From Yesteryear

<<<< Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters I - V

<<<< Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters VI - X

<<<< Emma, by Jane Austen, Chapters XI - XV

Emma by Jane Austen CHAPTERS XVI - XIX (end)

CHAPTER XVI

The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think
and be miserable.–It was a wretched business indeed!–Such an overthrow
of every thing she had been wishing for!–Such a development of every
thing most unwelcome!–Such a blow for Harriet!–that was the worst
of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort
or other; but, compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light;
and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken–
more in error–more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she actually was,
could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself.

“If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have
borne any thing. He might have doubled his presumption to me–
but poor Harriet!”

How she could have been so deceived!–He protested that he
had never thought seriously of Harriet–never! She looked back
as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken
up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it.
His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious,
or she could not have been so misled.

The picture!–How eager he had been about the picture!–
and the charade!–and an hundred other circumstances;–
how clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure,
the charade, with its “ready wit”–but then the “soft eyes”–
in fact it suited neither; it was a jumble without taste or truth.
Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?

Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners
to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his way,
as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as one proof
among others that he had not always lived in the best society,
that with all the gentleness of his address, true elegance
was sometimes wanting; but, till this very day, she had never,
for an instant, suspected it to mean any thing but grateful respect
to her as Harriet’s friend.

To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea on
the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was
no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered
what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution
he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would
never marry indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer
a knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any she
had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton
was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she
had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceited; very full
of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others.

Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s wanting
to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion.
His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought
nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes.
He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his
eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was perfectly easy
as to his not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for.
There had been no real affection either in his language or manners.
Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but she could
hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice,
less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him.
He only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse
of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite
so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss
Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.

But–that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as
aware of his views, accepting his attentions, meaning (in short),
to marry him!–should suppose himself her equal in connexion
or mind!–look down upon her friend, so well understanding the
gradations of rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above,
as to fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing her!–
It was most provoking.

Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he
was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mind.
The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it;
but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly
his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled
for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch
of a very ancient family–and that the Eltons were nobody.
The landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable,
being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all
the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources,
was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself,
in every other kind of consequence; and the Woodhouses had long
held a high place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which
Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his way
as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any thing
to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility.–
But he had fancied her in love with him; that evidently must
have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the
seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head,
Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own
behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so full of
courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real motive unperceived)
might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy,
like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a very decided favourite. If _she_
had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder
that _he_, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers.

The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish,
it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two
people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much,
making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought
to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved
to do such things no more.

“Here have I,” said she, “actually talked poor Harriet into being
very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him
but for me; and certainly never would have thought of him with hope,
if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest
and humble as I used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with
persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right.
That was well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left
the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company,
and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some one worth having;
I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace
is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her;
and if she were _not_ to feel this disappointment so very much, I am
sure I have not an idea of any body else who would be at all desirable
for her;–William Coxe–Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe–
a pert young lawyer.”

She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed
a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been,
and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had
to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering,
with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of
continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings,
concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy
her in most unmirthful reflections some time longer, and she went
to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having
blundered most dreadfully.

To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though under
temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail
to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of morning
are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation; and if the
distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they
will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.

Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had
gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her,
and to depend on getting tolerably out of it.

It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really
in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking
to disappoint him–that Harriet’s nature should not be of that
superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive–
and that there could be no necessity for any body’s knowing
what had passed except the three principals, and especially
for her father’s being given a moment’s uneasiness about it.

These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a great deal
of snow on the ground did her further service, for any thing was
welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder
at present.

The weather was most favourable for her; though Christmas Day,
she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable
had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from
either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas.
The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled
state between frost and thaw, which is of all others the most
unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow,
and every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days a most
honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note;
no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day; and no
need to find excuses for Mr. Elton’s absenting himself.

It was weather which might fairly confine every body at home;
and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort
in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father
so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house,
too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no
weather could keep entirely from them,–

“Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like poor Mr. Elton?”

These days of confinement would have been, but for her private
perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly
suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance
to his companions; and he had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off
his ill-humour at Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him
during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable
and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all
the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay,
there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation
with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.

CHAPTER XVII

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield.
The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move;
and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter
to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole
party set off, and return to his lamentations over the destiny
of poor Isabella;–which poor Isabella, passing her life with
those she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults,
and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right
feminine happiness.

The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note
from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note,
to say, with Mr. Elton’s best compliments, “that he was proposing
to leave Highbury the following morning in his way to Bath;
where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends,
he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted
the impossibility he was under, from various circumstances of
weather and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse,
of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense–
and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to them.”

Emma was most agreeably surprized.–Mr. Elton’s absence just
at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired
him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit
for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not
have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father,
from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a
share in his opening compliments.–Her name was not mentioned;–
and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an
ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments,
as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspicion.

It did, however.–Her father was quite taken up with the surprize
of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get
safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language.
It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter
for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening.
Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits
to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude.

She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had
reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was
desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting
the better of her other complaint before the gentleman’s return.
She went to Mrs. Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo
the necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it was.–
She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously
feeding–to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred–
and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her
ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions,
all her prophecies for the last six weeks.

The confession completely renewed her first shame–and the sight
of Harriet’s tears made her think that she should never be in charity
with herself again.

Harriet bore the intelligence very well–blaming nobody–
and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition
and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear with particular
advantage at that moment to her friend.

Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost;
and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching,
seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet did not consider
herself as having any thing to complain of. The affection of such
a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction.–
She never could have deserved him–and nobody but so partial
and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible.

Her tears fell abundantly–but her grief was so truly artless,
that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes–
and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart
and understanding–really for the time convinced that Harriet was
the superior creature of the two–and that to resemble her would
be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or
intelligence could do.

It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded
and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution
confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination
all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her
father’s claims, was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour
to prove her own affection in some better method than by match-making.
She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kindness,
striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation,
to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.

Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thoroughly done; and she
could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such matters in general,
and very inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton
in particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s age,
and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be
made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton’s return,
as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance,
without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them.

Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence
of any body equal to him in person or goodness–and did, in truth,
prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen;
but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive
against an inclination of that sort _unrequited_, that she could not
comprehend its continuing very long in equal force.

If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident
and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do,
she could not imagine Harriet’s persisting to place her happiness
in the sight or the recollection of him.

Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place, was bad
for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal,
or of effecting any material change of society. They must encounter
each other, and make the best of it.

Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at
Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers
and great girls in the school; and it must be at Hartfield only
that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling
moderation or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given,
there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt that,
till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace
for herself.

CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed
drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the arrival
of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be spared,
to his “very great mortification and regret; but still he looked
forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period.”

Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed–much more disappointed,
in fact, than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the
young man had been so much more sober: but a sanguine temper,
though for ever expecting more good than occurs, does not
always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression.
It soon flies over the present failure, and begins to hope again.
For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he
began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three months later
would be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather;
and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably
longer with them than if he had come sooner.

These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston,
of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw nothing but a repetition
of excuses and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband
was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself.

Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really
about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a disappointment
at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her.
She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and out of temptation; but still, as it
was desirable that she should appear, in general, like her usual self,
she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance,
and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment,
as might naturally belong to their friendship.

She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and exclaimed
quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a part, perhaps
rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills, in keeping him away.
She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the
advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surry;
the pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire,
which the sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections
on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a
disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amusement,
perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her
real opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments against herself.

“The Churchills are very likely in fault,” said Mr. Knightley,
coolly; “but I dare say he might come if he would.”

“I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come;
but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.”

“I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made
a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it without proof.”

“How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done, to make you
suppose him such an unnatural creature?”

“I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting
that he may have learnt to be above his connexions, and to care
very little for any thing but his own pleasure, from living with
those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal
more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up
by those who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud,
luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see
his father, he would have contrived it between September and January.
A man at his age–what is he?–three or four-and-twenty–cannot be
without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible.”

“That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always
been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world,
Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know
what it is to have tempers to manage.”

“It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four-and-twenty
should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot
want money–he cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary,
that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at
the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some
watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth.
This proves that he can leave the Churchills.”

“Yes, sometimes he can.”

“And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while;
whenever there is any temptation of pleasure.”

“It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without an
intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been
in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties
of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be
acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s temper,
before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do.
He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others.”

“There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses,
and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour
and resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s duty to pay this attention
to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages;
but if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly
would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill–
`Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make
to your convenience; but I must go and see my father immediately.
I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him
on the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off to-morrow.’–
If he would say so to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming
a man, there would be no opposition made to his going.”

“No,” said Emma, laughing; “but perhaps there might be some made to his
coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent,
to use!–Nobody but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible.
But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly
opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such
a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up,
and are to provide for him!–Standing up in the middle of the room,
I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!–How can you imagine
such conduct practicable?”

“Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it.
He would feel himself in the right; and the declaration–made,
of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner–
would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interest stronger
with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts
and expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to affection.
They would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who had
done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; for they know,
as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he
ought to pay this visit to his father; and while meanly exerting
their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better
of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct
is felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner,
on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend
to his.”

“I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds;
but where little minds belong to rich people in authority,
I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they are quite as
unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that if you, as you are,
Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in
Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you would be able to say and do
just what you have been recommending for him; and it might have
a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say
in return; but then, you would have no habits of early obedience
and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might
not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence,
and set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought.
He may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you can have,
without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up
to it.”

“Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce
equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.”

“Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try
to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel
in directly opposing those, whom as child and boy he has been
looking up to all his life.”

“Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if this be the first
occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against
the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by
this time, of following his duty, instead of consulting expediency.
I can allow for the fears of the child, but not of the man.
As he became rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off
all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed
the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father.
Had he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty now.”

“We shall never agree about him,” cried Emma; “but that is
nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being
a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would
not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he is very likely
to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit
your notions of man’s perfection. I dare say he has; and though
it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others.”

“Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move,
and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancying himself
extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and
write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods,
and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method
in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father’s
having any right to complain. His letters disgust me.”

“Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every body else.”

“I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly can
satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: standing in
a mother’s place, but without a mother’s affection to blind her.
It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due,
and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person
of consequence herself, he would have come I dare say; and it would
not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend
behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you suppose she
does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable
young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be
very `aimable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he
can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people:
nothing really amiable about him.”

“You seem determined to think ill of him.”

“Me!–not at all,” replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; “I do
not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge
his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are
merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth,
plausible manners.”

“Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a
treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men,
well-bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all
the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley,
what a _sensation_ his coming will produce? There will be but one subject
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest–
one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill;
we shall think and speak of nobody else.”

“You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I find him
conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance; but if he is only
a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts.”

“My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation to the taste
of every body, and has the power as well as the wish of being
universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of farming; to me,
of drawing or music; and so on to every body, having that general
information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead,
or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak
extremely well on each; that is my idea of him.”

“And mine,” said Mr. Knightley warmly, “is, that if he turn out any
thing like it, he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing!
What! at three-and-twenty to be the king of his company–the great man–
the practised politician, who is to read every body’s character,
and make every body’s talents conduce to the display of his
own superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he
may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma,
your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came
to the point.”

“I will say no more about him,” cried Emma, “you turn every
thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I for him;
and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here.”

“Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”

“But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it.
My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in
his favour.”

“He is a person I never think of from one month’s end to another,”
said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation, which made Emma
immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend
why he should be angry.

To take a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be
of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real
liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him;
for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid
to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could
make him unjust to the merit of another.

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and,
in Emma’s opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day.
She could not think that Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more;
and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject
as they returned;–but it burst out again when she thought she
had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must
suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive–
“Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!” she found something else must be done.

They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates.
She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers.
There was always sufficient reason for such an attention; Mrs. and
Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered
by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her,
as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she
ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.

She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart,
as to her deficiency–but none were equal to counteract the persuasion
of its being very disagreeable,–a waste of time–tiresome women–
and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-rate
and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever,
and therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden
resolution of not passing their door without going in–observing,
as she proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate,
they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax.

The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied
the drawing-room floor; and there, in the very moderate-sized apartment,
which was every thing to them, the visitors were most cordially
and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her
knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up
her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter,
almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for
their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after
Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her mother’s,
and sweet-cake from the beaufet–”Mrs. Cole had just been there,
just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an
hour with them, and _she_ had taken a piece of cake and been so kind
as to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss
Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece too.”

The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton.
There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from
Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew what was coming; they must
have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone,
and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he
was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Ceremonies’
ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the
interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always
putting forward to prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.

This she had been prepared for when she entered the house;
but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, to be no farther
incommoded by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst
all the Mistresses and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties.
She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton;
but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away
from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from
her niece.

“Oh! yes–Mr. Elton, I understand–certainly as to dancing–
Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was–
Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us, talking of Jane;
for as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her,
Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us,
Mrs. Cole does not know how to shew her kindness enough;
and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can.
And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, `I know you
cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time
for writing;’ and when I immediately said, `But indeed we have,
we had a letter this very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw
any body more surprized. `Have you, upon your honour?’ said she;
`well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’”

Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with smiling interest–

“Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy.
I hope she is well?”

“Thank you. You are so kind!” replied the happily deceived aunt,
while eagerly hunting for the letter.–”Oh! here it is. I was sure
it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife upon it, you see,
without being aware, and so it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand
so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table.
I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was
reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her–
a letter from Jane–that she can never hear it often enough;
so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under
my huswife–and since you are so kind as to wish to hear what
she says;–but, first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane,
apologise for her writing so short a letter–only two pages you see–
hardly two–and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half.
My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well.
She often says, when the letter is first opened, `Well, Hetty,
now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’–
don’t you, ma’am?–And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive
to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her–
every word of it–I am sure she would pore over it till she had
made out every word. And, indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not
so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God!
with the help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother’s
are really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here,
`I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes to see
as you do–and so much fine work as you have done too!–I only wish
my eyes may last me as well.’”

All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath;
and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss
Fairfax’s handwriting.

“You are extremely kind,” replied Miss Bates, highly gratified;
“you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully yourself.
I am sure there is nobody’s praise that could give us so much pleasure
as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does not hear; she is a little deaf
you know. Ma’am,” addressing her, “do you hear what Miss Woodhouse
is so obliging to say about Jane’s handwriting?”

And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment
repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it.
She was pondering, in the meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming
very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had
almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse,
when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention.

“My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see–just nothing at all.
By only raising my voice, and saying any thing two or three times over,
she is sure to hear; but then she is used to my voice. But it is very
remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me.
Jane speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama
at all deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great
deal at my mother’s time of life–and it really is full two years,
you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing
her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know
how to make enough of her now.”

“Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?”

“Oh yes; next week.”

“Indeed!–that must be a very great pleasure.”

“Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every body is
so surprized; and every body says the same obliging things. I am
sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury, as they
can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she cannot say which,
because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one
of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way!
But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next.
That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out
of rule, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have
heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance
of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.”

“So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it had not
been for this particular circumstance, of her being to come here
so soon. My mother is so delighted!–for she is to be three months
with us at least. Three months, she says so, positively, as I
am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is,
you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has
persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she is so
impatient to see them again–for till she married, last October,
she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make
it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say,
but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter
to her mother–or her father, I declare I do not know which it was,
but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter–wrote in Mr. Dixon’s
name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly,
and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back
to their country seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy.
Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean–
I do not know that she ever heard about it from any body else;
but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak
of his own place while he was paying his addresses–and as Jane used
to be very often walking out with them–for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell
were very particular about their daughter’s not walking out
often with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame them;
of course she heard every thing he might be telling Miss Campbell
about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word
that he had shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he
had taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man,
I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account
of things.”

At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion entering
Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming Mr. Dixon,
and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design
of farther discovery,

“You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed
to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular
friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected
her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.”

“Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have always
been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to have her
at such a distance from us, for months together–not able to come
if any thing was to happen. But you see, every thing turns out
for the best. They want her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to
come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it;
nothing can be more kind or pressing than their _joint_ invitation,
Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the
least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man.
Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were
out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling
round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed
into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone, if he had not,
with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit–
(I can never think of it without trembling!)–But ever since we
had the history of that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!”

“But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish
of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you
and Mrs. Bates?”

“Yes–entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice; and Colonel
and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right, just what they
should recommend; and indeed they particularly _wish_ her to try
her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately.”

“I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely.
But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon,
I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty; is not,
by any means, to be compared with Miss Fairfax.”

“Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things–but certainly not.
There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was
absolutely plain–but extremely elegant and amiable.”

“Yes, that of course.”

“Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th
of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never been
well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang upon her?
She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us.
Just like her! so considerate!–But however, she is so far from well,
that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home,
and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt
that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her–
and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here,
than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we
should do.”

“It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world.”

“And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the
Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the Monday following–
as you will find from Jane’s letter. So sudden!–You may guess,
dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in!
If it was not for the drawback of her illness–but I am afraid
we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly.
I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that.
I always make a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first,
before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there
being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it,
so I always do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution;
but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, than I
burst out, quite frightened, with `Bless me! poor Jane is ill!’–
which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly
alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad
as I had fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her,
that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine
how I could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon,
we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of;
and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare say
he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance, we could not
suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain,
and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now I have just given you
a hint of what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I am
sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it
for her.”

“I am afraid we must be running away,” said Emma, glancing at Harriet,
and beginning to rise–”My father will be expecting us.
I had no intention, I thought I had no power of staying more than
five minutes, when I first entered the house. I merely called,
because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates;
but I have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish
you and Mrs. Bates good morning.”

And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded.
She regained the street–happy in this, that though much had been
forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard
the whole substance of Jane Fairfax’s letter, she had been able
to escape the letter itself.

CHAPTER II

Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s
youngest daughter.

The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the _______ regiment of infantry,
and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and pleasure,
hope and interest; but nothing now remained of it, save the melancholy
remembrance of him dying in action abroad–of his widow sinking
under consumption and grief soon afterwards–and this girl.

By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three years old,
on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge,
the consolation, the fondling of her grandmother and aunt, there had
seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there;
of her being taught only what very limited means could command,
and growing up with no advantages of connexion or improvement,
to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person,
good understanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.

But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave
a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had
very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent officer and most
deserving young man; and farther, had been indebted to him for
such attentions, during a severe camp-fever, as he believed had saved
his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook,
though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax,
before his own return to England put any thing in his power.
When he did return, he sought out the child and took notice of her.
He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl,
about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits
and growing a favourite with all; and before she was nine years old,
his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his own wish of being
a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell
of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted;
and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family,
and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother
from time to time.

The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others;
the very few hundred pounds which she inherited from her father
making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise
was out of Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay
and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must
be all his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped
to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter.

Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good hands,
known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, and been given
an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded
and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received
every advantage of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s
residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done
full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters.
Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that
friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far
as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children,
fully competent to the office of instruction herself; but she
was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother
could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day
was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;
and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all
the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious
mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future,
the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind
her that all this might soon be over.

The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss
Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party
from the circumstance of Jane’s decided superiority both in beauty
and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not
be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind
be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated
regard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by that chance,
that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs,
giving attraction to what is moderate rather than to what is superior,
engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable,
almost as soon as they were acquainted; and was eligibly
and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.

This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any thing to be
yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path
of duty; though she had now reached the age which her own judgment
had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted novitiate,
she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the sacrifice,
and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational intercourse,
equal society, peace and hope, to penance and mortification for ever.

The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such
a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived,
no exertions would be necessary, their home might be hers for ever;
and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly;
but this would be selfishness:–what must be at last, had better
be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder
and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared
her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must
now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch
at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment.
She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter’s marriage;
and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength,
they must forbid her engaging in duties, which, so far from being
compatible with a weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed,
under the most favourable circumstances, to require something
more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with
tolerable comfort.

With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account
to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some
truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their
absence to Highbury; to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect
liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear:
and the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or motives,
whether single, or double, or treble, gave the arrangement
their ready sanction, and said, that they depended more on a few
months spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health,
than on any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come;
and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which
had been so long promised it–Mr. Frank Churchill–must put up for
the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness
of a two years’ absence.

Emma was sorry;–to have to pay civilities to a person she did
not like through three long months!–to be always doing more than
she wished, and less than she ought! Why she did not like Jane
Fairfax might be a difficult question to answer; Mr. Knightley
had once told her it was because she saw in her the really
accomplished young woman, which she wanted to be thought herself;
and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time,
there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could
not quite acquit her. But “she could never get acquainted with her:
she did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and reserve–
such apparent indifference whether she pleased or not–and then,
her aunt was such an eternal talker!–and she was made such a fuss
with by every body!–and it had been always imagined that they were
to be so intimate–because their ages were the same, every body had
supposed they must be so fond of each other.” These were her reasons–
she had no better.

It was a dislike so little just–every imputed fault was so magnified
by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first time after any
considerable absence, without feeling that she had injured her;
and now, when the due visit was paid, on her arrival, after a two years’
interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance
and manners, which for those two whole years she had been depreciating.
Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had
herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty,
just such as almost every body would think tall, and nobody could
think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; her size a most
becoming medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance
of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two.
Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her face–her features–
there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered;
it was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes,
a deep grey, with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied
their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at,
as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed
no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which elegance
was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in honour,
by all her principles, admire it:–elegance, which, whether of person
or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar,
was distinction, and merit.

In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax
with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and the sense
of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike
her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation,
as well as her beauty; when she considered what all this elegance
was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going
to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but compassion
and respect; especially, if to every well-known particular entitling
her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance
of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started
to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable
or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.
Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced
Mr. Dixon’s actions from his wife, or of any thing mischievous
which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love,
it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone.
She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison,
while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best,
the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit
to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from
him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.

Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings,
as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury
afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence;
nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her.

These were charming feelings–but not lasting. Before she had
committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for
Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices
and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, “She certainly is handsome;
she is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield
with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much
into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt
was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her
health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to
listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter
she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner,
as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her
mother and herself; and Jane’s offences rose again. They had music;
Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily
followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air
of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very
superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all,
so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion.
Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined
to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.

If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more
reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing.
She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon’s character,
or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness
of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness;
nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however.
Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned
to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal
than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near
changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell,
for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.

The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill
had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were
a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma
procure as to what he truly was. “Was he handsome?”–”She believed
he was reckoned a very fine young man.” “Was he agreeable?”–
“He was generally thought so.” “Did he appear a sensible young man;
a young man of information?”–”At a watering-place, or in a common
London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points.
Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer
knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed
every body found his manners pleasing.” Emma could not forgive her.

CHAPTER III

Emma could not forgive her;–but as neither provocation nor resentment
were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had
seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side,
he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on
business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so
openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room,
but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma.
He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great
pleasure in marking an improvement.

“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse
had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood,
and the papers swept away;–”particularly pleasant. You and Miss
Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more
luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained
a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music
and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must
have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone.
I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument
at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”

“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling; “but I hope I am
not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”

“No, my dear,” said her father instantly; “_that_ I am sure you
are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are.
If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night–if it
had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”

“No,” said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; “you are not
often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension.
I think you understand me, therefore.”

An arch look expressed–”I understand you well enough;” but she
said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”

“I always told you she was–a little; but you will soon overcome
all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that
has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion
must be honoured.”

“You think her diffident. I do not see it.”

“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close
by her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you
had not a pleasant evening.”

“Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions;
and amused to think how little information I obtained.”

“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.

“I hope every body had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse,
in his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much;
but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did
not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured,
as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However,
she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way.
I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of
young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed.
She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she
had Emma.”

“True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.”

Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for
the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question–

“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes from.
I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart.”

Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared
to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse,
whose thoughts were on the Bates’s, said–

“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined!
a great pity indeed! and I have often wished–but it is so little one
can venture to do–small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon–
Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them
a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate–Hartfield pork is
not like any other pork–but still it is pork–and, my dear Emma,
unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried,
as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it,
for no stomach can bear roast pork–I think we had better send the leg–
do not you think so, my dear?”

“My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it.
There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice,
and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”

“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before,
but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then,
if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled,
just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a
boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider
it unwholesome.”

“Emma,” said Mr. Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news for you.
You like news–and I heard an article in my way hither that I think
will interest you.”

“News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?–why do you
smile so?–where did you hear it?–at Randalls?”

He had time only to say,

“No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,” when the door
was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room.
Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to
give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment,
and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him.

“Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse–
I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork!
You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going
to be married.”

Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was
so completely surprized that she could not avoid a little start,
and a little blush, at the sound.

“There is my news:–I thought it would interest you,”
said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction
of some part of what had passed between them.

“But where could _you_ hear it?” cried Miss Bates. “Where could
you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes
since I received Mrs. Cole’s note–no, it cannot be more than five–
or at least ten–for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready
to come out–I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about
the pork–Jane was standing in the passage–were not you, Jane?–
for my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan
large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said,
`Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a little cold,
and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’–`Oh! my dear,’
said I–well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins–
that’s all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley,
how could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole
told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins–”

“I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago.
He had just read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed it
to me directly.”

“Well! that is quite–I suppose there never was a piece of news more
generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful.
My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a
thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.”

“We consider our Hartfield pork,” replied Mr. Woodhouse–”indeed it
certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I
cannot have a greater pleasure than–”

“Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good
to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth
themselves, had every thing they could wish for, I am sure it is us.
We may well say that `our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’
Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well–”

“It was short–merely to announce–but cheerful, exulting, of course.”–
Here was a sly glance at Emma. “He had been so fortunate as to–
I forget the precise words–one has no business to remember them.
The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married
to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled.”

“Mr. Elton going to be married!” said Emma, as soon as she could speak.
“He will have every body’s wishes for his happiness.”

“He is very young to settle,” was Mr. Woodhouse’s observation.
“He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off
as he was. We were always glad to see him at Hartfield.”

“A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!” said Miss Bates,
joyfully; “my mother is so pleased!–she says she cannot
bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress.
This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never seen
Mr. Elton!–no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him.”

Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature as wholly
to occupy her.

“No–I have never seen Mr. Elton,” she replied, starting on this appeal;
“is he–is he a tall man?”

“Who shall answer that question?” cried Emma. “My father would
say `yes,’ Mr. Knightley `no;’ and Miss Bates and I that he is
just the happy medium. When you have been here a little longer,
Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard
of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind.”

“Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best
young man–But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday
he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,–I dare say,
an excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother–
wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better,
for my mother is a little deaf, you know–it is not much, but she
does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a
little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it–the warm bath–
but she says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell,
you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very charming
young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when good
people get together–and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton
and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people;
and the Perrys–I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple
than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,” turning to Mr. Woodhouse,
“I think there are few places with such society as Highbury.
I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbours.–My dear sir,
if there is one thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork–
a roast loin of pork–”

“As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been
acquainted with her,” said Emma, “nothing I suppose can be known.
One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been
gone only four weeks.”

Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few more wonderings,
Emma said,

“You are silent, Miss Fairfax–but I hope you mean to take
an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing and seeing
so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep
in the business on Miss Campbell’s account–we shall not excuse
your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins.”

“When I have seen Mr. Elton,” replied Jane, “I dare say I
shall be interested–but I believe it requires _that_ with me.
And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression
may be a little worn off.”

“Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe, Miss Woodhouse,”
said Miss Bates, “four weeks yesterday.–A Miss Hawkins!–Well, I had
always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts;
not that I ever–Mrs. Cole once whispered to me–but I immediately said,
`No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man–but’–In short, I do
not think I am particularly quick at those sort of discoveries.
I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time,
nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired–Miss Woodhouse
lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She knows I would not
offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite
recovered now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately?
Oh! those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy
Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person–tall, and with
that sort of look–and not very talkative.”

“Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.”

“Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body beforehand.
One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say,
is not, strictly speaking, handsome?”

“Handsome! Oh! no–far from it–certainly plain. I told you he
was plain.”

“My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain,
and that you yourself–”

“Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard,
I always think a person well-looking. But I gave what I believed
the general opinion, when I called him plain.”

“Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away.
The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be uneasy.
You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but we really must
take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed.
I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole’s; but I shall not stop three minutes:
and, Jane, you had better go home directly–I would not have you
out in a shower!–We think she is the better for Highbury already.
Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard,
for I really do not think she cares for any thing but _boiled_ pork:
when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you,
my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is
so very!–I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to
give her your arm.–Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!–Good morning
to you.”

Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him
while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry–
and to marry strangers too–and the other half she could give
to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing
and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton
could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for Harriet:
Harriet must feel it–and all that she could hope was, by giving
the first information herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly
from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call.
If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!–and upon its beginning
to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be
detaining her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would
undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.

The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been over five minutes,
when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which
hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give; and the
“Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened!” which instantly
burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation.
As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater
kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly
through what she had to tell. “She had set out from Mrs. Goddard’s
half an hour ago–she had been afraid it would rain–she had been
afraid it would pour down every moment–but she thought she might
get to Hartfield first–she had hurried on as fast as possible;
but then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman
was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step
in and see how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay
half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,
and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as fast
as she could, and took shelter at Ford’s.”–Ford’s was the principal
woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united;
the shop first in size and fashion in the place.–”And so,
there she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world,
full ten minutes, perhaps–when, all of a sudden, who should come in–
to be sure it was so very odd!–but they always dealt at Ford’s–
who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!–
Dear Miss Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted.
I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door–Elizabeth saw
me directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella.
I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took
no notice; and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop;
and I kept sitting near the door!–Oh! dear; I was so miserable!
I am sure I must have been as white as my gown. I could not go away
you know, because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere
in the world but there.–Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse–well, at last,
I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of going
on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another.
I am sure they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking
that he was persuading her to speak to me–(do you think he was,
Miss Woodhouse?)–for presently she came forward–came quite up
to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands,
if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used;
I could see she was altered; but, however, she seemed to _try_ to be
very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time;
but I know no more what I said–I was in such a tremble!–I remember
she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost
too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable!
By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined
that nothing should stop me from getting away–and then–only think!–
I found he was coming up towards me too–slowly you know, and as
if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke,
and I answered–and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully,
you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and said it
did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not got
three yards from the door, when he came after me, only to say,
if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round
by Mr. Cole’s stables, for I should find the near way quite floated
by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of me!
So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know I could
not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round
by the stables–I believe I did–but I hardly knew where I was,
or any thing about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done
any thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort
of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly.
And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make
me comfortable again.”

Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not immediately in
her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly
comfortable herself. The young man’s conduct, and his sister’s,
seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them.
As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture
of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour.
But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy people before;
and what difference did this make in the evils of the connexion?
It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, he must be sorry
to lose her–they must be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love,
had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise
by Harriet’s acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of
Harriet’s description?–So easily pleased–so little discerning;–
what signified her praise?

She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable,
by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite
unworthy of being dwelt on,

“It might be distressing, for the moment,” said she; “but you seem
to have behaved extremely well; and it is over–and may never–
can never, as a first meeting, occur again, and therefore you need
not think about it.”

Harriet said, “very true,” and she “would not think about it;”
but still she talked of it–still she could talk of nothing else;
and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head,
was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give
with so much tender caution; hardly knowing herself whether
to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state
of mind in poor Harriet–such a conclusion of Mr. Elton’s importance
with her!

Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though she did not
feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before,
or an hour before, its interest soon increased; and before their
first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the
sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure,
as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place
the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy.

Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such a meeting.
It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock, without retaining
any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could
not get at her, without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted
either the courage or the condescension to seek her; for since her
refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s;
and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown together again,
with any necessity, or even any power of speech.

CHAPTER IV

Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in
interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries
or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.

A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was first
mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or other,
discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind;
to be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable:
and when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects,
and circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more
for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose
music she principally played.

Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone away rejected
and mortified–disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series
of what appeared to him strong encouragement; and not only losing
the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very
wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended–he came back engaged
to another–and to another as superior, of course, to the first,
as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost.
He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing
for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.

The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages
of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune,
of so many thousands as would always be called ten; a point of
some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well;
he had not thrown himself away–he had gained a woman of 10,000 l.
or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity–
the first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by
distinguishing notice; the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole
of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious–the steps
so quick, from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green’s,
and the party at Mrs. Brown’s–smiles and blushes rising in importance–
with consciousness and agitation richly scattered–the lady
had been so easily impressed–so sweetly disposed–had in short,
to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him,
that vanity and prudence were equally contented.

He had caught both substance and shadow–both fortune and affection,
and was just the happy man he ought to be; talking only of himself
and his own concerns–expecting to be congratulated–ready to be
laughed at–and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing
all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago,
he would have been more cautiously gallant.

The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves
to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for;
and when he set out for Bath again, there was a general expectation,
which a certain glance of Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict,
that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.

During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just
enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her
the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of pique
and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact,
beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing
at all; and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very
disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance,
a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind,
she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again.
She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and his welfare
twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction.

The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly
be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented–
many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A _Mrs._ _Elton_ would be an excuse for
any change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without remark.
It would be almost beginning their life of civility again.

Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She was good
enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished enough for Highbury–
handsome enough–to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side.
As to connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded,
that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet,
he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed attainable.
_What_ she was, must be uncertain; but _who_ she was, might be found out;
and setting aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at
all Harriet’s superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.
Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol–
merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole of the
profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was
not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very
moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath;
but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol; for though
the father and mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained–
in the law line–nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded
of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the daughter
had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney,
and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur of the connexion
seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was _very_ _well_ _married_,
to a gentleman in a _great_ _way_, near Bristol, who kept two carriages!
That was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of
Miss Hawkins.

Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all!
She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so easily to be
talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies
of Harriet’s mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded
by another; he certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer;
even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing else,
she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who,
having once begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl!
she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton.
She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw
him only once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure
_just_ to meet with him, or _just_ to miss him, _just_ to hear his voice,
or see his shoulder, _just_ to have something occur to preserve him
in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture.
She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, excepting when
at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton,
and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his concerns;
and every report, therefore, every guess–all that had already
occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs,
comprehending income, servants, and furniture, was continually
in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by
invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings
irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s happiness,
and continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!–
his air as he walked by the house–the very sitting of his hat,
being all in proof of how much he was in love!

Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain
to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of
Harriet’s mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations.
Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each
was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton’s
engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin.
The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been
a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s
a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note had
been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch;
a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of kindness;
and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been much occupied
by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return,
and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton,
in person, had driven away all such cares. While he staid,
the Martins were forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off
for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned,
judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin’s visit.

How that visit was to be acknowledged–what would be necessary–
and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful
consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters,
when invited to come, would be ingratitude. It must not be:
and yet the danger of a renewal of the acquaintance!–

After much thinking, she could determine on nothing better, than Harriet’s
returning the visit; but in a way that, if they had understanding,
should convince them that it was to be only a formal acquaintance.
She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill,
while she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon,
as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what
degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.

She could think of nothing better: and though there was something
in it which her own heart could not approve–something of ingratitude,
merely glossed over–it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?

CHAPTER V

Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her
friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil stars had led
her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to
_The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath_, was to be seen under the
operation of being lifted into the butcher’s cart, which was to
convey it to where the coaches past; and every thing in this world,
excepting that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank.

She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and she was to
be put down, at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk, which led
between espalier apple-trees to the front door, the sight of every
thing which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before,
was beginning to revive a little local agitation; and when they parted,
Emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity,
which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed
quarter of an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion
of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell.

The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the white gate again;
and Miss Smith receiving her summons, was with her without delay,
and unattended by any alarming young man. She came solitarily
down the gravel walk–a Miss Martin just appearing at the door,
and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.

Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account.
She was feeling too much; but at last Emma collected from her
enough to understand the sort of meeting, and the sort of pain it
was creating. She had seen only Mrs. Martin and the two girls.
They had received her doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing
beyond the merest commonplace had been talked almost all the time–
till just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden,
that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more
interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that very room
she had been measured last September, with her two friends.
There were the pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by
the window. _He_ had done it. They all seemed to remember the day,
the hour, the party, the occasion–to feel the same consciousness,
the same regrets–to be ready to return to the same good understanding;
and they were just growing again like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma
must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy,)
when the carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of
the visit, and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully
passed six weeks not six months ago!–Emma could not but picture
it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally
Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given
a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had the Martins
in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving, that a _little_
higher should have been enough: but as it was, how could she have
done otherwise?–Impossible!–She could not repent. They must
be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the process–
so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt the necessity
of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randalls
to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins.
The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.

It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they heard
that neither “master nor mistress was at home;” they had both
been out some time; the man believed they were gone to Hartfield.

“This is too bad,” cried Emma, as they turned away. “And now we
shall just miss them; too provoking!–I do not know when I have been
so disappointed.” And she leaned back in the corner, to indulge
her murmurs, or to reason them away; probably a little of both–
such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.
Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt
by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her.
There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater
pleasure was conveyed in sound–for Mr. Weston immediately accosted
her with,

“How d’ye do?–how d’ye do?–We have been sitting with your father–
glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow–I had a letter
this morning–we see him to-morrow by dinner-time to a certainty–
he is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would
be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days;
I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we are going
to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather.
We shall enjoy him completely; every thing has turned out exactly
as we could wish.”

There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the
influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s, confirmed as it all
was by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter,
but not less to the purpose. To know that _she_ thought his coming
certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did
she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation
of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness
of what was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought,
she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.

Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe,
which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at
his command, as well as the route and the method of his journey;
and she listened, and smiled, and congratulated.

“I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,” said he, at the conclusion.

Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this speech,
from his wife.

“We had better move on, Mr. Weston,” said she, “we are detaining
the girls.”

“Well, well, I am ready;”–and turning again to Emma, “but you must
not be expecting such a _very_ fine young man; you have only had _my_
account you know; I dare say he is really nothing extraordinary:”–
though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very
different conviction.

Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer
in a manner that appropriated nothing.

“Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o’clock,”
was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with some anxiety,
and meant only for her.

“Four o’clock!–depend upon it he will be here by three,” was Mr. Weston’s
quick amendment; and so ended a most satisfactory meeting.
Emma’s spirits were mounted quite up to happiness; every thing wore
a different air; James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish
as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at
least must soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Harriet,
she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there.

“Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford?”–
was a question, however, which did not augur much.

But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at once,
and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they should both come
in time.

The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston’s
faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, or twelve
o’clock, that she was to think of her at four.

“My dear, dear anxious friend,”–said she, in mental soliloquy,
while walking downstairs from her own room, “always overcareful
for every body’s comfort but your own; I see you now in all your
little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure
that all is right.” The clock struck twelve as she passed through
the hall. “‘Tis twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four
hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later,
I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here.
I am sure they will bring him soon.”

She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with
her father–Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only
a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation
of Frank’s being a day before his time, and her father was yet
in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when
she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.

The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest,
was actually before her–he was presented to her, and she did
not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good
looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable,
and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness
of his father’s; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately
that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner,
and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending
to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.

He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased
with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan,
and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half
a day.

“I told you yesterday,” cried Mr. Weston with exultation, “I told
you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered
what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey;
one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the
pleasure of coming in upon one’s friends before the look-out begins,
is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs.”

“It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,” said the young man,
“though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far;
but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing.”

The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency.
Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable;
the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much
pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house,
would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation,
the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more,
and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest
in the country which none but one’s _own_ country gives, and the
greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been
able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously
through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a
pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study
or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no
common enjoyment.

Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance.
On his side were the inquiries,–”Was she a horsewoman?–Pleasant rides?–
Pleasant walks?–Had they a large neighbourhood?–Highbury, perhaps,
afforded society enough?–There were several very pretty houses
in and about it.–Balls–had they balls?–Was it a musical society?”

But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance
proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity,
while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing
his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise,
so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she
secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself,
as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please–
and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her.
He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be
thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know
very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome;
he could be sure of little else. “His father’s marriage,” he said,
“had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it;
and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must
be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation
on him.”

He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor’s merits,
without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it
was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s
character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved
to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he
wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.

“Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,” said he;
“but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected
more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age;
I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston.”

“You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,”
said Emma; “were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen
with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using
such words. Don’t let her imagine that you have spoken of her as
a pretty young woman.”

“I hope I should know better,” he replied; “no, depend upon it,
(with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should
understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought
extravagant in my terms.”

Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected
from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession
of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were
to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance.
She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she
only felt they were agreeable.

She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about.
His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them
with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not
to look, she was confident that he was often listening.

Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of the kind,
the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration
or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he
was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.–
Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged,
he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any;
it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons’
understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were
proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness.
He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise,
without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest,
give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous
inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his journey,
through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express
very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped
catching cold–which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite
assured of himself till after another night.

A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.–”He must be going.
He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands
for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.”
His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also,
saying,

“As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the
opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other,
and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being
acquainted with a neighbour of yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady
residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax.
I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house;
though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name–I should rather
say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?”

“To be sure we do,” cried his father; “Mrs. Bates–we passed her house–
I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted
with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine
girl she is. Call upon her, by all means.”

“There is no necessity for my calling this morning,” said the
young man; “another day would do as well; but there was that degree
of acquaintance at Weymouth which–”

“Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done
cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank;
any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided.
You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body
she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother,
who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it
will be a slight.”

The son looked convinced.

“I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,” said Emma; “she is
a very elegant young woman.”

He agreed to it, but with so quiet a “Yes,” as inclined her almost
to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct
sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could
be thought only ordinarily gifted with it.

“If you were never particularly struck by her manners before,”
said she, “I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage;
see her and hear her–no, I am afraid you will not hear her at all,
for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue.”

“You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are you?”
said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation;
“then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very
agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama
and aunt, very worthy people; I have known them all my life.
They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my
servants shall go with you to shew you the way.”

“My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father can direct me.”

“But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the Crown,
quite on the other side of the street, and there are a great many houses;
you might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk,
unless you keep on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you
where you had best cross the street.”

Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could,
and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, “My good friend,
this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows a puddle of water when he
sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown
in a hop, step, and jump.”

They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod from one,
and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave.
Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance,
and could now engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of
the day, with full confidence in their comfort.

CHAPTER VI

The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with
Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially.
He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home,
till her usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse
their walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.–”He did not doubt there
being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him,
he should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful,
happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction.”–
Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to
its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither directly.

Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who had called in
for half a minute, in order to hear that his son was very handsome,
knew nothing of their plans; and it was an agreeable surprize
to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together,
arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially
to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom
her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there,
nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them together,
she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words
or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be
more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her–nothing could
more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and
securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a
reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning.
They were all three walking about together for an hour or two–
first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury.
He was delighted with every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently
for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when their going farther was resolved on,
confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village,
and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma
could have supposed.

Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings.
He begged to be shewn the house which his father had lived in so long,
and which had been the home of his father’s father; and on recollecting
that an old woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in quest
of her cottage from one end of the street to the other; and though
in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit,
they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards Highbury in general,
which must be very like a merit to those he was with.

Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as were now shewn,
it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily
absenting himself; that he had not been acting a part, or making
a parade of insincere professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly
had not done him justice.

Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house,
though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of
post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighbourhood
than from any run on the road; and his companions had not expected
to be detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it they
gave the history of the large room visibly added; it had been built
many years ago for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been
in a particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally used
as such;–but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the
highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist
club established among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place.
He was immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him;
and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the two
superior sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate
its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should
have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he would acknowledge
none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough,
handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort.
They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through
the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good
old days of the room?–She who could do any thing in Highbury!
The want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be
tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satisfied.
He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw
around him, could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting;
and even when particulars were given and families described, he was
still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture
would be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty
in every body’s returning into their proper place the next morning.
He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing; and Emma
was rather surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail
so decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed to have
all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations
of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe.
Of pride, indeed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference
to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind.
He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap.
It was but an effusion of lively spirits.

At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the Crown;
and being now almost facing the house where the Bateses lodged,
Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him
if he had paid it.

“Yes, oh! yes”–he replied; “I was just going to mention it.
A very successful visit:–I saw all the three ladies; and felt very
much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt
had taken me quite by surprize, it must have been the death of me.
As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit.
Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that
was proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at home
before him–but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my
utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere else)
joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them
very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me
the possibility of escape before.”

“And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?”

“Ill, very ill–that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill.
But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it?
Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally
so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health.–
A most deplorable want of complexion.”

Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss
Fairfax’s complexion. “It was certainly never brilliant, but she
would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general; and there was
a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance
to the character of her face.” He listened with all due deference;
acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same–but yet he
must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want
of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent,
a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they were good,
the effect was–fortunately he need not attempt to describe what the
effect was.

“Well,” said Emma, “there is no disputing about taste.–At least
you admire her except her complexion.”

He shook his head and laughed.–”I cannot separate Miss Fairfax
and her complexion.”

“Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society?”

At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he hastily exclaimed,
“Ha! this must be the very shop that every body attends every day
of their lives, as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself,
he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s.
If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove
myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury.
I must buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my freedom.–
I dare say they sell gloves.”

“Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your patriotism.
You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came,
because you were Mr. Weston’s son–but lay out half a guinea at
Ford’s, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.”

They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of “Men’s Beavers”
and “York Tan” were bringing down and displaying on the counter,
he said–”But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking
to me, you were saying something at the very moment of this burst
of my _amor_ _patriae_. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost
stretch of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of any
happiness in private life.”

“I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax
and her party at Weymouth.”

“And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a
very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right to decide on the degree
of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account.–
I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.”

“Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do herself.
But her account of every thing leaves so much to be guessed,
she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the least
information about any body, that I really think you may say what you
like of your acquaintance with her.”

“May I, indeed?–Then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me
so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells
a little in town; and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly,
warm-hearted woman. I like them all.”

“You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; what she
is destined to be?”

“Yes–(rather hesitatingly)–I believe I do.”

“You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,” said Mrs. Weston smiling;
“remember that I am here.–Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows
what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s situation in life.
I will move a little farther off.”

“I certainly do forget to think of _her_,” said Emma, “as having ever
been any thing but my friend and my dearest friend.”

He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment.

When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted the shop again,
“Did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of, play?”
said Frank Churchill.

“Ever hear her!” repeated Emma. “You forget how much she belongs
to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we
both began. She plays charmingly.”

“You think so, do you?–I wanted the opinion of some one who
could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is,
with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself.–
I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill
or right of judging of any body’s performance.–I have been used
to hear her’s admired; and I remember one proof of her being
thought to play well:–a man, a very musical man, and in love
with another woman–engaged to her–on the point of marriage–
would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument,
if the lady in question could sit down instead–never seemed
to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought,
in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.”

“Proof indeed!” said Emma, highly amused.–”Mr. Dixon is very musical,
is he? We shall know more about them all, in half an hour, from you,
than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year.”

“Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons; and I thought
it a very strong proof.”

“Certainly–very strong it was; to own the truth, a great deal
stronger than, if _I_ had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all
agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man’s having more music
than love–more ear than eye–a more acute sensibility to fine
sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?”

“It was her very particular friend, you know.”

“Poor comfort!” said Emma, laughing. “One would rather have a stranger
preferred than one’s very particular friend–with a stranger it might
not recur again–but the misery of having a very particular friend
always at hand, to do every thing better than one does oneself!–
Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.”

“You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell;
but she really did not seem to feel it.”

“So much the better–or so much the worse:–I do not know which.
But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her–quickness of friendship,
or dulness of feeling–there was one person, I think, who must have
felt it: Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper
and dangerous distinction.”

“As to that–I do not–”

“Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax’s
sensations from you, or from any body else. They are known to no
human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play
whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.”

“There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all–”
he began rather quickly, but checking himself, added, “however, it
is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were–
how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there
was smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from
a child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how she
is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be.”

“I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have been children
and women together; and it is natural to suppose that we should
be intimate,–that we should have taken to each other whenever
she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it
has happened; a little, perhaps, from that wickedness on my side
which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized
and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother,
and all their set. And then, her reserve–I never could attach
myself to any one so completely reserved.”

“It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,” said he. “Oftentimes
very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety
in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person.”

“Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the attraction
may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend,
or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take
the trouble of conquering any body’s reserve to procure one.
Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question.
I have no reason to think ill of her–not the least–except that
such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner,
such a dread of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt
to suggest suspicions of there being something to conceal.”

He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together so long,
and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him,
that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting.
He was not exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the
world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune,
therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate–
his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner
of considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well as the church,
he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding much
fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not such a house
as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with
the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having
that house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort.
The man must be a blockhead who wanted more.

Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about.
Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many
advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could
be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.
But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he _did_ know what he
was talking about, and that he shewed a very amiable inclination
to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives.
He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be
occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry,
but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make
him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he would willingly
give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment.

CHAPTER VII

Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken
the following day, by hearing that he was gone off to London,
merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him
at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and set off, intending to
return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than
having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling
sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air
of foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did
not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation in expense,
or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which she had believed herself
to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
restlessness of temper, which must be doing something, good or bad;
heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston,
indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general; he became
liable to all these charges. His father only called him a coxcomb,
and thought it a very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it,
was clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible,
and making no other comment than that “all young people would have
their little whims.”

With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit
hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston
was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he
made himself–how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether.
He appeared to have a very open temper–certainly a very cheerful
and lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his notions,
a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard,
was fond of talking of him–said he would be the best man in the
world if he were left to himself; and though there was no being
attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude,
and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect.
This was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate fancy
for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy
of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him;
the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being
at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference–
(for still her resolution held of never marrying)–the honour, in short,
of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.

Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must
have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired
her extremely–thought her very beautiful and very charming;
and with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must
not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, “all young people
would have their little whims.”

There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surry, not so
leniently disposed. In general he was judged, throughout the parishes
of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour; liberal allowances
were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man–
one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one spirit
among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows
or smiles–Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield;
for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately
afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand,
“Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.” She had
half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation convinced
her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings,
and not meant to provoke; and therefore she let it pass.

Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings,
Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in another respect
particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were
at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice; and, which was
still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave.

This was the occurrence:–The Coles had been settled some years
in Highbury, and were very good sort of people–friendly, liberal,
and unpretending; but, on the other hand, they were of low origin,
in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into
the country, they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly,
keeping little company, and that little unexpensively; but the last
year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means–
the house in town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general
had smiled on them. With their wealth, their views increased;
their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company.
They added to their house, to their number of servants,
to their expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune
and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield.
Their love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every body
for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among
the single men, had already taken place. The regular and best
families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite–
neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls. Nothing should
tempt _her_ to go, if they did; and she regretted that her father’s
known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she
could wish. The Coles were very respectable in their way, but they
ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms
on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson,
she very much feared, they would receive only from herself;
she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston.

But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many
weeks before it appeared, that when the insult came at last,
it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls
had received their invitation, and none had come for her father
and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it with “I suppose
they will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not
dine out,” was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should
like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as the idea
of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those
whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again,
she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept.
Harriet was to be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had
been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before,
and Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question of his.
The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on her spirits;
and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission
to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort.

It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons were
at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; for though her
first remark, on reading it, was that “of course it must be declined,”
she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do,
that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.

She owned that, considering every thing, she was not absolutely
without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed themselves
so properly–there was so much real attention in the manner of it–
so much consideration for her father. “They would have solicited the
honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen
from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught
of air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the
honour of his company.” Upon the whole, she was very persuadable;
and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be
done without neglecting his comfort–how certainly Mrs. Goddard,
if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company–
Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter’s
going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending
the whole evening away from him. As for _his_ going, Emma did
not wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late,
and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.

“I am not fond of dinner-visiting,” said he–”I never was.
No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry
Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be
much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer,
and take their tea with us–take us in their afternoon walk;
which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home
without being out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer
evening are what I would not expose any body to. However, as they
are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you
will both be there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her,
I cannot wish to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought,
neither damp, nor cold, nor windy.” Then turning to Mrs. Weston,
with a look of gentle reproach–”Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had
not married, you would have staid at home with me.”

“Well, sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “as I took Miss Taylor away,
it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will
step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.”

But the idea of any thing to be done in a _moment_, was increasing,
not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The ladies knew better
how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and every thing
deliberately arranged.

With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough
for talking as usual. “He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard.
He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line,
and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all,
there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole.”

“You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will
say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where, and therefore must
decline their obliging invitation; beginning with my _compliments_,
of course. But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you
what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage
will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him.
We have never been there above once since the new approach was made;
but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely.
And when you get there, you must tell him at what time you would
have him come for you again; and you had better name an early hour.
You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea
is over.”

“But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa?”

“Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will be
a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise.”

“But, my dear sir,” cried Mr. Weston, “if Emma comes away early,
it will be breaking up the party.”

“And no great harm if it does,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The sooner
every party breaks up, the better.”

“But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles.
Emma’s going away directly after tea might be giving offence.
They are good-natured people, and think little of their own claims;
but still they must feel that any body’s hurrying away is no
great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought
of than any other person’s in the room. You would not wish to disappoint
and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people
as ever lived, and who have been your neighbours these _ten_ years.”

“No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much obliged
to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving
them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells
me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think
it to look at him, but he is bilious–Mr. Cole is very bilious.
No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma,
we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting
Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish.
You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe,
you know, among your friends.”

“Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should have
no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account.
I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid
of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard.
She loves piquet, you know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid
you will be sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your
usual time–and the idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort.
You must promise me not to sit up.”

He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: such as that,
if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly;
if hungry, that she would take something to eat; that her own maid
should sit up for her; and that Serle and the butler should see
that every thing were safe in the house, as usual.

CHAPTER VIII

Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his father’s
dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for Mrs. Weston
was too anxious for his being a favourite with Mr. Woodhouse,
to betray any imperfection which could be concealed.

He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with
a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed
of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer,
to conceal any confusion of face; no reason to wish the money unspent,
to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively
as ever; and, after seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:–

“I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things
do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an
impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not
always folly.–It depends upon the character of those who handle it.
Mr. Knightley, he is _not_ a trifling, silly young man. If he were,
he would have done this differently. He would either have gloried
in the achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have been
either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too
weak to defend its own vanities.–No, I am perfectly sure that he
is not trifling or silly.”

With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again,
and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his general manners,
and by inference, of the meaning of his manners towards herself;
of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness
into her air; and of fancying what the observations of all those
might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.

She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being laid at
Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that among the failings
of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed
her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole.

Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as
Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleasing duty,
before she left the house, was to pay her respects to them as
they sat together after dinner; and while her father was fondly
noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all
the amends in her power, by helping them to large slices of cake
and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his
care of their constitution might have obliged them to practise
during the meal.–She had provided a plentiful dinner for them;
she wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it.

She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was pleased
to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knightley keeping
no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health,
activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get
about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became
the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking
her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.

“This is coming as you should do,” said she; “like a gentleman.–
I am quite glad to see you.”

He thanked her, observing, “How lucky that we should arrive at the same
moment! for, if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether
you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.–
You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”

“Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know
to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say,
but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern;
I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances.
_Now_ you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being
supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than any
body else. _Now_ I shall really be very happy to walk into the same
room with you.”

“Nonsensical girl!” was his reply, but not at all in anger.

Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party
as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect
which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could
wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love,
the strongest of admiration were for her, from both husband and wife;
the son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked
her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated
by her–and, as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity
on his side.

The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper
unobjectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of
naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family,
the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come
in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith;
but already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject
of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Elton
were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to
the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which
she felt herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be
very interesting. She listened, and found it well worth listening to.
That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply.
Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates,
and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight
of a pianoforte–a very elegant looking instrument–not a grand,
but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the substance of the story,
the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprize, and inquiry,
and congratulations on her side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was,
that this pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before,
to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece–entirely unexpected;
that at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane herself was quite at
a loss, quite bewildered to think who could possibly have ordered it–
but now, they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only
one quarter;–of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.

“One can suppose nothing else,” added Mrs. Cole, “and I was only
surprized that there could ever have been a doubt. But Jane,
it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and not a word was said
about it. She knows their ways best; but I should not consider their
silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present.
They might chuse to surprize her.”

Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who spoke on the
subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell,
and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made; and there
were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way,
and still listen to Mrs. Cole.

“I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing that has given
me more satisfaction!–It always has quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax,
who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument.
It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses
there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away.
This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was
but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed
to look at our new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I
do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are
but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of it;
and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not
any thing of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifullest
old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with.–I was saying this
to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me; only he
is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging
himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours might
be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use than we can;
and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought–
or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.–We are in great
hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening.”

Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and finding that nothing
more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole’s,
turned to Frank Churchill.

“Why do you smile?” said she.

“Nay, why do you?”

“Me!–I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell’s being
so rich and so liberal.–It is a handsome present.”

“Very.”

“I rather wonder that it was never made before.”

“Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so long before.”

“Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument–
which must now be shut up in London, untouched by any body.”

“That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large
for Mrs. Bates’s house.”

“You may _say_ what you chuse–but your countenance testifies
that your _thoughts_ on this subject are very much like mine.”

“I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for
acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably
suspect whatever I find you suspect; but at present I do not see what
there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?”

“What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?”

“Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon.
She must know as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument
would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the mystery, the surprize,
is more like a young woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It
is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you that your suspicions would
guide mine.”

“If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend _Mr_. Dixon
in them.”

“Mr. Dixon.–Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that it must
be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the
other day, you know, of his being so warm an admirer of her performance.”

“Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an idea which I
had entertained before.–I do not mean to reflect upon the good
intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help
suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend,
he had the misfortune to fall in love with _her_, or that he became
conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess
twenty things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure
there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury
instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she must be
leading a life of privation and penance; there it would have been
all enjoyment. As to the pretence of trying her native air, I look
upon that as a mere excuse.–In the summer it might have passed;
but what can any body’s native air do for them in the months
of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages would
be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I
dare say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions,
though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly
tell you what they are.”

“And, upon my word, they have an air of great probability.
Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can answer
for being very decided.”

“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?–
A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard.
He caught her.”

“He did. I was there–one of the party.”

“Were you really?–Well!–But you observed nothing of course,
for it seems to be a new idea to you.–If I had been there, I think
I should have made some discoveries.”

“I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact,
that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon
caught her.–It was the work of a moment. And though the consequent
shock and alarm was very great and much more durable–indeed I
believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again–
yet that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar
anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you
might not have made discoveries.”

The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share
in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses,
and obliged to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when
the table was again safely covered, when every corner dish was placed
exactly right, and occupation and ease were generally restored,
Emma said,

“The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I wanted to know
a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it,
we shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”

“And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge of it we
must conclude it to come from the Campbells.”

“No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fairfax knows it
is not from the Campbells, or they would have been guessed at first.
She would not have been puzzled, had she dared fix on them.
I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced
myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.”

“Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings
carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I
supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw
it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing
in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more
probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.
And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love.”

There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction
seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no more,
other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the dinner passed away;
the dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked
to and admired amid the usual rate of conversation; a few clever
things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion
neither the one nor the other–nothing worse than everyday remarks,
dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.

The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before the other ladies,
in their different divisions, arrived. Emma watched the entree of her
own particular little friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity
and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the
artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful,
unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations
of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection.
There she sat–and who would have guessed how many tears she had
been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself
and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty,
and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour.
Jane Fairfax did look and move superior; but Emma suspected she
might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad
to have purchased the mortification of having loved–yes, of having
loved even Mr. Elton in vain–by the surrender of all the dangerous
pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend.

In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her.
She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much
in the secret herself, to think the appearance of curiosity
or interest fair, and therefore purposely kept at a distance;
but by the others, the subject was almost immediately introduced,
and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations
were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of “my
excellent friend Colonel Campbell.”

Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested
by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her
perseverance in dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask
and to say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious
of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she
plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.

They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the very first of the
early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest;
and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and
her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle,
where sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must
be thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive it.
She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at convenient
moments afterwards, heard what each thought of the other. “He had
never seen so lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete.”
And she, “Only to be sure it was paying him too great a compliment,
but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.”
Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.

Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first
glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most prudent to avoid speech.
He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining-room–
hated sitting long–was always the first to move when he could–
that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left
very busy over parish business–that as long as he had staid,
however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general
a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so handsomely of
Highbury altogether–thought it so abundant in agreeable families–
that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place
rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire–
the extent of the neighbourhood about Enscombe, and the sort;
and could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe
was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings
were among a range of great families, none very near; and that even
when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even
chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going;
that they made a point of visiting no fresh person; and that,
though he had his separate engagements, it was not without difficulty,
without considerable address _at_ _times_, that he could get away,
or introduce an acquaintance for a night.

She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury,
taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more
retirement at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was
very evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself,
that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing,
and on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting
one or two points) he could _with_ _time_ persuade her to any thing.
One of those points on which his influence failed, he then mentioned.
He had wanted very much to go abroad–had been very eager indeed
to be allowed to travel–but she would not hear of it. This had
happened the year before. _Now_, he said, he was beginning to have
no longer the same wish.

The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention, Emma guessed
to be good behaviour to his father.

“I have made a most wretched discovery,” said he, after a short pause.–
“I have been here a week to-morrow–half my time. I never knew
days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!–And I have hardly begun to
enjoy myself. But just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!–
I hate the recollection.”

“Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day,
out of so few, in having your hair cut.”

“No,” said he, smiling, “that is no subject of regret at all.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe myself
fit to be seen.”

The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma found herself
obliged to turn from him for a few minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole.
When Mr. Cole had moved away, and her attention could be restored
as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room
at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.

“What is the matter?” said she.

He started. “Thank you for rousing me,” he replied. “I believe
I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done her hair
in so odd a way–so very odd a way–that I cannot keep my eyes
from her. I never saw any thing so outree!–Those curls!–This must
be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her!–
I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?–
Yes, I will–I declare I will–and you shall see how she takes it;–
whether she colours.”

He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him standing before Miss
Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to its effect on the young lady,
as he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly
in front of Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.

Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. Weston.

“This is the luxury of a large party,” said she:–”one can get
near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I am longing
to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans,
just like yourself, and I must tell them while the idea is fresh.
Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?”

“How?–They were invited, were not they?”

“Oh! yes–but how they were conveyed hither?–the manner of their coming?”

“They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?”

“Very true.–Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad
it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again, late at night,
and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I
never saw her appear to more advantage, it struck me that she
was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold.
Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston
came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about
the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes;
and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates,
to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took
us home; for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once.
Good soul! she was as grateful as possible, you may be sure.
`Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself!’–but with many,
many thanks–`there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s
carriage had brought, and was to take them home again.’ I was
quite surprized;–very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention–and so thoughtful an attention!–
the sort of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short,
from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think
that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all.
I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself,
and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them.”

“Very likely,” said Emma–”nothing more likely. I know no man
more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing–to do any
thing really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent.
He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one; and this,
considering Jane Fairfax’s ill-health, would appear a case
of humanity to him;–and for an act of unostentatious kindness,
there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley.
I know he had horses to-day–for we arrived together; and I laughed at
him about it, but he said not a word that could betray.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling, “you give him credit for
more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do;
for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head,
and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think
of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match
between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence
of keeping you company!–What do you say to it?”

“Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!” exclaimed Emma. “Dear Mrs. Weston,
how could you think of such a thing?–Mr. Knightley!–Mr. Knightley
must not marry!–You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?–
Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to
Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all likely.
I am amazed that you should think of such a thing.”

“My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of it.
I do not want the match–I do not want to injure dear little Henry–
but the idea has been given me by circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley
really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s
account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the matter?”

“Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted.–
Mr. Knightley marry!–No, I have never had such an idea, and I
cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women!”

“Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as you
very well know.”

“But the imprudence of such a match!”

“I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probability.”

“I see no probability in it, unless you have any better foundation
than what you mention. His good-nature, his humanity, as I tell you,
would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great
regard for the Bateses, you know, independent of Jane Fairfax–
and is always glad to shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston,
do not take to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress
of the Abbey!–Oh! no, no;–every feeling revolts. For his own sake,
I would not have him do so mad a thing.”

“Imprudent, if you please–but not mad. Excepting inequality of fortune,
and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable.”

“But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the
least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry?–
He is as happy as possible by himself; with his farm, and his sheep,
and his library, and all the parish to manage; and he is extremely
fond of his brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry,
either to fill up his time or his heart.”

“My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really
loves Jane Fairfax–”

“Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way
of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her,
or her family; but–”

“Well,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, “perhaps the greatest good he
could do them, would be to give Jane such a respectable home.”

“If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil to himself;
a very shameful and degrading connexion. How would he bear to have
Miss Bates belonging to him?–To have her haunting the Abbey,
and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?–
`So very kind and obliging!–But he always had been such a very
kind neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a sentence,
to her mother’s old petticoat. `Not that it was such a very old
petticoat either–for still it would last a great while–and, indeed,
she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong.’”

“For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me against
my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think Mr. Knightley would
be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him.
She might talk on; and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would
only talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not,
whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes it;
and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you,
so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes in her–
his anxiety about her health–his concern that she should have no
happier prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on
those points!–Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte,
and of her voice! I have heard him say that he could listen to her
for ever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred
to me–this pianoforte that has been sent here by somebody–
though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present
from the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot
help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it,
even without being in love.”

“Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love.
But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do.
Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously.”

“I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly;
oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common
course of things, occur to him.”

“Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have
told her so.”

“There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very
strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly
silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner.”

“You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have
many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment–
I believe nothing of the pianoforte–and proof only shall convince
me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.”

They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather
gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was
the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room
shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;–
and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse
would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom,
in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been
seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax,
followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as,
in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very
proper compliance.

She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt
more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste
nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable,
and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song
took her agreeably by surprize–a second, slightly but correctly
taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close
of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused
of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music;
which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter,
and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together
once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax,
whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could
attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.

With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the
numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again.
They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth.
But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew
away half Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking
on the subject of Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet
sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions.
Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying did not in the least subside.
She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great
disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella.
A real injury to the children–a most mortifying change,
and material loss to them all;–a very great deduction from her
father’s daily comfort–and, as to herself, she could not at all
endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley
for them all to give way to!–No–Mr. Knightley must never marry.
Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell.

Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her.
They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration
was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston,
it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however,
she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece;
and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short,
she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any
kindness of his own.

“I often feel concern,” said she, “that I dare not make our carriage
more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish;
but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James
should put-to for such a purpose.”

“Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,” he replied;–
“but you must often wish it, I am sure.” And he smiled with such
seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step.

“This present from the Campbells,” said she–”this pianoforte
is very kindly given.”

“Yes,” he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.–
“But they would have done better had they given her notice of it.
Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the
inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better
judgment in Colonel Campbell.”

From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley
had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he
were entirely free from peculiar attachment–whether there
were no actual preference–remained a little longer doubtful.
Towards the end of Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.

“That will do,” said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud–
“you have sung quite enough for one evening–now be quiet.”

Another song, however, was soon begged for. “One more;–they would
not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for
one more.” And Frank Churchill was heard to say, “I think you could
manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling.
The strength of the song falls on the second.”

Mr. Knightley grew angry.

“That fellow,” said he, indignantly, “thinks of nothing but shewing
off his own voice. This must not be.” And touching Miss Bates,
who at that moment passed near–”Miss Bates, are you mad, to let
your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere.
They have no mercy on her.”

Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even
to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all
farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening,
for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers;
but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing–
originating nobody exactly knew where–was so effectually promoted
by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away,
to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances,
was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill,
coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand,
and led her up to the top.

While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off,
Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her
voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be
very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something.
There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole–
he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else,
and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.

Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe;
and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment.
Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the
suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well
matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at.

Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed.
It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home,
on her mother’s account. After some attempts, therefore, to be
permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston,
look sorrowful, and have done.

“Perhaps it is as well,” said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma
to her carriage. “I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid
dancing would not have agreed with me, after your’s.”

CHAPTER IX

Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles.
The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day;
and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side
of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour
of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles–worthy people,
who deserved to be made happy!–And left a name behind her that would
not soon die away.

Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were
two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether
she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying
her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill.
It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it
would escape her, and his submission to all that she told,
was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult
for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue.

The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax;
and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally
regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did
most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood–and sat
down and practised vigorously an hour and a half.

She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if Harriet’s
praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.

“Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!”

“Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like
her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.”

“Oh! dear–I think you play the best of the two. I think you play
quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you.
Every body last night said how well you played.”

“Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the difference.
The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised,
but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.”

“Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does,
or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out.
Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Churchill talked
a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more
than execution.”

“Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.”

“Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had
any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing.–
There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play
so very well, you know, it is no more than she is obliged to do,
because she will have to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night
whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the
Coxes looked?”

“Just as they always do–very vulgar.”

“They told me something,” said Harriet rather hesitatingly;
“but it is nothing of any consequence.”

Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful
of its producing Mr. Elton.

“They told me–that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday.”

“Oh!”

“He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him
to stay to dinner.”

“Oh!”

“They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox.
I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I
should go and stay there again next summer.”

“She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an Anne Cox
should be.”

“She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat
by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes would
be very glad to marry him.”

“Very likely.–I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar
girls in Highbury.”

Harriet had business at Ford’s.–Emma thought it most prudent to go
with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible,
and in her present state, would be dangerous.

Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a word, was always
very long at a purchase; and while she was still hanging over muslins
and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement.–Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;–
Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at
the office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise,
or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest
objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on
the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from
shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone,
and a string of dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window
eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain,
and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door.
A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see
nothing that does not answer.

She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged;
two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they were
walking into Highbury;–to Hartfield of course. They were stopping,
however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was
a little nearer Randalls than Ford’s; and had all but knocked,
when Emma caught their eye.–Immediately they crossed the road
and came forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday’s
engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting.
Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bateses,
in order to hear the new instrument.

“For my companion tells me,” said she, “that I absolutely promised
Miss Bates last night, that I would come this morning. I was
not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day,
but as he says I did, I am going now.”

“And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope,”
said Frank Churchill, “to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield–
if you are going home.”

Mrs. Weston was disappointed.

“I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased.”

“Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps–I may be equally
in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me.
My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget
her to death; and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say
the same. What am I to do?”

“I am here on no business of my own,” said Emma; “I am only waiting
for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we
shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear
the instrument.”

“Well–if you advise it.–But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell
should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove
to have an indifferent tone–what shall I say? I shall be no
support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself.
A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I
am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood.”

“I do not believe any such thing,” replied Emma.–”I am persuaded
that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, when it is necessary;
but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent.
Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion
last night.”

“Do come with me,” said Mrs. Weston, “if it be not very disagreeable
to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterwards.
We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me.
It will be felt so great an attention! and I always thought you
meant it.”

He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him,
returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s door. Emma watched them in,
and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter,–trying, with all
the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain
muslin it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon,
be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern.
At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.

“Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Ford.–
“Yes–no–yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern gown is
at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you please.
But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.–And I could take the
pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly–
so it had better go to Hartfield–at least the ribbon. You could
make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?”

“It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble
of two parcels.”

“No more it is.”

“No trouble in the world, ma’am,” said the obliging Mrs. Ford.

“Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one.
Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s–
I do not know–No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as well
have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night.
What do you advise?”

“That you do not give another half-second to the subject.
To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.”

“Aye, that will be much best,” said Harriet, quite satisfied,
“I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.”

Voices approached the shop–or rather one voice and two ladies:
Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.

“My dear Miss Woodhouse,” said the latter, “I am just run across to
entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while,
and give us your opinion of our new instrument; you and Miss Smith.
How do you do, Miss Smith?–Very well I thank you.–And I begged
Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding.”

“I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are–”

“Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well;
and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?–I am so glad
to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.–
Oh! then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse will
allow me just to run across and entreat her to come in; my mother
will be so very happy to see her–and now we are such a nice party,
she cannot refuse.–`Aye, pray do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill,
`Miss Woodhouse’s opinion of the instrument will be worth having.’–
But, said I, I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go
with me.–`Oh,’ said he, `wait half a minute, till I have finished
my job;’–For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse, there he is,
in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my
mother’s spectacles.–The rivet came out, you know, this morning.–
So very obliging!–For my mother had no use of her spectacles–
could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body ought to have
two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so.
I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did,
but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing,
then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came
to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I,
Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet
of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home,
Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and
obliging to us, the Wallises, always–I have heard some people
say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer,
but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention
from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now,
for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.–
besides dear Jane at present–and she really eats nothing–makes such
a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it.
I dare not let my mother know how little she eats–so I say one
thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the
middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes
so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,
for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry;
I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before–
I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple.
I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the
fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however,
very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well,
Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will
oblige us.”

Emma would be “very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.,” and they
did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss
Bates than,

“How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see
you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons
from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye,
the gloves do very well–only a little too large about the wrist;
but Jane is taking them in.”

“What was I talking of?” said she, beginning again when they were
all in the street.

Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix.

“I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.–Oh! my
mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill!
`Oh!’ said he, `I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job
of this kind excessively.’–Which you know shewed him to be so
very. . . . Indeed I must say that, much as I had heard of him
before and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds any
thing. . . . I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly.
He seems every thing the fondest parent could. . . . `Oh!’ said he,
`I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.’
I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked
apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very
obliging as to take some, `Oh!’ said he directly, `there is nothing
in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking
home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so
very. . . . And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment.
Indeed they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them
full justice–only we do not have them baked more than twice,
and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done three times–
but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples
themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt;
all from Donwell–some of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply.
He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such
a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees–I believe there
is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous
in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the other day–
for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these apples,
and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them,
and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock.
`I am sure you must be,’ said he, `and I will send you
another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use.
William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year.
I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.’
So I begged he would not–for really as to ours being gone, I could
not absolutely say that we had a great many left–it was but half
a dozen indeed; but they should be all kept for Jane; and I could
not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he
had been already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone,
she almost quarrelled with me–No, I should not say quarrelled,
for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed
that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished I had
made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear,
I did say as much as I could. However, the very same evening
William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same
sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged,
and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every thing,
as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old acquaintance!
I am always glad to see him. But, however, I found afterwards
from Patty, that William said it was all the apples of _that_ sort
his master had; he had brought them all–and now his master had not
one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself,
he was so pleased to think his master had sold so many; for William,
you know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being
all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be
able to have another apple-tart this spring. He told Patty this,
but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to say any thing to us
about it, for Mrs. Hodges _would_ be cross sometimes, and as long as
so many sacks were sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder.
And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed!
I would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it for
the world! He would be so very. . . . I wanted to keep it from
Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was
aware.”

Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and her visitors
walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to,
pursued only by the sounds of her desultory good-will.

“Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning.
Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase–
rather darker and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith,
pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you
hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the turning.”

CHAPTER X

The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered,
was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment,
slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table
near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax,
standing with her back to them, intent on her pianoforte.

Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to shew a most
happy countenance on seeing Emma again.

“This is a pleasure,” said he, in rather a low voice, “coming at
least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me
trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.”

“What!” said Mrs. Weston, “have not you finished it yet? you would
not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.”

“I have not been working uninterruptedly,” he replied, “I have been
assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily,
it was not quite firm; an unevenness in the floor, I believe.
You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind
of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be
hurrying home.”

He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was sufficiently
employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying
to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was
quite ready to sit down to the pianoforte again. That she was not
immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves;
she had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it
without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of performance;
and Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin,
and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again.

At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given,
the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to.
Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again;
Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with every
proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the
highest promise.

“Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,” said Frank Churchill,
with a smile at Emma, “the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good
deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the
upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and _all_ _that_ _party_ would
particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave
his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself.
Do not you think so?”

Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston
had been speaking to her at the same moment.

“It is not fair,” said Emma, in a whisper; “mine was a random guess.
Do not distress her.”

He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little
doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again,

“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure
on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often think of you,
and wonder which will be the day, the precise day of the instrument’s
coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business
to be going forward just at this time?–Do you imagine it to be
the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may
have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time,
to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?”

He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid answering,

“Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,” said she, in a voice
of forced calmness, “I can imagine nothing with any confidence.
It must be all conjecture.”

“Conjecture–aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes
one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall
make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse,
when hard at work, if one talks at all;–your real workmen,
I suppose, hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get
hold of a word–Miss Fairfax said something about conjecturing.
There, it is done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,)
of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.”

He was very warmly thanked both by mother and daughter; to escape
a little from the latter, he went to the pianoforte, and begged
Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more.

“If you are very kind,” said he, “it will be one of the waltzes
we danced last night;–let me live them over again. You did not
enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. I believe
you were glad we danced no longer; but I would have given worlds–
all the worlds one ever has to give–for another half-hour.”

She played.

“What felicity it is to hear a tune again which _has_ made one happy!–
If I mistake not that was danced at Weymouth.”

She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played
something else. He took some music from a chair near the pianoforte,
and turning to Emma, said,

“Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?–Cramer.–
And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter,
one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful
of Colonel Campbell, was not it?–He knew Miss Fairfax could have
no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly;
it shews it to have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily
done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”

Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused;
and when on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax she caught
the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush
of consciousness, there had been a smile of secret delight,
she had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction
with respect to her.–This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax
was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.

He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together.–
Emma took the opportunity of whispering,

“You speak too plain. She must understand you.”

“I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not
in the least ashamed of my meaning.”

“But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up
the idea.”

“I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me.
I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her.
If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.”

“She is not entirely without it, I think.”

“I do not see much sign of it. She is playing _Robin_ _Adair_
at this moment–_his_ favourite.”

Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window,
descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.

“Mr. Knightley I declare!–I must speak to him if possible,
just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would give
you all cold; but I can go into my mother’s room you know. I dare
say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful
to have you all meet so!–Our little room so honoured!”

She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening
the casement there, immediately called Mr. Knightley’s attention,
and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard
by the others, as if it had passed within the same apartment.

“How d’ ye do?–how d’ye do?–Very well, I thank you. So obliged
to you for the carriage last night. We were just in time;
my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in. You will
find some friends here.”

So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard
in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say,

“How is your niece, Miss Bates?–I want to inquire after you all,
but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?–I hope she
caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss
Fairfax is.”

And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he
would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were amused;
and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma
still shook her head in steady scepticism.

“So obliged to you!–so very much obliged to you for the carriage,”
resumed Miss Bates.

He cut her short with,

“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”

“Oh! dear, Kingston–are you?–Mrs. Cole was saying the other day
she wanted something from Kingston.”

“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for _you_?”

“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here?–
Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to call to hear the
new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the Crown, and come in.”

“Well,” said he, in a deliberating manner, “for five minutes, perhaps.”

“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!–Quite delightful;
so many friends!”

“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes.
I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.”

“Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”

“No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day,
and hear the pianoforte.”

“Well, I am so sorry!–Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party
last night; how extremely pleasant.–Did you ever see such dancing?–
Was not it delightful?–Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill;
I never saw any thing equal to it.”

“Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I suppose
Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing every thing
that passes. And (raising his voice still more) I do not see why Miss
Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances
very well; and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player,
without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude,
they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return;
but I cannot stay to hear it.”

“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of consequence–
so shocked!–Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”

“What is the matter now?”

“To think of your sending us all your store apples. You said you had
a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked!
Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here.
You should not have done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off.
He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now,
and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned. . . . Well,
(returning to the room,) I have not been able to succeed.
Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me
if he could do any thing. . . .”

“Yes,” said Jane, “we heard his kind offers, we heard every thing.”

“Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you know, the door
was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud.
You must have heard every thing to be sure. `Can I do any thing
for you at Kingston?’ said he; so I just mentioned. . . . Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, must you be going?–You seem but just come–so very
obliging of you.”

Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had already
lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of the morning was
perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion taking
leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young
ladies to Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.

CHAPTER XI

It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have
been known of young people passing many, many months successively,
without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury
accrue either to body or mind;–but when a beginning is made–
when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly,
felt–it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.

Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again;
and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded
to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young
people in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea;
and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best
judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation
and appearance. But still she had inclination enough for shewing
people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
Woodhouse danced–for doing that in which she need not blush to compare
herself with Jane Fairfax–and even for simple dancing itself,
without any of the wicked aids of vanity–to assist him first
in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made
to hold–and then in taking the dimensions of the other parlour,
in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could
say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest.

His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole’s
should be finished there–that the same party should be collected,
and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence.
Mr. Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment,
and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they
could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had followed,
of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the
indispensable division of space to every couple.

“You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two
Miss Coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “And there
will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father, and myself,
besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure.
You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room.”

But soon it came to be on one side,

“But will there be good room for five couple?–I really do not think
there will.”

On another,

“And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth
while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks
seriously about it. It will not do to _invite_ five couple.
It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment.”

Somebody said that _Miss_ Gilbert was expected at her brother’s,
and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed
_Mrs_. Gilbert would have danced the other evening, if she had
been asked. A word was put in for a second young Cox; and at last,
Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must be included,
and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out,
it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten,
and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they
could be disposed of.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Crown!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not think it _is_ so very small. We shall not be many,
you know.”

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

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

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

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

“Well–if you please,” said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, “if you
think she will be of any use.”

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

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

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

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

“Both sir! Can the old lady?” . . .

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our poor ball must be quite given up.”

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

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

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

Emma looked graciously.

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

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

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

“And you must be off this very morning?”

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

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

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

He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.

“In short,” said he, “perhaps, Miss Woodhouse–I think you can
hardly be quite without suspicion”–

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

“You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay your visit, then”–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.

“Oh! yes–very–a very pleasing young woman.”

“I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.”

“Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant gown.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emma was silenced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you, who are so extremely fond of it–there can
be no danger, surely?”

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

“But every thing of that kind,” said Emma, “will soon
be in so regular a train–”

“Well,” said Mrs. Elton, laughing, “we shall see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Knightley!” continued Mrs. Elton; “Knightley himself!–Was not
it lucky?–for, not being within when he called the other day,
I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a
friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great curiosity. `My friend Knightley’
had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him;
and I must do my 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 headache!–
seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged
to you for the carriage!–excellent time. Jane and I quite ready.
Did not keep the horses a moment. Most comfortable carriage.–
Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score.
Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.–
But two such offers in one day!–Never were such neighbours.
I said to my mother, `Upon my word, ma’am–.’ Thank you, my mother
is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take
her shawl–for the evenings are not warm–her large new shawl–
Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.–So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know–Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were
three others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time.
Colonel Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane,
are you sure you did not wet your feet?–It was but a drop or two,
but I am so afraid:–but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely–
and there was a mat to step upon–I shall never forget his
extreme politeness.–Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you
my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the rivet
never came out again. My mother often talks of your good-nature.
Does not she, Jane?–Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?–
Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.–Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?–
Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!–
Such a transformation!–Must not compliment, I know (eyeing Emma
most complacently)–that would be rude–but upon my word, Miss Woodhouse,
you do look–how do you like Jane’s hair?–You are a judge.–
She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her hair!–
No hairdresser from London I think could.–Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare–
and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for
a moment.–How do you do? How do you do?–Very well, I thank you.
This is delightful, is not it?–Where’s dear Mr. Richard?–
Oh! there he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better employed talking
to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?–I saw you the
other day as you rode through the town–Mrs. Otway, I protest!–
and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.–Such a host
of friends!–and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!–How do you do? How do
you all do?–Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never better.–
Don’t I hear another carriage?–Who can this be?–very likely the
worthy Coles.–Upon my word, this is charming to be standing about
among such friends! And such a noble fire!–I am quite roasted.
No coffee, I thank you, for me–never take coffee.–A little tea
if you please, sir, by and bye,–no hurry–Oh! here it comes.
Every thing so good!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not at all.”

“You are ungrateful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me!–oh! no–I would get you a better partner than myself.
I am no dancer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!–Very 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 y