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather uneasy.”
He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate reply. To
speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of
happiness. She must wait a moment, or he would think her mad. Her
silence disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he added,
“Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would not now
make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you more pain than you
expected. His situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what
satisfies your friend; and I will answer for your thinking better and bet-
ter of him as you know him more. His good sense and good principles
would delight you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could not wish
your friend in better hands. His rank in society I would alter if I could,
which is saying a great deal I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me
about William Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.”
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now brought herself
not to smile too broadly—she did—cheerfully answering,
“You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. I think
Harriet is doing extremely well. Her connexions may be worse than his.
In respectability of character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have
been silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine
how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I was!—
for I had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him,
much more, than she was before.”
“You ought to know your friend best,” replied Mr. Knightley; “but
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Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and
for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as
much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often
talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes,
indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor
Martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations,
I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good
notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the
affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this, I have no doubt,
she may thank you for.”
“Me!” cried Emma, shaking her head.—“Ah! poor Harriet!”
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more
praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of
her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was
in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be
collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she
had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she
could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being gone out to put
the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she
had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be
imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of
Harriet’s welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for
security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more wor-
thy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to
her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her
humility and circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolu-
tions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very
midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the dole-
ful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would
be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the
reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Knightley would
soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him
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that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready
to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not
always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in
speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being
obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but
hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Woodhouse received
the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught
through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.
“It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was just going
to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning.
He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fairfax has been persuaded to spend
the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope.”
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad
to see him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embar-
rassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but
with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having
all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle,
that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she
had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him
with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston
joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no
longer a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity
for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say,
“I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind forgiving
message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope time has not made you
less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said.”
“No, indeed,” cried Emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. I
am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you
joy in person.”
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak
with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
“Is not she looking well?” said he, turning his eyes towards Jane.
“Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs.
Weston doat upon her.”
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after
mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name
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forgotten?”
“Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—”
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not
help saying,
“I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you
had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I am
sure it was a consolation to you.”
“Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was
the most miserable wretch!”
“Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it
was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking
us all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the
truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.”
He bowed.
“If not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of true
sensibility, “there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair
to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own.”
“True, true,” he answered, warmly. “No, not true on your side. You
can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel.
Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of
her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You
will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that
my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new set.
I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be
beautiful in her dark hair?”
“Very beautiful, indeed,” replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly,
that he gratefully burst out,
“How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such ex-
cellent looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I
should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come.”
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston giving an
account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from
the infant’s appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish,
but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending
for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had
been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the child
had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly
interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who commended her very much
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for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not
done it. “She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the
slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be
too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps,
that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now,
very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had
seen it.”
Frank Churchill caught the name.
“Perry!” said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss
Fairfax’s eye. “My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about
Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel
now?—Has he set up his carriage?”
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined
in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s countenance that she too was
really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
“Such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “I can never think
of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Woodhouse.
I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at
her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own
letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole
blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though
pretending to listen to the others?”
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile
partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious,
low, yet steady voice,
“How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They
will sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!”
He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but
Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving
Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she
felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really re-
garding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible
of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of character. The happiness of this
most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation
of his worth which this comparison produced.
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Chapter XIX
I F E MMA HAD STILL , at intervals, an anxious feeling for Harriet, a mo-
mentary doubt of its being possible for her to be really cured of her at-
tachment to Mr. Knightley, and really able to accept another man from
unbiased inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party
from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of being one hour
alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable
as it was!—that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knight-
ley, and was now forming all her views of happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at first: but
having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly, and self-
deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the
words, and leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest
exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s approbation,
Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by meeting her
with the most unqualified congratulations.—Harriet was most happy to
give every particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the next
day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such
particulars explain?—The fact was, as Emma could now acknowledge,
that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to
love her had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligi-
ble to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was giving her
fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s parentage became known. She
proved to be the daughter of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the
comfortable maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough
to have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of gen-
tility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch for!—It was
likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman:
but what a connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or
for the Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!—The stain of illegitimacy,
unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young man was
treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as Emma became ac-
quainted with Robert Martin, who was now introduced at Hartfield,
she fully acknowledged in him all the appearance of sense and worth
which could bid fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Har-
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riet’s happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and in the
home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stabil-
ity, and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who
loved her, and who had better sense than herself; retired enough for
safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led
into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable
and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the
world, to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a
man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements with the Mar-
tins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—
The intimacy between her and Emma must sink; their friendship must
change into a calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to
be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual,
natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet to church, and
saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin with so complete a satisfac-
tion, as no remembrances, even connected with Mr. Elton as he stood
before them, could impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely
saw Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar might
next fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the latest cou-
ple engaged of the three, were the first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was restored to the
comforts of her beloved home with the Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills
were also in town; and they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as they dared,
by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had determined that their marriage
ought to be concluded while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to
allow them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was
the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were agreed in
approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be
induced to consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage
but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they
were almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—He
began to think it was to be, and that he could not prevent it—a very
promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still, however, he
was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s
courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him
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