Emma by Jane Austen

The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other.
"Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage?"
It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so good but that
many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward;
Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse
opposed it earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so
very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.

"Oh! no," said he; "it would be the extreme of imprudence.
I could not bear it for Emma!--Emma is not strong. She would
catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet.
So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up;
do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them
talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very thoughtless.
Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing.
He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping
them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught.
I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite
the thing!"

Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance
of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. Every door
was now closed, the passage plan given up, and the first scheme
of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again;
and with such good-will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space
which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient
for five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough
for ten.

"We were too magnificent," said he. "We allowed unnecessary room.
Ten couple may stand here very well."

Emma demurred. "It would be a crowd--a sad crowd; and what could
be worse than dancing without space to turn in?"

"Very true," he gravely replied; "it was very bad." But still he
went on measuring, and still he ended with,

"I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple."

"No, no," said she, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful
to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther from pleasure
than to be dancing in a crowd--and a crowd in a little room!"

"There is no denying it," he replied. "I agree with you exactly.
A crowd in a little room--Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving
pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite!--Still, however,
having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up.
It would be a disappointment to my father--and altogether--I do
not know that--I am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand
here very well."

Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little
self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure
of dancing with her; but she took the compliment, and forgave
the rest. Had she intended ever to marry him, it might have been
worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value
of his preference, and the character of his temper; but for
all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.

Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield; and he entered
the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance
of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," he almost immediately began, "your inclination
for dancing has not been quite frightened away, I hope, by the
terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal
on the subject:--a thought of my father's, which waits only your
approbation to be acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your
hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball,
to be given, not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?"

"The Crown!"

"Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot,
my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there.
Better accommodations, he can promise them, and not a less grateful
welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees
no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we
all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of
the Randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!--Dreadful!--I felt
how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing
any thing to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?--You consent--
I hope you consent?"

"It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and
Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as I can
answer for myself, shall be most happy--It seems the only improvement
that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?"

She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully
comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther representations
were necessary to make it acceptable.

"No; he thought it very far from an improvement--a very bad plan--
much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp
and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited.
If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never
been in the room at the Crown in his life--did not know the people
who kept it by sight.--Oh! no--a very bad plan. They would catch
worse colds at the Crown than anywhere."

"I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill,
"that one of the great recommendations of this change would
be the very little danger of any body's catching cold--
so much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry
might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could."

"Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, "you are very much
mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character.
Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I
do not understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you
than your father's house."

"From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We shall have
no occasion to open the windows at all--not once the whole evening;
and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold
air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief."

"Open the windows!--but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think
of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody could be so imprudent!
I never heard of such a thing. Dancing with open windows!--I am sure,
neither your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was)
would suffer it."

"Ah! sir--but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind
a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, without its being suspected.
I have often known it done myself."

"Have you indeed, sir?--Bless me! I never could have supposed it.
But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear.
However, this does make a difference; and, perhaps, when we come
to talk it over--but these sort of things require a good deal
of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.
If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning,
we may talk it over, and see what can be done."

"But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited--"

"Oh!" interrupted Emma, "there will be plenty of time for talking
every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived
to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses.
They will be so near their own stable."

"So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James
ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses when we can.
If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired--but is
Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her,
even by sight."

"I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will
be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct
the whole."

"There, papa!--Now you must be satisfied--Our own dear Mrs. Weston,
who is carefulness itself. Do not you remember what Mr. Perry said,
so many years ago, when I had the measles? `If Miss Taylor undertakes
to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.' How often
have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!"

"Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it.
Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; that is,
you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention.
He came four times a day for a week. He said, from the first,
it was a very good sort--which was our great comfort; but the measles
are a dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella's little ones
have the measles, she will send for Perry."

"My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this moment,"
said Frank Churchill, "examining the capabilities of the house.
I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion,
and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice
on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the
greatest pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you there.
They can do nothing satisfactorily without you."

Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; and her father,
engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young
people set off together without delay for the Crown. There were
Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted to see her and receive her approbation,
very busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some
little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.

"Emma," said she, "this paper is worse than I expected.
Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot
is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have imagined."

"My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. "What does
all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candlelight.
It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any
thing of it on our club-nights."

The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, "Men never
know when things are dirty or not;" and the gentlemen perhaps
thought each to himself, "Women will have their little nonsenses
and needless cares."

One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did not disdain.
It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ballroom's being built,
suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining,
was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would
be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted
unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for
any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size might be
secured for the purpose; but it was at the other end of the house,
and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.
This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts
for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma nor the
gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded
at supper.

Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; merely sandwiches,
&c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a
wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper,
was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women;
and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another
line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,

"I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many,
you know."

And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps
through the passage, was calling out,

"You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my dear.
It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught from
the stairs."

"I wish," said Mrs. Weston, "one could know which arrangement our
guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally
pleasing must be our object--if one could but tell what that would be."

"Yes, very true," cried Frank, "very true. You want your neighbours'
opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the
chief of them--the Coles, for instance. They are not far off.
Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer.--
And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand
the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think
we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates
to join us?"

"Well--if you please," said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, "if you
think she will be of any use."

"You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates," said Emma.
"She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing.
She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in
consulting Miss Bates."

"But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very fond
of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family,
you know."

Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed,
gave it his decided approbation.

"Aye, do, Frank.--Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter
at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and I do not know
a properer person for shewing us how to do away difficulties.
Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little too nice. She is
a standing lesson of how to be happy. But fetch them both.
Invite them both."

"Both sir! Can the old lady?" . . .

"The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you
a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect.
Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both."
And away he ran.

Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt,
and her elegant niece,--Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered
woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again,
and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before--
indeed very trifling; and here ended the difficulties of decision.
All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth.
All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music,
tea and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles
to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes.--
Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank had already written
to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight,
which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was
to be.

Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree that it must.
As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an approver, (a much
safer character,) she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once
general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please;
and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro,
between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending,
and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The party did not break
up without Emma's being positively secured for the two first dances
by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston
whisper to his wife, "He has asked her, my dear. That's right.
I knew he would!"

CHAPTER XII

One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball
completely satisfactory to Emma--its being fixed for a day within
the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surry; for, in spite
of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible
that the Churchills might not allow their nephew to remain
a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible.
The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly
ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they
must be planning, proceeding and hoping in uncertainty--at the risk--
in her opinion, the great risk, of its being all in vain.

Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if not in word.
His wish of staying longer evidently did not please; but it was
not opposed. All was safe and prosperous; and as the removal of one
solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain
of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's
provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not
dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his
being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him,
determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording
him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma
could get no more approving reply, than,

"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this
trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing
to say against it, but that they shall not chuse pleasures for me.--
Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; and I will keep
as much awake as I can; but I would rather be at home, looking over
William Larkins's week's account; much rather, I confess.--
Pleasure in seeing dancing!--not I, indeed--I never look at it--
I do not know who does.--Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue,
must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually
thinking of something very different."

This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry.
It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however that he was
so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by her feelings
in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed the thought of it
to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated--open hearted--
she voluntarily said;--

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball.
What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own,
with very great pleasure."

It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would have
preferred the society of William Larkins. No!--she was more and more
convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise.
There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment
on his side--but no love.

Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley.
Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the
over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill
to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell--
far too unwell to do without him; she had been in a very suffering
state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before,
though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant
habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it;
but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off
for Enscombe without delay.

The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note
from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable.
He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real
alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses;
they never occurred but for her own convenience.

Mrs. Weston added, "that he could only allow himself time to
hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave of the few
friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him;
and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon."

This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast. When once
it had been read, there was no doing any thing, but lament
and exclaim. The loss of the ball--the loss of the young man--
and all that the young man might be feeling!--It was too wretched!--
Such a delightful evening as it would have been!--Every body so happy!
and she and her partner the happiest!--"I said it would be so,"
was the only consolation.

Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally
of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated;
and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed;
but they would all be safer at home.

Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared;
but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful
look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him.
He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection
was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first
few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say,

"Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst."

"But you will come again," said Emma. "This will not be your only
visit to Randalls."

"Ah!--(shaking his head)--the uncertainty of when I may be able
to return!--I shall try for it with a zeal!--It will be the object
of all my thoughts and cares!--and if my uncle and aunt go to town
this spring--but I am afraid--they did not stir last spring--
I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever."

"Our poor ball must be quite given up."

"Ah! that ball!--why did we wait for any thing?--why not seize the
pleasure at once?--How often is happiness destroyed by preparation,
foolish preparation!--You told us it would be so.--Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
why are you always so right?"

"Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I would
much rather have been merry than wise."

"If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father
depends on it. Do not forget your engagement."

Emma looked graciously.

"Such a fortnight as it has been!" he continued; "every day more
precious and more delightful than the day before!--every day making
me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those, who can remain
at Highbury!"

"As you do us such ample justice now," said Emma, laughing, "I will
venture to ask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first?
Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do.
I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been
so long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."

He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment,
Emma was convinced that it had been so.

"And you must be off this very morning?"

"Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together,
and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment
will bring him."

"Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss Fairfax and
Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind
might have strengthened yours."

"Yes--I have called there; passing the door, I thought it better.
It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes, and was
detained by Miss Bates's being absent. She was out; and I felt it
impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may,
that one must laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight.
It was better to pay my visit, then"--

He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.

"In short," said he, "perhaps, Miss Woodhouse--I think you can
hardly be quite without suspicion"--

He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly
knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something
absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself
to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said,

"You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then"--

He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; probably reflecting
on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner.
She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had
cause to sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him.
A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more
determined manner said,

"It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be
given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm"--

He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.--
He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed; and who can say
how it might have ended, if his father had not made his appearance?
Mr. Woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made
him composed.

A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial.
Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be done, and as
incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable,
as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "It was time to go;"
and the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree,
to take leave.

"I shall hear about you all," said he; that is my chief consolation.
I shall hear of every thing that is going on among you. I have
engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as
to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a female correspondent, when one
is really interested in the absent!--she will tell me every thing.
In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again."

A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest "Good-bye,"
closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill.
Short had been the notice--short their meeting; he was gone; and Emma
felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little
society from his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry,
and feeling it too much.

It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day
since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls had given
great spirit to the last two weeks--indescribable spirit; the idea,
the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought,
the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners!
It had been a very happy fortnight, and forlorn must be the sinking
from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every
other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her.
What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to,
was another point; but at present she could not doubt his having
a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself;
and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that
she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous
determination against it.

"I certainly must," said she. "This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself,
this feeling of every thing's being dull and insipid about the house!--
I must be in love; I should be the oddest creature in the world if I
were not--for a few weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always
good to others. I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball,
if not for Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy.
He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes."

Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happiness. He could
not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful look
would have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily,
that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with
considerable kindness added,

"You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really
out of luck; you are very much out of luck!"

It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge of her
honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet,
her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however,
suffering from headache to a degree, which made her aunt declare,
that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have
attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming
indifference to the languor of ill-health.

CHAPTER XIII

Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas
only varied as to the how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal;
and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank
Churchill talked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever
in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was,
how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance
of his coming to Randalls again this spring. But, on the other hand,
she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the
first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual;
she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could
yet imagine him to have faults; and farther, though thinking of him
so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand
amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment,
fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters;
the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she
refused him. Their affection was always to subside into friendship.
Every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting;
but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this,
it struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in spite
of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father,
never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more
of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings.

"I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice," said she.--
"In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives,
is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. I do suspect that he
is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better.
I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am
quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more."

Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.

"He is undoubtedly very much in love--every thing denotes it--very much
in love indeed!--and when he comes again, if his affection continue,
I must be on my guard not to encourage it.--It would be most
inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up.
Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto.
No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would
not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself encouraged,
his looks and language at parting would have been different.--
Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition
of his attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know that I
expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man--
I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.--
His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.--
Every consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful
that my happiness is not more deeply involved.--I shall do very well
again after a little while--and then, it will be a good thing over;
for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I shall
have been let off easily."

When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it;
and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made
her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she
had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter,
giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings,
expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was
natural and honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local
that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision.
No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it was the
language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and the transition
from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some
of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on
to shew how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been
said but for the restraints of propriety.--The charm of her own
name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once,
and never without a something of pleasing connexion, either a
compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said;
and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it
was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern
the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment
perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant
corner were these words--"I had not a spare moment on Tuesday,
as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make
my excuses and adieus to her." This, Emma could not doubt, was all
for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being her friend.
His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor
better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering,
and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for
coming to Randalls again.

Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the
material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was folded up
and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth,
that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn
to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution
of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for
his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet,
and the words which clothed it, the "beautiful little friend,"
suggested to her the idea of Harriet's succeeding her in his affections.
Was it impossible?--No.--Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his
inferior in understanding; but he had been very much struck with
the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner;
and all the probabilities of circumstance and connexion were in
her favour.--For Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.

"I must not dwell upon it," said she.--"I must not think of it.
I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger
things have happened; and when we cease to care for each other
as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us in that sort
of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward
to with pleasure."

It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf,
though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evil
in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had
succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury,
as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now
upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were
assuming the most irresistible form.--His wedding-day was named.
He would soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride.
There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe
before "Mr. Elton and his bride" was in every body's mouth,
and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound.
She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton;
and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately
gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball in view at least,
there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things;
but it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state
of composure as could stand against the actual approach--new carriage,
bell-ringing, and all.

Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the
reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma
could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her,
that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience;
but it was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing
any effect, for ever agreed to, without being able to make their opinions
the same. Harriet listened submissively, and said "it was very true--
it was just as Miss Woodhouse described--it was not worth while to
think about them--and she would not think about them any longer"
but no change of subject could avail, and the next half-hour
saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons as before.
At last Emma attacked her on another ground.

"Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about
Mr. Elton's marrying, Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can
make me. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I
fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it,
I assure you.--Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you--
and it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine
me in danger of forgetting it."

Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words
of eager exclamation. Emma continued,

"I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think less,
talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own sake rather,
I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important
than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration
of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour
to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit,
and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I
have been pressing on you. They are very important--and sorry
I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them.
My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want
you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes
have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due--or rather
what would be kind by me."

This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.
The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse,
whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while,
and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained
powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it
very tolerably.

"You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life--
Want gratitude to you!--Nobody is equal to you!--I care for nobody
as I do for you!--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been!"

Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look
and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet
so well, nor valued her affection so highly before.

"There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart," said she
afterwards to herself. "There is nothing to be compared to it.
Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner,
will beat all the clearness of head in the world, for attraction,
I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear
father so generally beloved--which gives Isabella all her popularity.--
I have it not--but I know how to prize and respect it.--Harriet is
my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives.
Dear Harriet!--I would not change you for the clearest-headed,
longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness
of a Jane Fairfax!--Harriet is worth a hundred such--And for a wife--
a sensible man's wife--it is invaluable. I mention no names;
but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!"

CHAPTER XIV

Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion might
be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew,
and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid,
to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty,
or not pretty at all.

Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety,
to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects;
and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of
the business might be gone through as soon as possible.

She could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room
to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago,
to lace up her boot, without recollecting. A thousand vexatious
thoughts would recur. Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders;
and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be
recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather
pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so
much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma
would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady,
and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms
of being "elegantly dressed, and very pleasing."

She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault,
but she suspected that there was no elegance;--ease, but not elegance.--
She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride,
there was too much ease. Her person was rather good; her face
not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner,
were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so.

As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear--but no, she would
not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners.
It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits,
and a man had need be all grace to acquit himself well through it.
The woman was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes,
and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own
good sense to depend on; and when she considered how peculiarly
unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the same room at once with
the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry,
and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him
to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly,
and as little really easy as could be.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse," said Harriet, when they had quitted
the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin;
"Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?--
Is not she very charming?"

There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.

"Oh! yes--very--a very pleasing young woman."

"I think her beautiful, quite beautiful."

"Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown."

"I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in love."

"Oh! no--there is nothing to surprize one at all.--A pretty fortune;
and she came in his way."

"I dare say," returned Harriet, sighing again, "I dare say she
was very much attached to him."

"Perhaps she might; but it is not every man's fate to marry the
woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home,
and thought this the best offer she was likely to have."

"Yes," said Harriet earnestly, "and well she might, nobody could ever
have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now,
Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again.
He is just as superior as ever;--but being married, you know,
it is quite a different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need
not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any great misery.
To know that he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!--
She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves.
Happy creature! He called her `Augusta.' How delightful!"

When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then
see more and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be
at Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton,
she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself,
and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite
convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well
satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance;
that she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which
had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her
notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living;
that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would
certainly do Mr. Elton no good.

Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or refined herself,
she would have connected him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins,
it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best
of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride
of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride
of him.

The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove, "My brother
Mr. Suckling's seat;"--a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove.
The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty; and the
house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably
impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she
could see or imagine. "Very like Maple Grove indeed!--She was quite
struck by the likeness!--That room was the very shape and size
of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister's favourite room."--
Mr. Elton was appealed to.--"Was not it astonishingly like?--
She could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove."

"And the staircase--You know, as I came in, I observed how very like
the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of the house.
I really could not help exclaiming! I assure you, Miss Woodhouse,
it is very delightful to me, to be reminded of a place I am so
extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy
months there! (with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place,
undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty;
but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted,
like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it
is to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind.
I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony."

Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was fully sufficient
for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.

"So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the house--
the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, are strikingly
like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here,
and stand very much in the same way--just across the lawn;
and I had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it,
which put me so exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be
enchanted with this place. People who have extensive grounds
themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style."

Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea
that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little
for the extensive grounds of any body else; but it was not worth
while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said
in reply,

"When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think
you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."

"Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of England,
you know. Surry is the garden of England."

"Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction.
Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England,
as well as Surry."

"No, I fancy not," replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied smile."
I never heard any county but Surry called so."

Emma was silenced.

"My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring,
or summer at farthest," continued Mrs. Elton; "and that will be
our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore
a great deal, I dare say. They will have their barouche-landau,
of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying
any thing of our carriage, we should be able to explore the different
beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their chaise,
I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on,
I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau;
it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful
country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes
them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond
of exploring. We explored to King's-Weston twice last summer,
in that way, most delightfully, just after their first having the
barouche-landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose,
Miss Woodhouse, every summer?"

"No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of;
and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed
to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure."

"Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.
Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite
a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said,
when she has been going to Bristol, `I really cannot get this girl
to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I
hate being stuck up in the barouche-landau without a companion;
but Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never stir
beyond the park paling.' Many a time has she said so; and yet I
am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary,
when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very
bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in
a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little.
I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse--
(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father's state of health must
be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?--Indeed he should.
Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing
Mr. Woodhouse good."

"My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving
any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown
to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be
useful now."

"Ah! that's a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse,
where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief
they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances of it!
And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of being of
use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which, I understand, are sometimes
much depressed. And as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I
need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath
to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming
introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could
immediately secure you some of the best society in the place.
A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my
particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided
with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions,
and would be the very person for you to go into public with."

It was as much as Emma could bear, without being impolite.
The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called
an introduction--of her going into public under the auspices
of a friend of Mrs. Elton's--probably some vulgar, dashing widow,
who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!--
The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!

She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could
have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly; "but their going
to Bath was quite out of the question; and she was not perfectly
convinced that the place might suit her better than her father."
And then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the
subject directly.

"I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions,
a lady's character generally precedes her; and Highbury has long
known that you are a superior performer."

"Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea.
A superior performer!--very far from it, I assure you.
Consider from how partial a quarter your information came.
I am doatingly fond of music--passionately fond;--and my friends
say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any thing else,
upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree.
You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you
it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me,
to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot
do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and having always
been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath,
it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much
to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing
his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable;
and the inferiority of the house too--knowing what I had been
accustomed to--of course he was not wholly without apprehension.
When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the
world I could give up--parties, balls, plays--for I had no fear
of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself,
the world was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a different thing; but my
resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms
than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought.
I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description.
Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I
did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness,
nor were spacious apartments. `But,' said I, `to be quite honest,
I do not think I can live without something of a musical society.
I condition for nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank
to me.'"

"We cannot suppose," said Emma, smiling, "that Mr. Elton would hesitate
to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury;
and I hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than
may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive."

"No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am delighted
to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet
little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I
must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings
at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good plan? If we
exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies.
Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for me,
as an inducement to keep me in practice; for married women, you know--
there is a sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt
to give up music."

"But you, who are so extremely fond of it--there can
be no danger, surely?"

"I should hope not; but really when I look around among my acquaintance,
I tremble. Selina has entirely given up music--never touches
the instrument--though she played sweetly. And the same may be said
of Mrs. Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans,
now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate.
Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be
quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend
that a married woman has many things to call her attention.
I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper."

"But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon
be in so regular a train--"

"Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see."

Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music,
had nothing more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton
chose another subject.

"We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them
both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be.
I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--
quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you.
And she appears so truly good--there is something so motherly
and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly.
She was your governess, I think?"

Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton
hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on.

"Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her
so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman."

"Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good.
Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest
model for any young woman."

"And who do you think came in while we were there?"

Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--
and how could she possibly guess?

"Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not
it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day,
I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a
friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity. `My friend Knightley'
had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him;
and I must do my 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.

"Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I
had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not
have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before,
and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman!
A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo,
and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and
underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is
a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment,
and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it!
And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club!
One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--
Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be
a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal.
Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.
Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here?
How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--
thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of!
How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into
my mind!"--

All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time
her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons'
departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable
of attending.

"Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw
her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say
she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick.
A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear.
But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks
like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging,
pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife.
Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best
excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton
on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I should in the course
of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon
a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am!
But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."

"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."

"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects
to her if possible. It was being very deficient."

"But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore
why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride?
It ought to be no recommendation to you. It is encouraging people
to marry if you make so much of them."

"No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would
always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride,
especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to her.
A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company,
let the others be who they may."

"Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know
what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your
sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies."

"My dear, you do not understand me. This is a
matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding,
and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry."

Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not
understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences,
and long, very long, did they occupy her.

CHAPTER XV

Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct.
Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview,
such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming,
familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a
little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself
coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve
a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held
such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass.

There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently
from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud.
He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such
a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal;
and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend,
or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's
good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever
and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied;
so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it
ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her
first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being "very
pleasant and very elegantly dressed."

In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared
at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably,
by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with,
she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold
and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will
which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma's dislike.
Her manners, too--and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet.
They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work
Harriet's cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour
sunk them both very much.--It was not to be doubted that poor
Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve,
and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable
to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been
given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.--
When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin
abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew
in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous
treatment of Harriet.

Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first.
Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be
supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first; and she
was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--
but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting
to assist and befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence,
and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's
knight-errantry on the subject.--

"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite
rave about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild
and ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she
has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she
plays extremely well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly
on that point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at
my warmth--but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--
And her situation is so calculated to affect one!--Miss Woodhouse,
we must exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her.
We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered
to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those charming lines of
the poet,

`Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
`And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'

We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax."

"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer--
"and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation
and understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell,
I have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."

"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement,
such obscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have
enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think
she feels it. I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent.
One can see that she feels the want of encouragement. I like her
the better for it. I must confess it is a recommendation to me.
I am a great advocate for timidity--and I am sure one does
not often meet with it.--But in those who are at all inferior,
it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax
is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I
can express."

"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any
of Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known
her longer than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"--

"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare
to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we set the example,
many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not
our situations. We have carriages to fetch and convey her home,
and we live in a style which could not make the addition of
Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.--I should be
extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a dinner,
as could make me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax
to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is
not likely that I should, considering what I have been used to.
My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the
other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense.
Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--
for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling,
in income.--However, my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--
I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce
her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents,
and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation.
My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt
of hearing of something to suit her shortly.--I shall introduce her,
of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come
to us. I am sure they will like her extremely; and when she gets
a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off,
for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is
highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often indeed while they
are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in
the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."

"Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this.
You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a
punishment beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection
of Mrs. Elton!--`Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me
not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--
But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness
of that woman's tongue!"

Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively
addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss
Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,
and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very
active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a
general way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.

She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for
Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless
simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--
the most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished
and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered.
Emma's only surprize was that Jane Fairfax should accept
those attentions and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do.
She heard of her walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons,
spending a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!--She could not
have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax
could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage had to offer.

"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--"To chuse to remain
here month after month, under privations of every sort! And now
to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury
of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions
who have always loved her with such real, generous affection."

Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells
had promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer,
and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there.
According to Miss Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had
written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found,
servants sent, friends contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed
to exist; but still she had declined it!

"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
this invitation," was Emma's conclusion. "She must be under some
sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself.
There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--
She is not to be with the Dixons. The decree is issued by somebody.
But why must she consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a
separate puzzle."

Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject,
before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston
ventured this apology for Jane.

"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,
my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home.
Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion,
must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits,
before we condemn her taste for what she goes to."

"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax
is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have
chosen her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives
attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her."

Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance;
and she was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush,
she presently replied,

"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined,
would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's
invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting."

"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have
been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness
in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may
very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated,
in spite of the very natural wish of a little change."

Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,

"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton
does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of her. We all know
the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest
spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond
common civility in our personal intercourse with each other--
a something more early implanted. We cannot give any body the
disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before.
We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this,
as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes
Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner; and that,
face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she
has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell
in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can prevent
her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not
in consciousness."

"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma.
Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy
made her irresolute what else to say.

"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."

"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look,
but soon stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--
she hurried on--"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself
how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by
surprize some day or other."

Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together,
or some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,

"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole
gave me a hint of it six weeks ago."

He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did
not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on--

"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax,
I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very
sure I shall never ask her."

Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased
enough to exclaim,

"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you."

He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner
which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,

"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"

"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,
for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said
just now, meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course,
without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not
the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body.
You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way,
if you were married."

Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was,
"No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will
ever take me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way,
I assure you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming
young woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault.
She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife."

Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.
"Well," said she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"

"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser
or wittier than his neighbours."

"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser
and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--
what she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them,
deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can
she do for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane
Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.
Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more
readily enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates,
than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over
Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging herself
the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any
restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot
imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring
her a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful
exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau."

"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--"I do not
accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect,
are strong--and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance,
patience, self-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 supposed attachment,
it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with
her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no thought beyond."

"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them,
"what do you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"

"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied
by the idea of not being in love with her, that I should not wonder
if it were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me."

CHAPTER XVI

Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Elton,
was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Dinner-parties and
evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations
flowed in so fast that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending
they were never to have a disengaged day.

"I see how it is," said she. "I see what a life I am to lead
among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated.
We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country,
it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday,
I assure you we have not a disengaged day!--A woman with fewer
resources than I have, need not have been at a loss."

No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made evening-parties
perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste
for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two
drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at rout-cakes, and there being
no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry,
Mrs. Goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge
of the world, but she would soon shew them how every thing ought
to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their
civilities by one very superior party--in which her card-tables
should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs
in the true style--and more waiters engaged for the evening
than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round
the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.

Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner
at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less than others,
or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable
of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had
talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness,
and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom
of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding
who should do it for him.

The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides the Eltons,
it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far it was all of course--
and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must
be asked to make the eighth:--but this invitation was not given
with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly
pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it.
"She would rather not be in his company more than she could help.
She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy
wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse
would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home."
It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude
of her little friend--for fortitude she knew it was in her to give
up being in company and stay at home; and she could now invite the
very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.--
Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley,
she was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had
often been.--Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said
that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which nobody
else paid her.

"This is very true," said she, "at least as far as relates to me,
which was all that was meant--and it is very shameful.--Of the same age--
and always knowing her--I ought to have been more her friend.--
She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long. But I
will shew her greater attention than I have done."

Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy.--
The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over.
A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little
Knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of
some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them,
and staying one whole day at Hartfield--which one day would be
the very day of this party.--His professional engagements did
not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were
disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight
persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear--
and here would be a ninth--and Emma apprehended that it would
be a ninth very much out of humour at not being able to come even
to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.

She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself,
by representing that though he certainly would make them nine,
yet he always said so little, that the increase of noise would be
very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself,
to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed
to her instead of his brother.

The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma.
John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town
and must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them
in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite
at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys
and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate,
removed the chief of even Emma's vexation.

The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley
seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable.
Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited
for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant
as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence--
wanting only to observe enough for Isabella's information--but Miss
Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could
talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was returning
from a walk with his little boys, when it had been just beginning
to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject,
and he said,

"I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I
am sure you must have been wet.--We scarcely got home in time.
I hope you turned directly."

"I went only to the post-office," said she, "and reached home
before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch
the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something
to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good."

"Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine."

"No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out."

Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,

"That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six
yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you;
and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before.
The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.
When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are
never worth going through the rain for."

There was a little blush, and then this answer,

"I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of
every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot expect that simply
growing older should make me indifferent about letters."

"Indifferent! Oh! no--I never conceived you could become indifferent.
Letters are no matter of indifference; they are generally a very
positive curse."

"You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters
of friendship."

"I have often thought them the worst of the two," replied he coolly.
"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly
ever does."

"Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well--
I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as
any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you,
much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than
myself which makes the difference, it is not age, but situation.
You have every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably,
never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my affections,
a post-office, I think, must always have power to draw me out,
in worse weather than to-day."

"When I talked of your being altered by time, by the progress of years,"
said John Knightley, "I meant to imply the change of situation
which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other.
Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within
the daily circle--but that is not the change I had in view for you.
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten
years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have."

It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant
"thank you" seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip,
a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh.
Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being,
according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of
his guests, and paying his particular compliments to the ladies,
was ending with her--and with all his mildest urbanity, said,

"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this
morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of themselves.--
Young ladies are delicate plants. They should take care of their
health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings?"

"Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by your kind
solicitude about me."

"My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for.--
I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. They are some
of my very old friends. I wish my health allowed me to be a
better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour to-day, I am sure.
My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness,
and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield."

The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel
that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy.

By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton,
and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.

"My dear Jane, what is this I hear?--Going to the post-office
in the rain!--This must not be, I assure you.--You sad girl,
how could you do such a thing?--It is a sign I was not there
to take care of you."

Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold.

"Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do not
know how to take care of yourself.--To the post-office indeed!
Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively
exert our authority."

"My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, "I certainly
do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks.--
Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought
to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year.
The spring I always think requires more than common care.
Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters,
than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you
feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable.
You look as if you would not do such a thing again."

"Oh! she shall not do such a thing again," eagerly rejoined
Mrs. Elton. "We will not allow her to do such a thing again:"--
and nodding significantly--"there must be some arrangement made,
there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches
our letters every morning (one of our men, I forget his name)
shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. That will obviate
all difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear Jane,
you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation."

"You are extremely kind," said Jane; "but I cannot give up my
early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can,
I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon
my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before."

"My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined,
that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume to determine
any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know,
Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves.
But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely
worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore,
consider that point as settled."

"Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, "I cannot by any means consent
to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant.
If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it
always is when I am not here, by my grandmama's."

"Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!--And it is a kindness
to employ our men."

Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but instead
of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley.

"The post-office is a wonderful establishment!" said she.--
"The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that it
has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!"

"It is certainly very well regulated."

"So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So seldom
that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing
about the kingdom, is even carried wrong--and not one in a million,
I suppose, actually lost! And when one considers the variety
of hands, and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered,
it increases the wonder."

"The clerks grow expert from habit.--They must begin with some
quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you
want any farther explanation," continued he, smiling, "they are
paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity.
The public pays and must be served well."

The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual
observations made.

"I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, "that the same
sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the
same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason,
I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females,
for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble
into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write
very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart."

"Yes," said his brother hesitatingly, "there is a likeness.
I know what you mean--but Emma's hand is the strongest."

"Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse;
"and always did. And so does poor Mrs. Weston"--with half a sigh
and half a smile at her.

"I never saw any gentleman's handwriting"--Emma began, looking also
at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was
attending to some one else--and the pause gave her time to reflect,
"Now, how am I going to introduce him?--Am I unequal to speaking
his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary
for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--
your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose,
if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the
smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it."

Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--"Mr. Frank Churchill
writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw."

"I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--
wants strength. It is like a woman's writing."

This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him
against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--
it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong.
Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had
heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put
it away.

"If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk,
I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--
Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you
one day?"

"He chose to say he was employed"--

"Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner
to convince Mr. Knightley."

"Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,"
said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse,
he will, of course, put forth his best."

Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to,
was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request
to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying--

"Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way."

Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma.
She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know
whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected
that it had; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered
but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear,
and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air
of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits.

She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition
and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--
but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word
that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed
the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance
of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.

CHAPTER XVII

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found
it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--
with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton
engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were
obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together.
Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a
little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed
between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side,
there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects:
The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship,
were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must
be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had
yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of
Mrs. Elton's meditated activity.

"Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you.
June will soon be here."

"But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked
forward to the summer in general."

"But have you really heard of nothing?"

"I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet."

"Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware
of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing."

"I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton,
who can have thought of it as I have done?"

"But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not
know how many candidates there always are for the first situations.
I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove.
A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity
of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family,
for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom!
You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom
Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in."

"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer,"
said Jane. "I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will
want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself.
But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries
at present."

"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving
me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can
hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write
to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict
charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible."

"Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject
to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving
any body trouble."

"But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April,
and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business
to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me!
A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you,
is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice;
indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no
inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends.
When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid
of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices,
where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--
not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect."

"Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling
at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather
a friend to the abolition."

"I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane;
"governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view;
widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on;
but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where
it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices,
and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon
meeting with something that would do."

"Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, that may
suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature
you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up
with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation,
in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command
the elegancies of life."

"You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent;
it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications,
I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison.
A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for."

"I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I
shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will
be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right
to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would
entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like,
and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--
if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure;
but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might,
even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must
and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before
the Campbells or I have any rest."

"You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort
of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure
to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing
to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you,
Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am
quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer.
For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as
I am."

"And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily,
"in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends
to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us."

In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing
till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change
of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,

"Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his
gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature
he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint,
old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse,
I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure
you I began to think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous.
I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took notice of my gown.
How do you like it?--Selina's choice--handsome, I think, but I
do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest
dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed--quite a horror of finery.
I must put on a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me.
A bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste
is all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely
preferable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe;
few people seem to value simplicity of dress,--show and finery
are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trimming
as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will
look well?"

The whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room
when Mr. Weston made his appearance among them. He had returned
to a late dinner, and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over.
He had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize--
but there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see
him now, as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley
only was in mute astonishment.--That a man who might have spent
his evening quietly at home after a day of business in London,
should set off again, and walk half a mile to another man's house,
for the sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing
his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers,
was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had been in motion
since eight o'clock in the morning, and might now have been still,
who had been long talking, and might have been silent, who had been
in more than one crowd, and might have been alone!--Such a man,
to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside,
and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out again into
the world!--Could he by a touch of his finger have instantly taken
back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming would
probably prolong rather than break up the party. John Knightley
looked at him with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said,
"I could not have believed it even of him."

Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation
he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and with all
the right of being principal talker, which a day spent anywhere
from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest;
and having satisfied the inquiries of his wife as to his dinner,
convincing her that none of all her careful directions to the servants
had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he had heard,
was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally
addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being
highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave her a letter,
it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way,
and had taken the liberty of opening it.

"Read it, read it," said he, "it will give you pleasure;
only a few lines--will not take you long; read it to Emma."

The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling
and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little subdued,
but very audible to every body.

"Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do
you say to it?--I always told you he would be here again soon,
did not I?--Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would
not believe me?--In town next week, you see--at the latest, I dare say;
for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is
to be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or Saturday.
As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is an excellent
thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay
a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us.
This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it?
Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up;
we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not
do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a
common way."

Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the occasion.
Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. She was happy,
she knew she was happy, and knew she ought to be happy.
Her congratulations were warm and open; but Emma could not speak
so fluently. She was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings,
and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she
rather thought was considerable.

Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative
to want others to talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say,
and soon moved away to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have overheard already.

It was well that he took every body's joy for granted, or he
might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or Mr. Knightley
particularly delighted. They were the first entitled,
after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;--from them he would
have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation
with John Knightley, that it would have been too positive
an interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and
her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her.

CHAPTER XVIII

"I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son to you,"
said Mr. Weston.

Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compliment intended
her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.

"You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume," he continued--
"and know him to be my son, though he does not bear my name."

"Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.
I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we
shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vicarage."

"You are very obliging.--Frank will be extremely happy, I am sure.--
He is to be in town next week, if not sooner. We have notice of it
in a letter to-day. I met the letters in my way this morning,
and seeing my son's hand, presumed to open it--though it was not directed
to me--it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent,
I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter."

"And so you absolutely opened what was directed to her! Oh! Mr. Weston--
(laughing affectedly) I must protest against that.--A most dangerous
precedent indeed!--I beg you will not let your neighbours follow
your example.--Upon my word, if this is what I am to expect,
we married women must begin to exert ourselves!--Oh! Mr. Weston,
I could not have believed it of you!"

"Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of yourself,
Mrs. Elton.--This letter tells us--it is a short letter--written in
a hurry, merely to give us notice--it tells us that they are all
coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill's account--she has
not been well the whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her--
so they are all to move southward without loss of time."

"Indeed!--from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?"

"Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from London.
a considerable journey."

"Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles farther
than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance, Mr. Weston,
to people of large fortune?--You would be amazed to hear how my brother,
Mr. Suckling, sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me--
but twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again
with four horses."

"The evil of the distance from Enscombe," said Mr. Weston, "is, that
Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able to leave the
sofa for a week together. In Frank's last letter she complained,
he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory without having
both his arm and his uncle's! This, you know, speaks a great degree
of weakness--but now she is so impatient to be in town, that she
means to sleep only two nights on the road.--So Frank writes word.
Certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions,
Mrs. Elton. You must grant me that."

"No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take the part
of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice--You will find me
a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand up for women--
and I assure you, if you knew how Selina feels with respect
to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill's
making incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite
horror to her--and I believe I have caught a little of her nicety.
She always travels with her own sheets; an excellent precaution.
Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?"

"Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any other
fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to any lady
in the land for"--

Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,

"Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine lady,
I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea."

"Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is
as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld."

Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in disclaiming so warmly.
It was by no means her object to have it believed that her sister
was not a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence
of it;--and she was considering in what way she had best retract,
when Mr. Weston went on.

"Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect--
but this is quite between ourselves. She is very fond of Frank,
and therefore I would not speak ill of her. Besides, she is out of
health now; but that indeed, by her own account, she has always been.
I would not say so to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much
faith in Mrs. Churchill's illness."

"If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?--To Bath,
or to Clifton?" "She has taken it into her head that Enscombe is too
cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is tired of Enscombe.
She has now been a longer time stationary there, than she ever
was before, and she begins to want change. It is a retired place.
A fine place, but very retired."

"Aye--like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand more retired from
the road than Maple Grove. Such an immense plantation all round it!
You seem shut out from every thing--in the most complete retirement.--
And Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina
to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have
resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life.
I always say a woman cannot have too many resources--and I feel
very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite independent
of society."

"Frank was here in February for a fortnight."

"So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition to the
society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if I may presume
to call myself an addition. But perhaps he may never have heard
of there being such a creature in the world."

This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed by,
and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,

"My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine such a
thing possible. Not heard of you!--I believe Mrs. Weston's
letters lately have been full of very little else than Mrs. Elton."

He had done his duty and could return to his son.

"When Frank left us," continued he, "it was quite uncertain when we
might see him again, which makes this day's news doubly welcome.
It has been completely unexpected. That is, I always had a strong
persuasion he would be here again soon, I was sure something
favourable would turn up--but nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston
were both dreadfully desponding. `How could he contrive to come?
And how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare
him again?' and so forth--I always felt that something would happen
in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton,
in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardly one month,
they are sure to mend the next."

"Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I used
to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship,
when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all
the rapidity which suited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair,
and exclaim that he was sure at this rate it would be May before
Hymen's saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have
been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views!
The carriage--we had disappointments about the carriage;--one morning,
I remember, he came to me quite in despair."

She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr. Weston instantly
seized the opportunity of going on.

"You were mentioning May. May is the very month which Mrs. Churchill
is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place
than Enscombe--in short, to spend in London; so that we have the
agreeable prospect of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring--
precisely the season of the year which one should have chosen
for it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant,
always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise. When he
was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal
of wet, damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you know,
and we could not do half that we intended. Now will be the time.
This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton,
whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant
expectation there will be of his coming in to-day or to-morrow,
and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happiness than having
him actually in the house. I think it is so. I think it is the
state of mind which gives most spirit and delight. I hope you
will be pleased with my son; but you must not expect a prodigy.
He is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.
Mrs. Weston's partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose,
most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him."

"And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt that my
opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard so much
in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.--At the same time it is fair
to observe, that I am one of those who always judge for themselves,
and are by no means implicitly guided by others. I give you notice
that as I find your son, so I shall judge of him.--I am no flatterer."

Mr. Weston was musing.

"I hope," said he presently, "I have not been severe upon poor
Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her injustice;
but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult
for me to speak of her with the forbearance I could wish.
You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my connexion with the family,
nor of the treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves,
the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the instigator.
Frank's mother would never have been slighted as she was but for her.
Mr. Churchill has pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife's:
his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would
harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome;
but her pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less
to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was nobody
when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman; but ever
since her being turned into a Churchill she has out-Churchill'd them
all in high and mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is
an upstart."

"Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I have quite
a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me a thorough disgust
to people of that sort; for there is a family in that neighbourhood
who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs
they give themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me
think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately
settled there, and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving
themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing with the old
established families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can
have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows.
They came from Birmingham, which is not a place to promise much,
you know, Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham.
I always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing
more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many things
I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners they evidently
think themselves equal even to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens
to be one of their nearest neighbours. It is infinitely too bad.
Mr. Suckling, who has been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove,
and whose father had it before him--I believe, at least--I am
almost sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before
his death."

They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. Weston,
having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of
walking away.

After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down with Mr. Woodhouse
to cards. The remaining five were left to their own powers,
and Emma doubted their getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed
little disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice,
which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself
in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer being silent.

Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his brother.
He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with--

"Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to say about
the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and every thing is
down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much
more concise than her's, and probably not much in the same spirit;
all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them,
and do not physic them."

"I rather hope to satisfy you both," said Emma, "for I shall do all
in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella;
and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic."

"And if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again."

"That is very likely. You think so, do not you?"

"I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father--
or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements
continue to increase as much as they have done lately."

"Increase!"

"Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has made
a great difference in your way of life."

"Difference! No indeed I am not."

"There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company
than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come
down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner-party!--
When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood
is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago,
every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties;
dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference
which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great."

"Yes," said his brother quickly, "it is Randalls that does it all."

"Very well--and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less
influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma,
that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are,
I only beg you to send them home."

"No," cried Mr. Knightley, "that need not be the consequence.
Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure."

"Upon my word," exclaimed Emma, "you amuse me! I should like to know
how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being
of the party; and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure
to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine--
what have they been? Dining once with the Coles--and having a ball
talked of, which never took place. I can understand you--(nodding at
Mr. John Knightley)--your good fortune in meeting with so many of
your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.
But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom
I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a
series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear
little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them,
I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley,
who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one--
and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling
his accounts."

Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and succeeded
without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton's beginning to talk to him.

VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma as to the
nature of her agitation on hearing this news of Frank Churchill.
She was soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at
all apprehensive or embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment
had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;--
but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love
of the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment
which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a separation
of two months should not have cooled him, there were dangers and evils
before her:--caution for him and for herself would be necessary.
She did not mean to have her own affections entangled again,
and it would be incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.

She wished she might be able to keep him from an absolute declaration.
That would be so very painful a conclusion of their present acquaintance!
and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive.
She felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis,
an event, a something to alter her present composed and tranquil state.

It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. Weston had foreseen,
before she had the power of forming some opinion of Frank Churchill's
feelings. The Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had
been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon afterwards. He rode
down for a couple of hours; he could not yet do more; but as he came
from Randalls immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all
her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced,
and how she must act. They met with the utmost friendliness.
There could be no doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her.
But she had an almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he
had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree.
She watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love than he
had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference,
had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.

He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever, and seemed
delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur to old stories:
and he was not without agitation. It was not in his calmness that
she read his comparative 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 prevented.
His aunt could not bear to have him leave her. Such was his own account
at Randall's. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to come,
it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill's removal to London had
been of no service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder.
That she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself
convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could
not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker state
of health than she had been half a year ago. He did not believe it
to proceed from any thing that care and medicine might not remove,
or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her;
but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father's doubts, to say
that her complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong
as ever.

It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. She could
not endure its noise. Her nerves were under continual irritation
and suffering; and by the ten days' end, her nephew's letter to
Randalls communicated a change of plan. They were going to remove
immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended
to the medical skill of an eminent person there, and had otherwise
a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite
spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.

Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement,
and seemed most fully to appreciate the blessing of having two
months before him of such near neighbourhood to many dear friends--
for the house was taken for May and June. She was told that now
he wrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them,
almost as often as he could even wish.

Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous prospects. He was
considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered.
She hoped it was not so. Two months must bring it to the proof.

Mr. Weston's own happiness was indisputable. He was quite delighted.
It was the very circumstance he could have wished for. Now, it would
be really having Frank in their neighbourhood. What were nine miles
to a young man?--An hour's ride. He would be always coming over.
The difference in that respect of Richmond and London was enough
to make the whole difference of seeing him always and seeing
him never. Sixteen miles--nay, eighteen--it must be full eighteen
to Manchester-street--was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able
to get away, the day would be spent in coming and returning.
There was no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be
at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.
Better than nearer!

One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty by this removal,--
the ball at the Crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had
been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. Now, however,
it was absolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon
after the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines from Frank,
to say that his aunt felt already much better for the change,
and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four
hours at any given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.

Mr. Weston's ball was to be a real thing. A very few to-morrows
stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness.

Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year lightened the evil
to him. May was better for every thing than February. Mrs. Bates
was engaged to spend the evening at Hartfield, James had due notice,
and he sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear
little John would have any thing the matter with them, while dear
Emma were gone.

CHAPTER II

No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,
the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching,
Frank Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls
before dinner, and every thing was safe.

No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma.
The room at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better
than a common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very
earnest in his entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible
after themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the
propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came,
that she could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet
interval in the young man's company. She was to convey Harriet,
and they drove to the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just
sufficiently before them.

Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though
he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have
a delightful evening. They all walked about together, to see
that every thing was as it should be; and within a few minutes
were joined by the contents of another carriage, which Emma
could not hear the sound of at first, without great surprize.
"So unreasonably early!" she was going to exclaim; but she presently
found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself,
by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and they were
so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been
entreated to come early with the same distinguishing earnestness,
on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company might
soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.

Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which
Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and
intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes,
was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity.
She liked his open manners, but a little less of open-heartedness
would have made him a higher character.--General benevolence,
but not general friendship, made a man what he ought to be.--
She could fancy such a man. The whole party walked about,
and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to do,
formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their
various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though May,
a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.

Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number
of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped
at Mrs. Bates's door to offer the use of their carriage,
but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons.

Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going
to the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--
impatient to begin, or afraid of being always near her.

Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he.
"I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much
of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she comes."

A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately;
but coming back, said,

"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward."

Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.

"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about.
"We thought you were to bring them."

The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now.
Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton
might be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress,
and her smiles of graciousness. He was immediately qualifying
himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention,
after the introduction had passed.

In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--
"I will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father:
"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston
was following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her
opinion of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young
man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out
of hearing.

"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told
you I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am
extremely pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment.
I think him a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely
what I like and approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least
conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--
quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove.
Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we
used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost
to a fault, bore with them much better."

While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained;
but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were
ladies just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must
hurry away.

Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being
our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are
so extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--
What a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--
I understand you were so kind as to offer, but another time it
will be quite unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always
take care of them."

Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen,
walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much
her duty as Mrs. Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and
movements might be understood by any one who looked on like Emma;
but her words, every body's words, were soon lost under the
incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not
finished her speech under many minutes after her being admitted
into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was heard,

"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify.
I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--
Well!--(as soon as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant
indeed!--This is admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word.
Nothing wanting. Could not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--
Jane, Jane, look!--did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston,
you must really have had Aladdin's lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes
would not know her own room again. I saw her as I came in;
she was standing in the entrance. `Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said I--
but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--
"Very well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well.
Very happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headach!--
seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged
to you for the carriage!--excellent time. Jane and I quite ready.
Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.--
Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score.
Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.--
But two such offers in one day!--Never were such neighbours.
I said to my mother, `Upon my word, ma'am--.' Thank you, my mother
is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her take
her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl--
Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were
three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time.
Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane,
are you sure you did not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two,
but I am so afraid:--but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--
and there was a mat to step upon--I shall never forget his
extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you
my mother's spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet
never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature.
Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?--
Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?--
Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!--
Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma
most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse,
you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are a judge.--
She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!--
No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare--
and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for
a moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--
Oh! there he is. Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking
to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the
other day as you rode through the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--
and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.--Such a host
of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!--How do you do? How do
you all do?--Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.--
Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can this be?--very likely the
worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about
among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am quite roasted.
No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A little tea
if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.
Every thing so good!"

Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss
Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the
discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little
way behind her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too,
she could not determine. After a good many compliments to Jane
on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly taken,
Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--
and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--
How has Wright done my hair?"--with many other relative questions,
all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said,
"Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such
an occasion as this, when every body's eyes are so much upon me,
and in compliment to the Westons--who I have no doubt are giving
this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish to be inferior
to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine.--
So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall see
if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
I like him very well."

At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could
not but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want
to hear more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while,
till another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly
forward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,

"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--
I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be
impatient for tidings of us."

"Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.--
"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I suppose."

"How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper.

"Not at all."

"You are ungrateful."

"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to
a smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--
Where is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?"

Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour.
He walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both
Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity,
which must be laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston
that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she would
expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma
that distinction.--Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.

"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."

Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise;
and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most
perfect approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was
wanting him to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business
was to help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--
Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton,
though she had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her.
It was almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had
undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified;
for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill, she could
not lose by the change. Mr. Weston might be his son's superior.--
In spite of this little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment,
delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was forming,
and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.--
She was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley's not dancing than by any
thing else.--There he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not
to be; he ought to be dancing,--not classing himself with the husbands,
and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending to feel an interest
in the dance till their rubbers were made up,--so young as he looked!--
He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere,
than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright figure,
among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of the elderly men,
was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes; and, excepting her
own partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men
who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike
a manner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he
but take the trouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him
to smile; but in general he was looking grave. She wished he could
love a ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.--
He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter herself that he
thought of her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour,
she did not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between
her and her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends,
than lovers. That Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done,
was indubitable.

The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body
seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball,
which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be,
was repeatedly given in the very beginning of the existence of this.
Of very important, very recordable events, it was not more productive
than such meetings usually are. There was one, however, which Emma
thought something of.--The two last dances before supper were begun,
and Harriet had no partner;--the only young lady sitting down;--
and so equal had been hitherto the number of dancers, that how there
could be any one disengaged was the wonder!--But Emma's wonder
lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about.
He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided:
she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him every moment to
escape into the card-room.

Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room
where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about
in front of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution
of maintaining it. He did not omit being sometimes directly
before Miss Smith, or speaking to those who were close to her.--
Emma saw it. She was not yet dancing; she was working her way
up from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look around,
and by only turning her head a little she saw it all. When she was
half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she
would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near,
that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which just then took
place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his wife,
who was standing immediately above her, was not only listening also,
but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The kind-hearted,
gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, "Do not
you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his prompt reply was, "Most readily,
Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."

"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself.
I am no dancer."

"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great pleasure,
I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old married man,
and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great
pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert."

"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith."
"Miss Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--
and if I were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over,
Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy
to do, at your command--but my dancing days are over."

Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what
surprize and mortification she must be returning to her seat.
This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.--
She looked round for a moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a
little distance, and was arranging himself for settled conversation,
while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.

She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared
her face might be as hot.

In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley
leading Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized,
seldom more delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure
and gratitude, both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be
thanking him; and though too distant for speech, her countenance
said much, as soon as she could catch his eye again.

His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it,
extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky,
if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, and for
the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of the distinction
which her happy features announced. It was not thrown away on her,
she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle,
and was in a continual course of smiles.

Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted)
very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife,
though growing very like her;--she spoke some of her feelings,
by observing audibly to her partner,

"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very goodnatured,
I declare."

Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be
heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being
seated at table and taking up her spoon.

"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet.
Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid
there will be draughts in the passage, though every thing has
been done--One door nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane,
indeed you must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging!
How well you put it on!--so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!--
Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help grandmama
to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me.--I set off without
saying a word, just as I told you. Grandmama was quite well,
had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat,
and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples
and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of her throws:
and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were amused,
and who were your partners. `Oh!' said I, `I shall not forestall Jane;
I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you
all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton,
I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.'
My dear sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would
not rather?--I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word,
Jane on one arm, and me on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand
a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant
she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we are at the passage.
Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is
but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd!
I was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any
thing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling
you of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--
The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know;
but there was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus
brought in at first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the
asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now there
is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus--
so she was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak of it
to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse,
who would be so very much concerned!--Well, this is brilliant!
I am all amazement! could not have supposed any thing!--Such
elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing like it since--
Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere, so that
Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is of no consequence.
Oh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--
only it seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct
in this house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever
recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me!
I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, and I
cannot help beginning."

Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till
after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again,
her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked.
He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been
unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due
share of censure.

"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he. "Emma, why
is it that they are your enemies?"

He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving
no answer, added, "She ought not to be angry with you, I suspect,
whatever he may be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course;
but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet."

"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."

He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it,
and he only said,

"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections."

"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever
tell me I am wrong?"

"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads
you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it."

"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton.
There is a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I
did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet.
It was through a series of strange blunders!"

"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice
to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has chosen for
himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton
is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl--
infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such
a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected."

Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle
of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.

"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all doing?--
Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!"

"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted."

"Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley.

She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will
ask me."

"Will you?" said he, offering his hand.

"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we
are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."

"Brother and sister! no, indeed."

CHAPTER III

This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma considerable
pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball,
which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.--She was
extremely glad that they had come to so good an understanding respecting
the Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so
much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in her favour,
was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of the Eltons, which for
a few minutes had threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been
the occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked
forward to another happy result--the cure of Harriet's infatuation.--
From Harriet's manner of speaking of the circumstance before they
quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes
were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton
was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever
was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being
quickened again by injurious courtesy. She depended on the evil
feelings of the Eltons for supplying all the discipline of pointed
neglect that could be farther requisite.--Harriet rational,
Frank Churchill not too much in love, and Mr. Knightley not
wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must be before her!

She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He had told
her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping
at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of the day.
She did not regret it.

Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all
to rights, she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up
for the demands of the two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa,
when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered
whom she had never less expected to see together--Frank Churchill,
with Harriet leaning on his arm--actually Harriet!--A moment
sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had happened.
Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.--
The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;--
they were all three soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking
into a chair fainted away.

A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered,
and surprizes be explained. Such events are very interesting,
but the suspense of them cannot last long. A few minutes made Emma
acquainted with the whole.

Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour boarder at
Mrs. Goddard's, who had been also at the ball, had walked out together,
and taken a road, the Richmond road, which, though apparently public
enough for safety, had led them into alarm.--About half a mile
beyond Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms
on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired;
and when the young ladies had advanced some way into it,
they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them,
on a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies.
A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton,
excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet
to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top,
and made the best of her way by a short cut back to Highbury.
But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered very much
from cramp after dancing, and her first attempt to mount the bank
brought on such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless--
and in this state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged
to remain.

How the trampers might have behaved, had the young ladies been
more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attack
could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon assailed by half a
dozen children, headed by a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous,
and impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.--More and
more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out
her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more,
or to use her ill.--She was then able to walk, though but slowly,
and was moving away--but her terror and her purse were too tempting,
and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang,
demanding more.

In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trembling
and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most fortunate
chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so as to bring him
to her assistance at this critical moment. The pleasantness
of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave his
horses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury--
and happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night before
of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore them, he had
been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes:
he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot,
was unseen by the whole party till almost close to them.
The terror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet
was then their own portion. He had left them completely frightened;
and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak,
had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, before her spirits
were quite overcome. It was his idea to bring her to Hartfield:
he had thought of no other place.

This was the amount of the whole story,--of his communication and
of Harriet's as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.--
He dared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays
left him not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give
assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there
being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley,
he set off, with all the grateful blessings that she could utter
for her friend and herself.

Such an adventure as this,--a fine young man and a lovely young
woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting
certain ideas to the coldest heart and the steadiest brain.
So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, could a grammarian,
could even a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their
appearance together, and heard their history of it, without feeling
that circumstances had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting
to each other?--How much more must an imaginist, like herself,
be on fire with speculation and foresight!--especially with such
a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.

It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort had ever
occurred before to any young ladies in the place, within her memory;
no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;--and now it had happened
to the very person, and at the very hour, when the other very
person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!--It certainly
was very extraordinary!--And knowing, as she did, the favourable
state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more.
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to herself,
she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if
every thing united to promise the most interesting consequences.
It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly
recommending each to the other.

In the few minutes' conversation which she had yet had with him,
while Harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of her terror,
her 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 abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms.
Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled
nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a hint.
No, she had had enough of interference. There could be no harm
in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no more than a wish.
Beyond it she would on no account proceed.

Emma's first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge
of what had passed,--aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion:
but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. Within half
an hour it was known all over Highbury. It was the very event
to engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and all
the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of
frightful news. The last night's ball seemed lost in the gipsies.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had foreseen,
would scarcely be satisfied without their promising never to go
beyond the shrubbery again. It was some comfort to him that many
inquiries after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours
knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss Smith,
were coming in during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure
of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent--
which, though not exactly true, for she was perfectly well,
and Harriet not much otherwise, Emma would not interfere with.
She had an unhappy state of health in general for the child of such
a man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not
invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a message.

The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice; they took
themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have
walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole
history dwindled soon into a matter of little importance but to Emma
and her nephews:--in her imagination it maintained its ground,
and Henry and John were still asking every day for the story of
Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right
if she varied in the slightest particular from the original recital.

CHAPTER IV

A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came
one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after
sitting down and hesitating, thus began:

"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I
should like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then,
you know, it will be over."

Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak.
There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her,
quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary.

"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued,
"to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily
quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you
should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say
more than is necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way
as I have done, and I dare say you understand me."

"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do."

"How I could so long a time be fancying myself! . . ."
cried Harriet, warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing
at all extraordinary in him now.--I do not care whether I meet
him or not--except that of the two I had rather not see him--
and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him--but I do
not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire her nor envy her,
as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and all that,
but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall never forget
her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss Woodhouse,
I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you
that I have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I
ought to have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--
I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I
will destroy it all--and it is my particular wish to do it
in your presence, that you may see how rational I am grown.
Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?" said she, with a conscious look.

"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"

"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have
valued very much."

She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words Most
precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience.
Within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,
which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton;
but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.

"Now," said Harriet, "you must recollect."

"No, indeed I do not."

"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget
what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very
last times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I
had my sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--
I think the very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger
with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--
But, as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired
me to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece;
but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept
playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me.
And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it--
so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then
as a great treat."

"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,
and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving
this relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting
the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none
about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in
my pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a
continual blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--
go on--what else?"

"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never
suspected it, you did it so naturally."

"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself,
"Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton
a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about!
I never was equal to this."

"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is
something still more valuable, I mean that has been more valuable,
because this is what did really once belong to him, which the
court-plaister never did."

Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end
of an old pencil,--the part without any lead.

"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember
one morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget
exactly the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before
that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book;
it was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him
something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down;
but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he
soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him another,
and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept
my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never
parted with it again from that moment."

"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--
Talking about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we
liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too.
I perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here,
was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here."

"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd,
but I cannot recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember,
much about where I am now."--

"Well, go on."

"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--
except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire,
and I wish you to see me do it."

"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness
in treasuring up these things?"

"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish
I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong
of me, you know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married.
I knew it was--but had not resolution enough to part with them."

"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have
not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister
might be useful."

"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has
a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--
There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."

"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?"

She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was
already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had
told no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a
fortnight after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation,
and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment,
which made the information she received more valuable.
She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet,
whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so"--and thought
no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet
say in a very serious tone, "I shall never marry."

Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,

"Never marry!--This is a new resolution."

"It is one that I shall never change, however."

After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--
I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"

"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma
could just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!"

She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed
no farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--
Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did;
or perhaps if she were totally silent, it might only drive
Harriet into asking her to hear too much; and against any thing
like such an unreserve as had been, such an open and frequent
discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.--
She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once,
all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best.
She had previously determined how far she would proceed,
on any application of the sort; and it would be safer for both,
to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--
She was decided, and thus spoke--

"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning.
Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying,
results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer,
would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you.
Is not it so?"

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--
Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him
at a distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all
the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration,
which are so proper, in me especially."

"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered
you was enough to warm your heart."

"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--
The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--
when I saw him coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before.
Such a change! In one moment such a change! From perfect misery
to perfect happiness!"

"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--
Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--
But that it will be a fortunate preference is more that I can promise.
I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any
means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about.
Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can:
at any rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded
of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the
guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I
shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined
against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter.
Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before;
we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt, and there
do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature;
but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have
been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself.
I would not have you too sanguine; though, however it may end,
be assured your raising your thoughts to him, is a mark of good taste
which I shall always know how to value."

Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude.
Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing
for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--
and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation.

CHAPTER V

In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June opened
upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change.
The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings,
and of the use to be made of their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax
was still at her grandmother's; and as the return of the Campbells
from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer,
fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer,
provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity
in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful
situation against her will.

Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to himself, had certainly
taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike
him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his
pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable.
Every thing declared it; his own attentions, his father's hints,
his mother-in-law's guarded silence; it was all in unison;
words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story.
But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him
over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination
to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it; but there
were symptoms of intelligence between them--he thought so at least--
symptoms of admiration on his side, which, having once observed,
he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning,
however he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination.
She was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining
with the Randalls family, and Jane, at the Eltons'; and he had
seen a look, more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which,
from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place.
When he was again in their company, he could not help remembering
what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations which, unless it
were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,

"Myself creating what I saw,"

brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something
of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank
Churchill and Jane.

He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did,
to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going
to walk; he joined them; and, on returning, they fell in with a
larger party, who, like themselves, judged it wisest to take their
exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston
and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met.
They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it
was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father,
pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls
party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech
from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it
possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging invitation.

As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback.
The gentlemen spoke of his horse.

"By the bye," said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently,
"what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?"

Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, "I did not know that he
ever had any such plan."

"Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago."

"Me! impossible!"

"Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as
what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody,
and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to her persuasion,
as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal
of harm. You must remember it now?"

"Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment."

"Never! really, never!--Bless me! how could it be?--Then I must
have dreamt it--but I was completely persuaded--Miss Smith,
you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find
yourself at home."

"What is this?--What is this?" cried Mr. Weston, "about Perry
and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank?
I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?"

"No, sir," replied his son, laughing, "I seem to have had it
from nobody.--Very odd!--I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's
having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago,
with all these particulars--but as she declares she never heard
a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I am
a great dreamer. I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away--
and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I begin
dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry."

"It is odd though," observed his father, "that you should have had such
a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you
should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his carriage!
and his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health--
just what will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other;
only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes
runs through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities
it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that Highbury is in
your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer,
I think?"

Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests
to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach
of Mr. Weston's hint.

"Why, to own the truth," cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain
to be heard the last two minutes, "if I must speak on this subject,
there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have--I do not
mean to say that he did not dream it--I am sure I have sometimes
the oddest dreams in the world--but if I am questioned about it,
I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring;
for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles
knew of it as well as ourselves--but it was quite a secret,
known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days.
Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came
to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she
had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us
of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to--
very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls.
Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother--indeed I do
not know who is not--and she had mentioned it to her in confidence;
she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not
to go beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it
to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively
answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know I do
sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker,
you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing
escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I were.
I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world.
Where is she?--Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming.--
Extraordinary dream, indeed!"

They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded
Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face,
where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away,
he had involuntarily turned to hers; but she was indeed behind,
and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two
other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley
suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye--
he seemed watching her intently--in vain, however, if it were so--
Jane passed between them into the hall, and looked at neither.

There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must
be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round
the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield,
and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and
persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pembroke,
on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded.
Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.

"Miss Woodhouse," said Frank Churchill, after examining a table
behind him, which he could reach as he sat, "have your nephews taken
away their alphabets--their box of letters? It used to stand here.
Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening, that ought
to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement
with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again."

Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table
was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much
disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming
words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled.
The quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for
Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated sort,
which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily
occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure
of the "poor little boys," or in fondly pointing out, as he took
up any stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma had written it.

Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave
a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to it.
Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them--and Mr. Knightley
so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much
as he could, with as little apparent observation. The word
was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away. If meant
to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight,
she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across,
for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word,
and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work.
She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help.
The word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it,
there was a blush on Jane's cheek which gave it a meaning not
otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream;
but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension.
How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been
so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided involvement.
Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn.
These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick.
It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank
Churchill's part.

With great indignation did he continue to observe him; with great
alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions.
He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look
sly and demure. He saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found
it highly entertaining, though it was something which she judged it
proper to appear to censure; for she said, "Nonsense! for shame!"
He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane,
"I will give it to her--shall I?"--and as clearly heard Emma
opposing it with eager laughing warmth. "No, no, you must not;
you shall not, indeed."

It was done however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love
without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance,
directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular
degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's
excessive curiosity to know what this word might be, made him seize
every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was
not long before he saw it to be Dixon. Jane Fairfax's perception
seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was certainly more equal
to the covert meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters
so arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and seeing
herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her,
and saying only, "I did not know that proper names were allowed,"
pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked
resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered.
Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned
towards her aunt.

"Aye, very true, my dear," cried the latter, though Jane had not
spoken a word--"I was just going to say the same thing. It is time
for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in, and grandmama
will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging.
We really must wish you good night."

Jane's alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt
had preconceived. She was immediately up, and wanting to quit
the table; but so many were also moving, that she could not get away;
and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously
pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined.
She was afterwards looking for her shawl--Frank Churchill was
looking also--it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion;
and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell.

He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full
of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came to assist
his observations, he must--yes, he certainly must, as a friend--
an anxious friend--give Emma some hint, ask her some question.
He could not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to
preserve her. It was his duty.

"Pray, Emma," said he, "may I ask in what lay the great amusement,
the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Fairfax?
I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very
entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other."

Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the
true explanation; for though her suspicions were by no means removed,
she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them.

"Oh!" she cried in evident embarrassment, "it all meant nothing;
a mere joke among ourselves."

"The joke," he replied gravely, "seemed confined to you
and Mr. Churchill."

He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would
rather busy herself about any thing than speak. He sat a little
while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference--
fruitless interference. Emma's confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy,
seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak.
He owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in
an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to encounter
any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.

"My dear Emma," said he at last, with earnest kindness, "do you
think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between
the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?"

"Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh! yes, perfectly.--
Why do you make a doubt of it?"

"Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her,
or that she admired him?"

"Never, never!" she cried with a most open eagerness--"Never, for
the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me.
And how could it possibly come into your head?"

"I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them--
certain expressive looks, which I did not believe meant to be public."

"Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you
can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander--but it will not do--
very sorry to check you in your first essay--but indeed it will
not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you;
and the appearances which have caught you, have arisen from some
peculiar circumstances--feelings rather of a totally different nature--
it is impossible exactly to explain:--there is a good deal of
nonsense in it--but the part which is capable of being communicated,
which is sense, is, that they are as far from any attachment or
admiration for one another, as any two beings in the world can be.
That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its
being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference."

She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction
which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would
have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars
of his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows
of a circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did
not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings
were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated
into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender
habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon
afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness
and solitude of Donwell Abbey.

CHAPTER VI

After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and
Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification
of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn.
No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores
at present. In the daily interchange of news, they must be again
restricted to the other topics with which for a while the Sucklings'
coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
whose health seemed every day to supply a different report,
and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped
might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child,
as that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.

Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great
deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations
must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of.
So she thought at first;--but a little consideration convinced
her that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they
explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come? They could
go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they
should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been
long generally known: it had even given the idea of another.
Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body
found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed
to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three more
of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to
be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior
to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking,
and picnic parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.

This was so very well understood between them, that Emma could
not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing
from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her
brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite,
and go together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded
to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her
objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton,
of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth
bringing forward again:--it could not be done without a reproof
to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found
herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she
would have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which would
probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be of
Mrs. Elton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the forbearance
of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity
in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper.

"I am glad you approve of what I have done," said he very comfortably.
"But I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing
without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party
secures its own amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out."

Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.

It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and Mrs. Elton
was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston
as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw
every thing into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be
only a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations
could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation.
Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack.

"Is not this most 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 was famous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for
the invitation: but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have
been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.
She promised him again and again to come--much oftener than
he doubted--and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy,
such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it.

"You may depend upon me," said she. "I certainly will come.
Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to bring
Jane Fairfax?"

"I cannot name a day," said he, "till I have spoken to some others
whom I would wish to meet you."

"Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.--I am
Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends
with me."

"I hope you will bring Elton," said he: "but I will not trouble
you to give any other invitations."

"Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider--you need not be afraid
of delegating power to me. I am no young lady on her preferment.
Married women, you know, may be safely authorised. It is my party.
Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests."

"No,"--he calmly replied,--"there is but one married woman in the world
whom I can ever allow to invite what guests she pleases to Donwell,
and that one is--"

"--Mrs. Weston, I suppose," interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified.

"No--Mrs. Knightley;--and till she is in being, I will manage
such matters myself."

"Ah! you are an odd creature!" she cried, satisfied to have no
one preferred to herself.--"You are a humourist, and may say what
you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me--
Jane and her aunt.--The rest I leave to you. I have no objections
at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know
you are attached to them."

"You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall call
on Miss Bates in my way home."

"That's quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:--but as you like.
It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley; quite a simple thing.
I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets
hanging on my arm. Here,--probably this basket with pink ribbon.
Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have such another.
There is to be no form or parade--a sort of gipsy party. We are
to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves,
and sit under trees;--and whatever else you may like to provide,
it is to be all out of doors--a table spread in the shade, you know.
Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?"

"Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be to have
the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity
of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think
is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house."

"Well--as you please; only don't have a great set out. And, by the bye,
can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion?--
Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges,
or to inspect anything--"

"I have not the least wish for it, I thank you."

"Well--but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper
is extremely clever."

"I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clever,
and would spurn any body's assistance."

"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to come
on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me--and my caro sposo walking by.
I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country
life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a woman have
ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut
up at home;--and very long walks, you know--in summer there is dust,
and in winter there is dirt."

"You will not find either, between Donwell and Highbury.
Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on
a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole's.
I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible."

"That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend.
Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, I know you have the
warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humourist.--
Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention
to me in the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very thing
to please me."

Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade.
He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well as Emma, to join the party;
and he knew that to have any of them sitting down out of doors
to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not,
under the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two
spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.

He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to upbraid
him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been
at Donwell for two years. "Some very fine morning, he, and Emma,
and Harriet, could go very well; and he could sit still with
Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens.
He did not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of
the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly,
and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other
of his neighbours.--He could not see any objection at all to his,
and Emma's, and Harriet's going there some very fine morning.
He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them--
very kind and sensible--much cleverer than dining out.--He was not
fond of dining out."

Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body's most ready concurrence.
The invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemed as if,
like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular
compliment to themselves.--Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked,
promised to get Frank over to join them, if possible; a proof
of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with.--
Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad
to see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing,
and spare no arguments to induce him to come.

In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that the party
to Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and at last Donwell
was settled for one day, and Box Hill for the next,--the weather
appearing exactly right.

Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, Mr. Woodhouse
was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down,
to partake of this al-fresco party; and in one of the most
comfortable rooms in the Abbey, especially prepared for him by a
fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease,
ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise
every body to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.--
Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired,
and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the others
were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathiser.

It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that as soon as she
was satisfied of her father's comfort, she was glad to leave him,
and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with
more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house
and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.

She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance
with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant,
as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building,
its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation, low and sheltered--
its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream,
of which the Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect,
had scarcely a sight--and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues,
which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.--The house
was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good
deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable,
and one or two handsome rooms.--It was just what it ought to be,
and it looked what it was--and Emma felt an increasing respect
for it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility,
untainted in blood and understanding.--Some faults of temper John
Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably.
She had given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could
raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about
and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did,
and collect round the strawberry-beds.--The whole party were assembled,
excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond;
and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet
and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering,
accepting, or talking--strawberries, and only strawberries,
could now be thought or spoken of.--"The best fruit in England--
every body's favourite--always wholesome.--These the finest beds
and finest sorts.--Delightful to gather for one's self--the only way
of really enjoying them.--Morning decidedly the best time--never tired--
every sort good--hautboy infinitely superior--no comparison--
the others hardly eatable--hautboys very scarce--Chili preferred--
white wood finest flavour of all--price of strawberries in London--
abundance about Bristol--Maple Grove--cultivation--beds when to
be renewed--gardeners thinking exactly different--no general rule--
gardeners never to be put out of their way--delicious fruit--
only too rich to be eaten much of--inferior to cherries--
currants more refreshing--only objection to gathering strawberries
the stooping--glaring sun--tired to death--could bear it no longer--
must go and sit in the shade."

Such, for half an hour, was the conversation--interrupted only
once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her
son-in-law, to inquire if he were come--and she was a little uneasy.--
She had some fears of his horse.

Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma was obliged
to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of.--
A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton
had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures.
It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge,
but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them: it was
with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling,
a lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming, superior,
first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing--and Mrs. Elton
was wild to have the offer closed with immediately.--On her side,
all was warmth, energy, and triumph--and she positively refused
to take her friend's negative, though Miss Fairfax continued
to assure her that she would not at present engage in any thing,
repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before.--
Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence
by the morrow's post.--How Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing
to Emma.--She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly--and at last,
with a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.--
"Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them the gardens--
all the gardens?--She wished to see the whole extent."--The pertinacity
of her friend seemed more than she could bear.

It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered,
dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly
followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short
avenue of limes, which stretching beyond the garden at an equal
distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.--
It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone
wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their erection,
to give the appearance of an approach to the house, which never had
been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such
a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view
which closed it extremely pretty.--The considerable slope, at nearly
the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper
form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank
of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;--
and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed and sheltered,
rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river
making a close and handsome curve around it.

It was a sweet view--sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure,
English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright,
without being oppressive.

In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled;
and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley
and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet!--It was an odd 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 believe, or to say, that it must be
by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.--
Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration;
she behaved very well, and betrayed no emotion.

The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more
to see what had not yet been seen, the old Abbey fish-ponds;
perhaps get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting
on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the pleasure of being hot,
and growing cool again.--Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken
his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no
damps from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more;
and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston
might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety
which her spirits seemed to need.

Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's
entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos,
corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets,
had been prepared for his old friend, to while away the morning;
and the kindness had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been
exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to him,
and now he would shew them all to Emma;--fortunate in having no other
resemblance to a child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw,
for he was slow, constant, and methodical.--Before this second looking
over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake
of a few moments' free observation of the entrance and ground-plot
of the house--and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax appeared,
coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look of escape.--
Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start
at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.

"Will you be so kind," said she, "when I am missed, as to say
that I am gone home?--I am going this moment.--My aunt is not aware
how late it is, nor how long we have been absent--but I am sure we
shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly.--I have said
nothing about it to any body. It would only be giving trouble
and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they do,
will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?"

"Certainly, if you wish it;--but you are not going to walk
to Highbury alone?"

"Yes--what should hurt me?--I walk fast. I shall be at home
in twenty minutes."

"But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone.
Let my father's servant go with you.--Let me order the carriage.
It can be round in five minutes."

"Thank you, thank you--but on no account.--I would rather walk.--
And for me to be afraid of walking alone!--I, who may so soon have
to guard others!"

She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly replied,
"That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now.
I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger.--You are
fatigued already."

"I am,"--she answered--"I am fatigued; but it is not the sort
of fatigue--quick walking will refresh me.--Miss Woodhouse, we all
know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine, I confess,
are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let
me have my own way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary."

Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all; and entering
into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately,
and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting
look was grateful--and her parting words, "Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
the comfort of being sometimes alone!"--seemed to burst from
an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual
endurance to be practised by her, even towards some of those who
loved her best.

"Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!" said Emma, as she turned back
into the hall again. "I do pity you. And the more sensibility
you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you."

Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only
accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank
Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him,
she had forgotten to think of him--but she was very glad to see him.
Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The black mare was blameless;
they were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.
He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her;
a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours--and he had quite given
up every thought of coming, till very late;--and had he known how hot
a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be,
he believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive;
he had never suffered any thing like it--almost wished he had staid
at home--nothing killed him like heat--he could bear any degree of cold,
etc., but heat was intolerable--and he sat down, at the greatest
possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire,
looking very deplorable.

"You will soon be cooler, if you sit still," said Emma.

"As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very
ill be spared--but such a point had been made of my coming!
You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole party breaking up.
I met one as I came--Madness in such weather!--absolute madness!"

Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's
state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being
out of humour. Some people were always cross when they were hot.
Such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating
and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints,
she recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance
of every thing in the dining-room--and she humanely pointed out
the door.

"No--he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would only make
him hotter." In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour;
and muttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned
all her attention to her father, saying in secret--

"I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a
man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet
easy temper will not mind it."

He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came
back all the better--grown quite cool--and, with good manners,
like himself--able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest
in their employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he
should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but seemed
trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense
very agreeably. They were looking over views in Swisserland.

"As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad," said he.
"I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places.
You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at--or my tour
to read--or my poem. I shall do something to expose myself."

"That may be--but not by sketches in Swisserland. You will
never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow
you to leave England."

"They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be prescribed
for her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad.
I assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion, this morning,
that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired
of doing nothing. I want a change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse,
whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy--I am sick of England--
and would leave it to-morrow, if I could."

"You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent
a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay?"

"I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mistaken.
I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am
thwarted in every thing material. I do not consider myself at all
a fortunate person."

"You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came.
Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well.
Another slice of cold meat, another draught of Madeira and water,
will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us."

"No--I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure."

"We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;--you will join us.
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young
man so much in want of a change. You will stay, and go with us?"

"No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the evening."

"But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning."

"No--It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross."

"Then pray stay at Richmond."

"But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think
of you all there without me."

"These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself.
Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more."

The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected.
With some there was great joy at the sight of Frank Churchill;
others took it very composedly; but there was a very general distress
and disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained.
That it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with
a short final arrangement for the next day's scheme, they parted.
Frank Churchill's little inclination to exclude himself increased
so much, that his last words to Emma were,

"Well;--if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will."

She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a summons from
Richmond was to take him back before the following evening.

CHAPTER VII

They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other outward
circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality,
were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole,
officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every
body was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates
and her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting
but to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were travelled
in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration
on first arriving; but in the general amount of the day there
was deficiency. There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union,
which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties.
The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss
Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill.
And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed
at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.
Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix,
and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours
that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation,
between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any
cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.

At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank
Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing--
looked without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without
knowing what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that
Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.

When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better,
for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object.
Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her.
To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he
cared for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered,
was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement,
the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first
and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now,
in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most
people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English
word but flirtation could very well describe. "Mr. Frank Churchill
and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively." They were laying
themselves open to that very phrase--and to having it sent off
in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity;
it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected.
She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him
for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,
admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning
back her heart. She still intended him for her friend.

"How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come to-day!--
If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the
happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again."

"Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about,
except that you were too late for the best strawberries.
I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble.
You begged hard to be commanded to come."

"Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me."

"It is hotter to-day."

"Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day."

"You are comfortable because you are under command."

"Your command?--Yes."

"Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had,
somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away from your
own management; but to-day you are got back again--and as I cannot
be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your
own command rather than mine."

"It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without
a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. And you can
be always with me. You are always with me."

"Dating from three o'clock yesterday. My perpetual influence
could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much
out of humour before."

"Three o'clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I had seen
you first in February."

"Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her voice)--
nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be
talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people."

"I say nothing of which I am ashamed," replied he, with lively impudence.
"I saw you first in February. Let every body on the Hill hear me if
they can. Let my accents swell to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking
on the other. I saw you first in February." And then whispering--
"Our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them?
Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen,
I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides)
to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of?"

Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss Bates said a great deal;
Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding;
Mr. Knightley's answer was the most distinct.

"Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are
all thinking of?"

"Oh! no, no"--cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could--
"Upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I
would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any thing rather
than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all.
There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet,)
whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing."

"It is a sort of thing," cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,
"which I should not have thought myself privileged to
inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party--
I never was in any circle--exploring parties--young ladies--married women--"

Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he murmured,
in reply,

"Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed--quite unheard of--
but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off as a joke.
Every body knows what is due to you."

"It will not do," whispered Frank to Emma; "they are most
of them affronted. I will attack them with more address.
Ladies and gentlemen--I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she
waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of,
and only requires something very entertaining from each of you,
in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she
is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only
demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose
or verse, original or repeated--or two things moderately clever--
or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily
at them all."

"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy.
`Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know.
I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open
my mouth, shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured
dependence on every body's assent)--Do not you all think I shall?"

Emma could not resist.

"Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me--but you
will be limited as to number--only three at once."

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not
immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could
not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

"Ah!--well--to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to
Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make
myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing
to an old friend."

"I like your plan," cried Mr. Weston. "Agreed, agreed. I will do
my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon?"

"Low, I am afraid, sir, very low," answered his son;--"but we shall
be indulgent--especially to any one who leads the way."

"No, no," said Emma, "it will not reckon low. A conundrum of
Mr. Weston's shall clear him and his next neighbour. Come, sir,
pray let me hear it."

"I doubt its being very clever myself," said Mr. Weston.
"It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.--What two letters
of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?"

"What two letters!--express perfection! I am sure I do not know."

"Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain, will
never guess.--I will tell you.--M. and A.--Em-ma.--Do you understand?"

Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very
indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh
at and enjoy in it--and so did Frank and Harriet.--It did not seem
to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid
about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said,

"This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston
has done very well for himself; but he must have knocked up every
body else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon."

"Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused," said Mrs. Elton;
"I really cannot attempt--I am not at all fond of the sort of thing.
I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not
at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!--
You know who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things
are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire;
but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring
about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me.
I am not one of those who have witty things at every body's service.
I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity
in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak
and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill.
Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say--
not one of us.

"Yes, yes, pray pass me," added her husband, with a sort of
sneering consciousness; "I have nothing to say that can entertain
Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old married man--
quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta?"

"With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long
on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm."

Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off.
"Happy couple!" said Frank Churchill, as soon as they were out
of hearing:--"How well they suit one another!--Very lucky--marrying as
they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place!--They only
knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!--
for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath,
or any public place, can give--it is all nothing; there can be
no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes,
among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form
any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck--
and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself
on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!"

Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her
own confederates, spoke now.

"Such things do occur, undoubtedly."--She was stopped by a cough.
Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.

"You were speaking," said he, gravely. She recovered her voice.

"I was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances
do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them
to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise--
but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would
be understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters,
(whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience,
an oppression for ever."

He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in submission; and soon
afterwards said, in a lively tone,

"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever
I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife for me. Will you?
(turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife for me?--I am sure I
should like any body fixed on by you. You provide for the family,
you know, (with a smile at his father). Find some body for me.
I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her."

"And make her like myself."

"By all means, if you can."

"Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife."

"She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for nothing else.
I shall go abroad for a couple of years--and when I return,
I shall come to you for my wife. Remember."

Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every
favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described?
Hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished.
He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment;
who could say? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it.

"Now, ma'am," said Jane to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Elton?"

"If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready.
I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well.
We shall soon overtake her. There she is--no, that's somebody else.
That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her.--
Well, I declare--"

They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley.
Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only remained; and the young
man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew
tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather
walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone,
and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful
views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out
for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight;
and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart,
and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first,
were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was
to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure.
Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people,
she hoped never to be betrayed into again.

While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley by her side.
He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said,

"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do:
a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still
use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance.
How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so
insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?--
Emma, I had not thought it possible."

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

"Nay, how could I help saying what I did?--Nobody could have helped it.
It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me."

"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked
of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it--
with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her
honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions,
as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father,
when her society must be so irksome."

"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world:
but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculous are
most unfortunately blended in her."

"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous,
I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous
over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every
harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you
for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation--
but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor;
she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live
to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure
your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known
from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her
notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits,
and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her--and before
her niece, too--and before others, many of whom (certainly some,)
would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.--This is not
pleasant to you, Emma--and it is very far from pleasant to me;
but I must, I will,--I will tell you truths while I can;
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel,
and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice
than you can do now."

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage;
it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in.
He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted,
and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger
against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not
been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back
for a moment overcome--then reproaching herself for having taken
no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness,
she looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference;
but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were
in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon,
with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill,
and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could
have been expressed--almost beyond what she could conceal.
Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance
in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of this
representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart.
How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could
she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude,
of concurrence, of common kindness!

Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she seemed
but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed. Happily it
was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not
in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma
felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home,
without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.

CHAPTER VIII

The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma's thoughts all
the evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the party,
she could not tell. They, in their different homes, and their different
ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view it
was a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational
satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection,
than any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon with
her father, was felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure,
for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four
to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree
of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her
general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter,
she hoped she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could
have said to her, "How could you be so unfeeling to your father?--
I must, I will tell you truths while I can." Miss Bates should
never again--no, never! If attention, in future, could do away
the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,
her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought
than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.
In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her the
very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side,
of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.

She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early,
that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought,
that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might
come in while she were paying her visit. She had no objection.
She would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly
and truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she
saw him not.

"The ladies were all at home." She had never rejoiced at the sound
before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs,
with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation,
or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.

There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking.
She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry;
the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased
to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and
niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had
a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door
had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, "Well, my dear,
I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are
ill enough."

Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she
did not quite understand what was going on.

"I am afraid Jane is not very well," said she, "but I do not know;
they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter will be here presently,
Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty had not gone.
I am very little able--Have you a chair, ma'am? Do you sit where
you like? I am sure she will be here presently."

Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss
Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came--"Very happy
and obliged"--but Emma's conscience told her that there was not the
same cheerful volubility as before--less ease of look and manner.
A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead
the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate.

"Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!--I suppose you have heard--
and are come to give us joy. This does not seem much like joy,
indeed, in me--(twinkling away a tear or two)--but it will be
very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long,
and she has a dreadful headach just now, writing all the morning:--
such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel Campbell,
and Mrs. Dixon. `My dear,' said I, `you will blind yourself'--
for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder,
one cannot wonder. It is a great change; and though she is
amazingly fortunate--such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman
before ever met with on first going out--do not think us ungrateful,
Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune--(again dispersing
her tears)--but, poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache
she has. When one is in great pain, you know one cannot feel
any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible.
To look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she
is to have secured such a situation. You will excuse her not
coming to you--she is not able--she is gone into her own room--
I want her to lie down upon the bed. `My dear,' said I, `I shall
say you are laid down upon the bed:' but, however, she is not;
she is walking about the room. But, now that she has written
her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will be extremely
sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will
excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door--I was quite ashamed--
but somehow there was a little bustle--for it so happened that we
had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did
not know any body was coming. `It is only Mrs. Cole,' said I,
`depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early.' `Well,' said she,
`it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now.'
But then Patty came in, and said it was you. `Oh!' said I,
`it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.'--
`I can see nobody,' said she; and up she got, and would go away;
and that was what made us keep you waiting--and extremely sorry
and ashamed we were. `If you must go, my dear,' said I, `you must,
and I will say you are laid down upon the bed.'"

Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had been long growing
kinder towards Jane; and this picture of her present sufferings acted
as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing
but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle
sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very
naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend,
when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt,
with earnest regret and solicitude--sincerely wishing that the
circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to be now actually
determined on, might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage
and comfort as possible. "It must be a severe trial to them all.
She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return."

"So very kind! " replied Miss Bates. "But you are always kind."

There was no bearing such an "always;" and to break through her
dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of--

"Where--may I ask?--is Miss Fairfax going?"

"To a Mrs. Smallridge--charming woman--most superior--to have
the charge of her three little girls--delightful children.
Impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort;
if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family, and Mrs. Bragge's;
but Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very
same neighbourhood:--lives only four miles from Maple Grove.
Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove."

"Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes--"

"Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true friend.
She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane say, `No;' for
when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day before yesterday,
the very morning we were at Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it,
she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the
reasons you mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind
to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing
should induce her to enter into any engagement at present--and so she
told Mrs. Elton over and over again--and I am sure I had no more
idea that she would change her mind!--but that good Mrs. Elton,
whose judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not
every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did,
and refuse to take Jane's answer; but she positively declared she
would not write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her;
she would wait--and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all
settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not
the least idea!--Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once,
that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation,
she had come to the resolution of accepting it.--I did not know a word
of it till it was all settled."

"You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?"

"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so,
upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley.
`You must all spend your evening with us,' said she--`I positively must
have you all come.'"

"Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?"

"No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; and though I
thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared she would not let
him off, he did not;--but my mother, and Jane, and I, were all there,
and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know,
Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though every body
seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure,
you know, is fatiguing--and I cannot say that any of them seemed
very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall always think it
a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends
who included me in it."

"Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been
making up her mind the whole day?"

"I dare say she had."

"Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all
her friends--but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation
that is possible--I mean, as to the character and manners of the family."

"Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is every thing
in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the Sucklings
and Bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment,
so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance.
Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful woman!--A style of living almost
equal to Maple Grove--and as to the children, except the little
Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet
children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!--
It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.--And her salary!--
I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse.
Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that
so much could be given to a young person like Jane."

"Ah! madam," cried Emma, "if other children are at all like what I
remember to have been myself, I should think five times the amount
of what I have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions,
dearly earned."

"You are so noble in your ideas!"

"And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?"

"Very soon, very soon, indeed; that's the worst of it.
Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor
mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to put it out of
her thoughts, and say, Come ma'am, do not let us think about it any more."

"Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself
before their return?"

"Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such
a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining.
I was so astonished when she first told me what she had been saying
to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating
me upon it! It was before tea--stay--no, it could not be before tea,
because we were just going to cards--and yet it was before tea,
because I remember thinking--Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have it;
something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called
out of the room before tea, old John Abdy's son wanted to speak
with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk
to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is
bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints--
I must go and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she
gets out at all. And poor John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton
about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself,
you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every thing
of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help;
and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler
had been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having
been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond.
That was what happened before tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke
to Mrs. Elton."

Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly
new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it
possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars
of Mr. Frank Churchill's going, she proceeded to give them all,
it was of no consequence.

What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the subject, being the
accumulation of the ostler's own knowledge, and the knowledge
of the servants at Randalls, was, that a messenger had come over
from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill--
which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected;
and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing,
upon the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only
wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early;
but that Mr. Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly,
without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold,
Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown chaise, and the
ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace,
and driving very steady.

There was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest,
and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject
which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's
importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax's, struck her; one was
every thing, the other nothing--and she sat musing on the difference
of woman's destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,
till roused by Miss Bates's saying,

"Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What is to become
of that?--Very true. Poor dear Jane was talking of it just now.--
`You must go,' said she. `You and I must part. You will have no
business here.--Let it stay, however,' said she; `give it houseroom
till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him;
he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.'--
And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it was his
present or his daughter's."

Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance
of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing,
that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been
long enough; and, with a repetition of every thing that she could
venture to say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.

CHAPTER IX

Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted;
but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouse her.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were
sitting with her father.--Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a
manner decidedly graver than usual, said,

"I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare,
and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London,
to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing to
send or say, besides the `love,' which nobody carries?"

"Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?"

"Yes--rather--I have been thinking of it some little time."

Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike himself.
Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be
friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going--
her father began his inquiries.

"Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?--And how did you
find my worthy old friend and her daughter?--I dare say they must
have been very much obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been
to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.
She is always so attentive to them!"

Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile,
and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.--
It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour,
as if his eyes received the truth from her's, and all that had
passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.--
He looked at her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified--
and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of
more than common friendliness on his part.--He took her hand;--
whether she had not herself made the first motion, she could not say--
she might, perhaps, have rather offered it--but he took her hand,
pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips--
when, from some fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.--Why he should feel
such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done,
she could not perceive.--He would have judged better, she thought,
if he had not stopped.--The intention, however, was indubitable;
and whether it was that his manners had in general so little gallantry,
or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.--
It was with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.--
She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction.
It spoke such perfect amity.--He left them immediately afterwards--
gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which
could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden
than usual in his disappearance.

Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished
she had left her ten minutes earlier;--it would have been a great
pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley.--
Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square,
for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed--but it might have
happened at a better time--and to have had longer notice of it,
would have been pleasanter.--They parted thorough friends, however;
she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance,
and his unfinished gallantry;--it was all done to assure her that she
had fully recovered his good opinion.--He had been sitting with them
half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come
back earlier!

In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness
of Mr. Knightley's going to London; and going so suddenly;
and going on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad;
Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence
on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,--
interested, without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane
Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully,
but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow.

"I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so
comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable,
and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought
to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health
will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first object,
as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. You know,
my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what Miss Taylor
was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect,
and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long."

The following day brought news from Richmond to throw every
thing else into the background. An express arrived at Randalls
to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! Though her nephew
had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account,
she had not lived above six-and-thirty hours after his return.
A sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded
by her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.
The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.

It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a
degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the departed,
solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a reasonable time,
curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us,
that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do
but to die; and when she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally
to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill,
after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of
with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified.
She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event
acquitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness
of imaginary complaints.

"Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering a great deal:
more than any body had ever supposed--and continual pain would try
the temper. It was a sad event--a great shock--with all her faults,
what would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss
would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it."--
Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said,
"Ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!" and resolved, that his
mourning should be as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing
and moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and good sense,
true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest
thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma.
The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband--her mind
glanced over them both with awe and compassion--and then rested
with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event,
how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good.
Now, an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter.
Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody;
an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by his nephew.
All that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should form
the attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel
no certainty of its being already formed.

Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command.
What ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was
gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character,
and refrained from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance.

Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating
all that was immediately important of their state and plans.
Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected; and their
first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire,
was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom
Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years.
At present, there was nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes
for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side.

It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to Jane Fairfax,
whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose
engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished
to shew her kindness--and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.
She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness;
and the person, whom she had been so many months neglecting, was now
the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of
regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew
a value for her society, and testify respect and consideration.
She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield.
A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by
a verbal message. "Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write;"
and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning,
it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,
though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering
under severe headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made
him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the
time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged--
appetite quite gone--and though there were no absolutely
alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary complaint,
which was the standing apprehension of the family, Mr. Perry was
uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she
was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would
not own it. Her spirits seemed overcome. Her present home,
he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:--
confined always to one room;--he could have wished it otherwise--
and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge
to be not the best companion for an invalid of that description.
Her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact,
only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more
evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern;
grieved for her more and more, and looked around eager to discover
some way of being useful. To take her--be it only an hour
or two--from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene,
and quiet rational conversation, even for an hour or two,
might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say,
in the most feeling language she could command, that she would
call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name--
mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion, in favour
of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this
short note:

"Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal
to any exercise."

Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better; but it
was impossible to quarrel with words, whose tremulous inequality
shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she
might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted.
In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove
to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her--
but it would not do;--Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude,
and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be of
the greatest service--and every thing that message could do was tried--
but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success;
Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out
seemed to make her worse.--Emma wished she could have seen her,
and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish,
Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on
no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. "Indeed, the truth was,
that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body--any body at all--
Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied--and Mrs. Cole had made
such a point--and Mrs. Perry had said so much--but, except them,
Jane would really see nobody."

Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the Mrs. Perrys,
and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves anywhere;
neither could she feel any right of preference herself--
she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates farther
as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able
to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy,
and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:--
Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they could
command (and never had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.

Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly, to an
examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior quality
was speedily despatched to Miss Bates with a most friendly note.
In half an hour the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks
from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied without its
being sent back; it was a thing she could not take--and, moreover,
she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing."

When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering
about the meadows, at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon
of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal
to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in
the carriage, she could have no doubt--putting every thing together--
that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry,
very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed
but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits,
inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified
her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed
so little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of knowing
that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself,
that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts
of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart,
he would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove.

CHAPTER X

One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease,
Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay
five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her."--
He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did,
in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say,
unheard by her father,

"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it
be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you."

"Is she unwell?"

"No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have
ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you alone,
and that you know--(nodding towards her father)--Humph!--Can you come?"

"Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to
refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--
Is she really not ill?"

"Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it
all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!"

To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma.
Something really important seemed announced by his looks;
but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy,
and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now,
she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on
their way at a quick pace for Randalls.

"Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--
"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened."

"No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife
to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can.
Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon."

"Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--
"Good God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened
in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell
me this moment what it is."

"No, indeed you are mistaken."--

"Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest
friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--
I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment."

"Upon my word, Emma."--

"Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour,
that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can
be to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?"

"Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not
in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name
of Knightley."

Emma's courage returned, and she walked on.

"I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being broke to you.
I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--
it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short,
my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it.
I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might
be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls."

Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort.
She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy,
and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some
money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable
nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late
event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active.
Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--
This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her.
It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.

"Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--
speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with
any other view.

"I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank,
I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor
by this time."

"Has your son been with you, then?"

"Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind."

For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more
guarded and demure,

"Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did."

They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--"Well, my dear,"
said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now
I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together.
There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me."--
And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he
quitted the room,--"I have been as good as my word. She has not the
least idea."

Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation,
that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone,
she eagerly said,

"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature,
I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is.
I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both
abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you
good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be."

"Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice.
"Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you
are to hear?"

"So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess."

"You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;"
(resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.)
"He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand.
It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his
father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--"

She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then
of Harriet.

"More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--
a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any
body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax
are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!"

Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed,

"Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?"

"You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes,
and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover--
"You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn
engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth,
and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it
but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--
It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact,
it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--
I thought I knew him."

Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between
two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax;
and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim,
and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.

"Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I
can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--
before either of them came to Highbury?"

"Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me,
Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some part
of his conduct we cannot excuse."

Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend
not to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power,
be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me,
as you are apprehensive of."

Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance
was as steady as her words.

"That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my
present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you,
that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance,
when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be
attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease,
is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease.
I have really for some time past, for at least these three months,
cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston.
This is the simple truth."

Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could
find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done
her more good than any thing else in the world could do.

"Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she.
"On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you
might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.--
Imagine what we have been feeling on your account."

"I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of
grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit him,
Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame.
What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged,
and with manners so very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour
to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with
persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged
to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--
How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--
very wrong, very wrong indeed."

"From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--"

"And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness!
to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman,
before her face, and not resent it.--That is a degree of placidity,
which I can neither comprehend nor respect."

"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said
so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation.
He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation
which did not allow the full use even of the time he could stay--
but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedly said.
The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them;
and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the
impropriety of his conduct."

"Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston--it is too calm a censure.
Much, much beyond impropriety!--It has sunk him, I cannot say how
it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be!--
None of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth
and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man
should display in every transaction of his life."

"Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though he has been
wrong in this instance, I have known him long enough to answer
for his having many, very many, good qualities; and--"

"Good God!" cried Emma, not attending to her.--"Mrs. Smallridge, too!
Jane actually on the point of going as governess! What could he
mean by such horrible indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself--
to suffer her even to think of such a measure!"

"He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully
acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated
to him--or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction.--
Till yesterday, I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans.
They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message--
and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project
of hers, which determined him to come forward at once, own it
all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short,
put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been
carrying on so long."

Emma began to listen better.

"I am to hear from him soon," continued Mrs. Weston. "He told me
at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a manner which
seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now.
Let us wait, therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations.
It may make many things intelligible and excusable which now are
not to be understood. Don't let us be severe, don't let us be in
a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him;
and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point,
I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready
to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal
under such a system of secresy and concealment."

"His sufferings," replied Emma dryly, "do not appear to have done
him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it?"

"Most favourably for his nephew--gave his consent with scarcely
a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done
in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there
could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;--but scarcely
are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is
persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required.
What a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!--
He gave his consent with very little persuasion."

"Ah!" thought Emma, "he would have done as much for Harriet."

"This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light
this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy,
some time--and then came on hither; but was in such a hurry to get
back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever,
that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.--
He was very much agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made
him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen
him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of
finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of--
and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal."

"And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on
with such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none
of them know of the engagement?"

Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush.

"None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no
being in the world but their two selves."

"Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled
to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always
think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been
but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?--
To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity;
and such a league in secret to judge us all!--Here have we been,
the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves
all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the
midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting
in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both
to hear.--They must take the consequence, if they have heard each
other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!"

"I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am
very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other,
which both might not have heard."

"You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear,
when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady."

"True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss
Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her;
and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe."

At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window,
evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited
him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma,
let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his
heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match.
Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may
be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify;
but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it
may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean,
that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness
of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for--
and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this
one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much
may be said in her situation for even that error!"

"Much, indeed!" cried Emma feelingly. "If a woman can ever
be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation
like Jane Fairfax's.--Of such, one may almost say, that `the
world is not their's, nor the world's law.'"

She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling countenance,
exclaiming,

"A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word!
This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity,
and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really frightened me.
I thought you had lost half your property, at least. And here,
instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one
of congratulation.--I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart,
on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished
young women in England for your daughter."

A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was
as right as this speech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits
was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness:
he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered
on the subject in a manner to prove, that he now only wanted
time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing.
His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence,
or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it all
over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma,
in their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly reconciled,
and not far from thinking it the very best thing that Frank could
possibly have done.

CHAPTER XI

"Harriet, poor Harriet!"--Those were the words; in them lay the
tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, and which constituted
the real misery of the business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved
very ill by herself--very ill in many ways,--but it was not so much
his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with him.
It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on Harriet's account,
that gave the deepest hue to his offence.--Poor Harriet! to be a second
time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley
had spoken prophetically, when he once said, "Emma, you have been
no friend to Harriet Smith."--She was afraid she had done her nothing
but disservice.--It was true that she had not to charge herself,
in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original
author of the mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might
otherwise never have entered Harriet's imagination; for Harriet
had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank Churchill
before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt
completely guilty of having encouraged what she might have repressed.
She might have prevented the indulgence and increase of such sentiments.
Her influence would have been enough. And now she was very conscious
that she ought to have prevented them.--She felt that she had been
risking her friend's happiness on most insufficient grounds.
Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she
must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five
hundred chances to one against his ever caring for her.--"But, with
common sense," she added, "I am afraid I have had little to do."

She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not have been
angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have been dreadful.--
As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least relieve her feelings
from any present solicitude on her account. Harriet would
be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about Jane,
whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin,
must be equally under cure.--Her days of insignificance and evil
were over.--She would soon be well, and happy, and prosperous.--
Emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted.
This discovery laid many smaller matters open. No doubt it had been
from jealousy.--In Jane's eyes she had been a rival; and well might
any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be repulsed.
An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have been the rack,
and arrowroot from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison.
She understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage itself
from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged
that Jane Fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond
her desert. But poor Harriet was such an engrossing charge!
There was little sympathy to be spared for any body else.
Emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be
more severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims
of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently stronger effect
on Harriet's mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.--
She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon
as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston's
parting words. "For the present, the whole affair was to be
completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it,
as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently lost;
and every body admitted it to be no more than due decorum."--
Emma had promised; but still Harriet must be excepted. It was her
superior duty.

In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it almost ridiculous,
that she should have the very same distressing and delicate office to
perform by Harriet, which Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself.
The intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her,
she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her heart beat
quick on hearing Harriet's footstep and voice; so, she supposed,
had poor Mrs. Weston felt when she was approaching Randalls.
Could the event of the disclosure bear an equal resemblance!--
But of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.

"Well, Miss Woodhouse!" cried Harriet, coming eagerly into the room--
"is not this the oddest news that ever was?"

"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, unable to guess, by look
or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have received any hint.

"About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so strange?
Oh!--you need not be afraid of owning it to me, for Mr. Weston has
told me himself. I met him just now. He told me it was to be
a great secret; and, therefore, I should not think of mentioning
it to any body but you, but he said you knew it."

"What did Mr. Weston tell you?"--said Emma, still perplexed.

"Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank
Churchill are to be married, and that they have been privately
engaged to one another this long while. How very odd!"

It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet's behaviour was so extremely odd,
that Emma did not know how to understand it. Her character appeared
absolutely changed. She seemed to propose shewing no agitation,
or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked
at her, quite unable to speak.

"Had you any idea," cried Harriet, "of his being in love
with her?--You, perhaps, might.--You (blushing as she spoke)
who can see into every body's heart; but nobody else--"

"Upon my word," said Emma, "I begin to doubt my having any such talent.
Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, whether I imagined him attached
to another woman at the very time that I was--tacitly, if not openly--
encouraging you to give way to your own feelings?--I never had
the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill's having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be
very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly."

"Me!" cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. "Why should you
caution me?--You do not think I care about Mr. Frank Churchill."

"I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,"
replied Emma, smiling; "but you do not mean to deny that there
was a time--and not very distant either--when you gave me reason
to understand that you did care about him?"

"Him!--never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?"
turning away distressed.

"Harriet!" cried Emma, after a moment's pause--"What do you mean?--
Good Heaven! what do you mean?--Mistake you!--Am I to suppose then?--"

She could not speak another word.--Her voice was lost; and she
sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should answer.

Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned
from her, did not immediately say any thing; and when she did speak,
it was in a voice nearly as agitated as Emma's.

"I should not have thought it possible," she began, "that you
could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to name him--
but considering how infinitely superior he is to every body else,
I should not have thought it possible that I could be supposed
to mean any other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not
know who would ever look at him in the company of the other.
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill,
who is like nobody by his side. And that you should have been
so mistaken, is amazing!--I am sure, but for believing that you
entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment,
I should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost,
to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told me
that more wonderful things had happened; that there had been
matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);--
I should not have dared to give way to--I should not have thought
it possible--But if you, who had been always acquainted with him--"

"Harriet!" cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely--"Let us
understand each other now, without the possibility of farther mistake.
Are you speaking of--Mr. Knightley?"

"To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body else--
and so I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear
as possible."

"Not quite," returned Emma, with forced calmness, "for all that
you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person.
I could almost assert that you had named Mr. Frank Churchill.
I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill had rendered you,
in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of."

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!"

"My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of what I
said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder at
your attachment; that considering the service he had rendered you,
it was extremely natural:--and you agreed to it, expressing yourself
very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioning
even what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward
to your rescue.--The impression of it is strong on my memory."

"Oh, dear," cried Harriet, "now I recollect what you mean; but I
was thinking of something very different at the time. It was not
the gipsies--it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I meant. No! (with
some elevation) I was thinking of a much more precious circumstance--
of Mr. Knightley's coming and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton
would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner in
the room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence
and generosity; that was the service which made me begin to feel
how superior he was to every other being upon earth."

"Good God!" cried Emma, "this has been a most unfortunate--
most deplorable mistake!--What is to be done?"

"You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me?
At least, however, I cannot be worse off than I should have been,
if the other had been the person; and now--it is possible--"

She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.

"I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse," she resumed, "that you should feel
a great difference between the two, as to me or as to any body.
You must think one five hundred million times more above me than
the other. But I hope, Miss Woodhouse, that supposing--that if--
strange as it may appear--. But you know they were your own words,
that more wonderful things had happened, matches of greater disparity
had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill and me; and, therefore,
it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before--
and if I should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to--
if Mr. Knightley should really--if he does not mind the disparity,
I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it,
and try to put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that,
I am sure."

Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma turned round
to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,

"Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley's returning your affection?"

"Yes," replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully--"I must say
that I have."

Emma's eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating,
in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A few minutes were sufficient
for making her acquainted with her own heart. A mind like hers,
once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched--
she admitted--she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it
so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley,
than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully increased
by Harriet's having some hope of a return? It darted through her,
with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one
but herself!

Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the
same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness which had
never blessed her before. How improperly had she been acting
by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational,
how unfeeling had been her conduct! What blindness, what madness,
had led her on! It struck her with dreadful force, and she
was ready to give it every bad name in the world. Some portion
of respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits--
some concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of justice
by Harriet--(there would be no need of compassion to the girl
who believed herself loved by Mr. Knightley--but justice required
that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,)
gave Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness,
with even apparent kindness.--For her own advantage indeed, it was fit
that the utmost extent of Harriet's hopes should be enquired into;
and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest
which had been so voluntarily formed and maintained--or to deserve
to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never led her right.--
Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion,
she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed
the conversation; for as to the subject which had first introduced it,
the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.--
Neither of them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.

Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, was yet very glad
to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of such a judge,
and such a friend as Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation,
to give the history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.--Emma's tremblings as she asked, and as she listened,
were better concealed than Harriet's, but they were not less.
Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation
that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil,
such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.--
She listened with much inward suffering, but with great outward
patience, to Harriet's detail.--Methodical, or well arranged,
or very well delivered, it could not be expected to be;
but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness and
tautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit--
especially with the corroborating circumstances, which her own memory
brought in favour of Mr. Knightley's most improved opinion of Harriet.

Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behaviour ever since
those two decisive dances.--Emma knew that he had, on that occasion,
found her much superior to his expectation. From that evening,
or at least from the time of Miss Woodhouse's encouraging her
to think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his talking
to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having
indeed quite a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness
and sweetness!--Latterly she had been more and more aware of it.
When they had been all walking together, he had so often come and walked
by her, and talked so very delightfully!--He seemed to want to be
acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been very much the case.
She had often observed the change, to almost the same extent.--
Harriet repeated expressions of approbation and praise from him--
and Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had
known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without
art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous, feelings.--
She knew that he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had dwelt
on them to her more than once.--Much that lived in Harriet's memory,
many little particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look,
a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment implied,
a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,
by Emma. Circumstances that might swell to half an hour's relation,
and contained multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences
to be mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were not
without some degree of witness from Emma herself.--The first,
was his walking with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk
at Donwell, where they had been walking some time before Emma came,
and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from
the rest to himself--and at first, he had talked to her in a more
particular way than he had ever done before, in a very particular
way indeed!--(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed
to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.--
But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared likely to join them,
he changed the subject, and began talking about farming:--
The second, was his having sat talking with her nearly half an hour
before Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of his
being at Hartfield--though, when he first came in, he had said
that he could not stay five minutes--and his having told her,
during their conversation, that though he must go to London,
it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all,
which was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her.
The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this one
article marked, gave her severe pain.

On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did,
after a little reflection, venture the following question.
"Might he not?--Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as you thought,
into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to Mr. Martin--
he might have Mr. Martin's interest in view? But Harriet rejected
the suspicion with spirit.

"Mr. Martin! No indeed!--There was not a hint of Mr. Martin.
I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Martin, or to be
suspected of it."

When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear
Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good ground for hope.

"I never should have presumed to think of it at first," said she,
"but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and let
his behaviour be the rule of mine--and so I have. But now I seem
to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he does chuse me,
it will not be any thing so very wonderful."

The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter
feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Emma's side,
to enable her to say on reply,

"Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knightley is
the last man in the world, who would intentionally give any woman
the idea of his feeling for her more than he really does."

Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence so satisfactory;
and Emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, which at
that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her
father's footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was
too much agitated to encounter him. "She could not compose herself--
Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed--she had better go;"--with most ready
encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through
another door--and the moment she was gone, this was the spontaneous
burst of Emma's feelings: "Oh God! that I had never seen her!"

The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly enough
for her thoughts.--She was bewildered amidst the confusion
of all that had rushed on her within the last few hours.
Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and every surprize
must be matter of humiliation to her.--How to understand it all!
How to understand the deceptions she had been thus practising
on herself, and living under!--The blunders, the blindness of her
own head and heart!--she sat still, she walked about, she tried her
own room, she tried the shrubbery--in every place, every posture,
she perceived that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed
on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been imposing
on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched,
and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.

To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the
first endeavour. To that point went every leisure moment which her
father's claims on her allowed, and every moment of involuntary
absence of mind.

How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every feeling
declared him now to be? When had his influence, such influence begun?--
When had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?--She looked back;
she compared the two--compared them, as they had always stood in
her estimation, from the time of the latter's becoming known to her--
and as they must at any time have been compared by her, had it--
oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute
the comparison.--She saw that there never had been a time when she
did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the superior, or when
his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. She saw,
that in persuading herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary,
she had been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her
own heart--and, in short, that she had never really cared for Frank
Churchill at all!

This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry,
which she reached; and without being long in reaching it.--
She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed of every sensation
but the one revealed to her--her affection for Mr. Knightley.--
Every other part of her mind was disgusting.

With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the secret of every
body's feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrange every
body's destiny. She was proved to have been universally mistaken;
and she had not quite done nothing--for she had done mischief.
She had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared,
on Mr. Knightley.--Were this most unequal of all connexions to
take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it
a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only
by a consciousness of Harriet's;--and even were this not the case,
he would never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.

Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--It was a union to distance every
wonder of the kind.--The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane
Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison,
exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing
to be said or thought.--Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!--Such an
elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible
to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion,
to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at
his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand
inconveniences to himself.--Could it be?--No; it was impossible.
And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.--Was it a new
circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities to be captivated by
very inferior powers? Was it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek,
to be the prize of a girl who would seek him?--Was it new for any
thing in this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous--or for
chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the human fate?

Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where
she ought, and where he had told her she ought!--Had she not,
with a folly which no tongue could express, prevented her marrying
the unexceptionable young man who would have made her happy
and respectable in the line of life to which she ought to belong--
all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.

How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise
her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!--How she could dare to fancy
herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!--
But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than formerly.--
Her inferiority, whether of mind or situation, seemed little felt.--
She had seemed more sensible of Mr. Elton's being to stoop
in marrying her, than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley's.--
Alas! was not that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give
Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?--Who but herself
had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?--
If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it was her doing too.

CHAPTER XII

Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma had never known
how much of her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Knightley,
first in interest and affection.--Satisfied that it was so,
and feeling it her due, she had enjoyed it without reflection;
and only in the dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly
important it had been.--Long, very long, she felt she had been first;
for, having no female connexions of his own, there had been
only Isabella whose claims could be compared with hers, and she
had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemed Isabella.
She had herself been first with him for many years past.
She had not deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse,
slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him, insensible of
half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not
acknowledge her false and insolent estimate of her own--but still,
from family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind,
he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour
to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no
other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults,
she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very dear?--
When the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here,
presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them.
Harriet Smith might think herself not unworthy of being peculiarly,
exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not.
She could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his attachment
to her. She had received a very recent proof of its impartiality.--
How shocked had he been by her behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly,
how strongly had he expressed himself to her on the subject!--Not too
strongly for the offence--but far, far too strongly to issue from
any feeling softer than upright justice and clear-sighted goodwill.--
She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could
have that sort of affection for herself which was now in question;
but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,)
that Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his
regard for her.--Wish it she must, for his sake--be the consequence
nothing to herself, but his remaining single all his life.
Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marrying at all,
she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.--Let him but continue
the same Mr. Knightley to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley
to all the world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their
precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her peace
would be fully secured.--Marriage, in fact, would not do for her.
It would be incompatible with what she owed to her father, and with
what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father.
She would not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.

It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be disappointed;
and she hoped, that when able to see them together again, she might at
least be able to ascertain what the chances for it were.--She should
see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly
as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching,
she did not know how to admit that she could be blinded here.--
He was expected back every day. The power of observation would be
soon given--frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were in
one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.--
It would do neither of them good, it would do the subject no good,
to be talking of it farther.--She was resolved not to be convinced,
as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposing
Harriet's confidence. To talk would be only to irritate.--She wrote
to her, therefore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not,
at present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her conviction,
that all farther confidential discussion of one topic had better
be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before
they met again, except in the company of others--she objected only
to a tete-a-tete--they might be able to act as if they had forgotten
the conversation of yesterday.--Harriet submitted, and approved,
and was grateful.

This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to tear Emma's
thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,
sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours--Mrs. Weston, who had
been calling on her daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her
way home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself,
to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.

Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates's, and gone through his
share of this essential attention most handsomely; but she having
then induced Miss Fairfax to join her in an airing, was now returned
with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction,
than a quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates's parlour, with all
the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.

A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it while
her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the visit
in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place had
wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely to write
to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious call till
a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill could be reconciled
to the engagement's becoming known; as, considering every thing,
she thought such a visit could not be paid without leading to reports:--
but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was extremely anxious
to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not
conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were,
that it would be of any consequence; for "such things," he observed,
"always got about." Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had
very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short--and very
great had been the evident distress and confusion of the lady.
She had hardly been able to speak a word, and every look and action
had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet,
heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight
of her daughter--who proved even too joyous to talk as usual,
had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were
both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested
in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of every body,
and so little of themselves, that every kindly feeling was at work
for them. Miss Fairfax's recent illness had offered a fair plea
for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and
declined at first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the
course of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement,
overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse
on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious
silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the
gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston,
must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by,
they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state
of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation
must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own
mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased
with all that she had said on the subject.

"On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment
of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic.
This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, that since I
entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I
can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'--
and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation
that I felt at my heart."

"Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having
consented to a private engagement?"

"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed
to blame herself. `The consequence,' said she, `has been a state
of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the
punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct.
Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting
contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every
thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my
conscience tells me ought not to be.' `Do not imagine, madam,'
she continued, `that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection
fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought
me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that,
with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give,
I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'"

"Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively,
I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could
be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered
her judgment."

"Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him."

"I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have
contributed to make her u

Emma by Jane Austen Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries from the Encyclopedia of the Self by Mark ZimmermanReturn to Part 1 of 2

Emma
by Jane Austen
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 1 of 2