Emma

By Jane Austen
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Chapter I er of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition
to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvan-
tages which threatened alloy to her many enjoyments. The
danger, however, was at present so unperceived, that they
did not by any means rank as misfortunes with her.
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the
comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite shape of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor
some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief.
twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma
vex her. first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wed-
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most af- ding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself
fectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to
sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very ear- cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep
ly period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think
more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses; and of what she had lost.
her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as gov- The event had every promise of happiness for her friend.
erness, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse’s fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was
family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying,
daughters, but particularly of Emma. Between them it was generous friendship she had always wished and promoted
more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The
ceased to hold the nominal office of governess, the mild- want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.
ness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any She recalled her past kindness—the kindness, the affec-
restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long tion of sixteen years—how she had taught and how she had
passed away, they had been living together as friend and played with her from five years old—how she had devoted
friend very mutually attached, and Emma doing just what all her powers to attach and amuse her in health—and how
she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s judgment, but di- nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A
rected chiefly by her own. large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the pow- of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unre-

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serve which had soon followed Isabella’s marriage, on their and November evening must be struggled through at Hart-
being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recol- field, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella
lection. She had been a friend and companion such as few and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,
possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, know- and give her pleasant society again.
ing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, Highbury, the large and populous village, almost
and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, ev- amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its
ery scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak every separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really be-
thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as long, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in
could never find fault. consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civ-
friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma il, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of
was aware that great must be the difference between a Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change;
Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Tay- and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impos-
lor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and sible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to
domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from in- be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous
tellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used
companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every
rational or playful. kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always dis-
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. agreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to his own
Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased daughter’s marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with
by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudi- compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affec-
narian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was tion, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too;
a much older man in ways than in years; and though ev- and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never
erywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his able to suppose that other people could feel differently from
amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor
him at any time. had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of
matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully
was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea

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came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought
said at dinner, of Hannah till you mentioned her—James is so obliged to
‘Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What a you!’
pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!’ ‘I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I
‘I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon
Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, any account; and I am sure she will make a very good ser-
that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you would vant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion
not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and bear of her. Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks
all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have
own?’ had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns
‘A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am
house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great
have never any odd humours, my dear.’ comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her
‘How often we shall be going to see them, and they com- that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his
ing to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must begin; daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be
we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.’ able to tell her how we all are.’
‘My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a dis- Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow
tance. I could not walk half so far.’ of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her
‘No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no
in the carriage, to be sure.’ regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but
‘The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it un-
for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to be necessary.
while we are paying our visit?’ Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-
‘They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You and-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of
know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder
with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from
very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and
his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only doubt whether at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly
he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned

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to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and now walked have only one to please than two.’
up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. ‘Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful,
It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse troublesome creature!’ said Emma playfully. ‘That is what
for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which you have in your head, I know—and what you would cer-
always did him good; and his many inquiries after ‘poor Is- tainly say if my father were not by.’
abella’ and her children were answered most satisfactorily. ‘I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,’ said Mr. Wood-
When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, house, with a sigh. ‘I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful
‘It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this and troublesome.’
late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a ‘My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or
shocking walk.’ suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible idea!
‘Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find
mild that I must draw back from your great fire.’ fault with me, you know— in a joke—it is all a joke. We al-
‘But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish ways say what we like to one another.’
you may not catch cold.’ Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who
‘Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.’ could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one
‘Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal who ever told her of them: and though this was not par-
of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while ticularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be
we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wed- so much less so to her father, that she would not have him
ding.’ really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought
‘By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well perfect by every body.
aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have ‘Emma knows I never flatter her,’ said Mr. Knightley,
been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all ‘but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been
went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried used to have two persons to please; she will now have but
most?’ one. The chances are that she must be a gainer.’
‘Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.’ ‘Well,’ said Emma, willing to let it pass—‘you want to
‘Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I can- hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for
not possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every
you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of depen- body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a long face to
dence or independence!—At any rate, it must be better to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were going to be only half

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a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day.’ that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr.
‘Dear Emma bears every thing so well,’ said her father. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed
‘But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occu-
Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks pied either in his business in town or among his friends here,
for.’ always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful— Mr.
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if
smiles. ‘It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would never
companion,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘We should not like her so marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his
well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but she knows how wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the uncle
much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s advantage; she knows not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked
how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor’s time of life, on the subject, but I believed none of it.
to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to ‘Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss
her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when, be-
cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every cause it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much
friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer
married.’ Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the
‘And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,’ said match from that hour; and when such success has blessed
Emma, ‘and a very considerable one—that I made the me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall
match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; leave off match-making.’
and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when ‘I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’’ said
so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, Mr. Knightley. ‘Success supposes endeavour. Your time has
may comfort me for any thing.’ been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeav-
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly ouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A
replied, ‘Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches worthy employment for a young lady’s mind! But if, which
and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it,
pass. Pray do not make any more matches.’ means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one
‘I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Tay-
indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the lor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,’ and saying it again to
world! And after such success, you know!—Every body said yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you talk of

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success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? You hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to
made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said.’ have the same kind office done for him! I think very well
‘And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a
a lucky guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—for, service.’
depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There ‘Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a
is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word ‘suc- very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But
cess,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask him to
entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty come and dine with us some day. That will be a much bet-
pictures; but I think there may be a third—a something be- ter thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet
tween the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted him.’
Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many little encourage- ‘With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,’ said Mr.
ments, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have Knightley, laughing, ‘and I agree with you entirely, that it
come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma,
enough to comprehend that.’ and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but
‘A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of
a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.’
left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to
have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by inter-
ference.’
‘Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to oth-
ers,’ rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part.
‘But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches; they are
silly things, and break up one’s family circle grievously.’
‘Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. El-
ton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a wife
for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him—
and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his
house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have him
single any longer—and I thought when he was joining their

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Chapter II great goodness of being in love with him; but though she
had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolu-
tion enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,
but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that
brother’s unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a re- of her former home. They lived beyond their income, but
spectable family, which for the last two or three generations still it was nothing in comparison of Enscombe: she did not
had been rising into gentility and property. He had received cease to love her husband, but she wanted at once to be the
a good education, but, on succeeding early in life to a small wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
independence, had become indisposed for any of the more Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially
homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged, and by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was
had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when
entering into the militia of his county, then embodied. his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain. From
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill boy had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering
fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her illness of his mother’s, been the means of a sort of recon-
brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who ciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of
were full of pride and importance, which the connexion their own, nor any other young creature of equal kindred to
would offend. care for, offered to take the whole charge of the little Frank
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance
command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no pro- the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they
portion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded from were overcome by other considerations, the child was given
the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite mortification up to the care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had
of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with due deco- only his own comfort to seek, and his own situation to im-
rum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce prove as he could.
much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted
it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet tem- the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already
per made him think every thing due to her in return for the established in a good way in London, which afforded him

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a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just adoption as to have him assume the name of Churchill on
employment enough. He had still a small house in High- coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore, that he should
bury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between ever want his father’s assistance. His father had no apprehen-
useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next sion of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed
eighteen or twenty years of his life passed cheerfully away. her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature
He had, by that time, realised an easy competence—enough to imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect
to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining Highbury, one so dear, and, as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw
which he had always longed for—enough to marry a wom- his son every year in London, and was proud of him; and
an as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according his fond report of him as a very fine young man had made
to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition. Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to in- as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and
fluence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence prospects a kind of common concern.
of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination of Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury,
never settling till he could purchase Randalls, and the sale and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, though the com-
of Randalls was long looked forward to; but he had gone pliment was so little returned that he had never been there
steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were accom- in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talk-
plished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and ed of but never achieved.
obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of ex- Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally
istence, with every probability of greater happiness than proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should
in any yet passed through. He had never been an unhappy take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the subject,
man; his own temper had secured him from that, even in either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates,
his first marriage; but his second must shew him how de- or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now was
lightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and
and must give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had
deal better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude written to his new mother on the occasion. For a few days,
than to feel it. every morning visit in Highbury included some mention of
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received. ‘I suppose
was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill
brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so avowed an has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very

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handsome letter, indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. her satisfaction—-her more than satisfaction—her cheerful
Woodhouse saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that Emma, well as
handsome letter in his life.’ she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize at his
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’ when they left her
of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young man; at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw
and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant hus-
his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every band to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without
source and every expression of congratulation which her Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a gentle sigh, and saying, ‘Ah, poor
marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most for- Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.’
tunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likeli-
fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret hood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought some
was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of his
for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by being
her. wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake,
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could which had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His
not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could nev-
or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of her compan- er believe other people to be different from himself. What
ionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble character; she was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for any body;
was more equal to her situation than most girls would have and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them from
been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain,
hoped would bear her well and happily through its little dif- as earnestly tried to prevent any body’s eating it. He had
ficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in been at the pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary,
the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so conve- on the subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike
nient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr.
disposition and circumstances, which would make the ap- Woodhouse’s life; and upon being applied to, he could not
proaching season no hindrance to their spending half the but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias
evenings in the week together. of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of grati- with many—perhaps with most people, unless taken mod-
tude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and erately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own,

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Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the new-
ly married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was Chapter III
no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s wedding-
cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He
believe it. liked very much to have his friends come and see him; and
from various united causes, from his long residence at Hart-
field, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house, and
his daughter, he could command the visits of his own little
circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much in-
tercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of
late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any
acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.
Fortunately for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the
same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the parish adjoining,
the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended many such. Not
unfrequently, through Emma’s persuasion, he had some
of the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening
parties were what he preferred; and, unless he fancied him-
self at any time unequal to company, there was scarcely an
evening in the week in which Emma could not make up a
card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr.
Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone with-
out liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening
of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of
Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles of his love-
ly daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.

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 After these came a second set; among the most come-at- a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheer-
able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, fulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were
three ladies almost always at the service of an invitation a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to
from Hartfield, and who were fetched and carried home so herself. She was a great talker upon little matters, which ex-
often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for either actly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications
James or the horses. Had it taken place only once a year, it and harmless gossip.
would have been a grievance. Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a sem-
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was inary, or an establishment, or any thing which professed,
a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and qua- in long sentences of refined nonsense, to combine liberal
drille. She lived with her single daughter in a very small way, acquirements with elegant morality, upon new principles
and was considered with all the regard and respect which a and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous
harmless old lady, under such untoward circumstances, can pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity—but
excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree of a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a
popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a rea-
married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in sonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the
the world for having much of the public favour; and she had way, and scramble themselves into a little education, with-
no intellectual superiority to make atonement to herself, or out any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s
frighten those who might hate her into outward respect. She school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for High-
had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth bury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an
had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of whole-
devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to some food, let them run about a great deal in the summer,
make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a and in winter dressed their chilblains with her own hands.
happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple now
good-will. It was her own universal good-will and content- walked after her to church. She was a plain, motherly kind
ed temper which worked such wonders. She loved every of woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now
body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksight- thought herself entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-
ed to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate visit; and having formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s
creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excel- kindness, felt his particular claim on her to leave her neat
lent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she could,

24 Emma Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 25

and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside. plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, reg-
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very ular features, and a look of great sweetness, and, before the
frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her father’s end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased with her
sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself con- manners as her person, and quite determined to continue
cerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. the acquaintance.
She was delighted to see her father look comfortable, and She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in
very much pleased with herself for contriving things so Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether
well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to
feel that every evening so spent was indeed one of the long talk—and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and
evenings she had fearfully anticipated. becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
close of the present day, a note was brought from Mrs. God- the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what
dard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and
to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome request: for deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.
Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew very Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should
well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its
her beauty. A very gracious invitation was returned, and the connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
evening no longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the man- were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had just
sion. parted, though very good sort of people, must be doing her
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody. harm. They were a family of the name of Martin, whom
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. God- Emma well knew by character, as renting a large farm of
dard’s school, and somebody had lately raised her from the Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of Donwell—very
condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all creditably, she believed—she knew Mr. Knightley thought
that was generally known of her history. She had no visible highly of them—but they must be coarse and unpolished,
friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and was and very unfit to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only
now just returned from a long visit in the country to some a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect.
young ladies who had been at school there with her. She would notice her; she would improve her; she would de-
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be tach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into
of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, good society; she would form her opinions and her man-

26 Emma Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 27

ners. It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Ser-
undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her le understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would
leisure, and powers. not recommend an egg boiled by any body else; but you
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talk- need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—one of our
ing and listening, and forming all these schemes in the small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you
in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual to a little bit of tart—a very little bit. Ours are all apple-tarts.
rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such par- You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here. I do
ties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch the not advise the custard. Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half
due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to a glass of wine? A small half-glass, put into a tumbler of wa-
the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity beyond the ter? I do not think it could disagree with you.’
common impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visi-
to the credit of doing every thing well and attentively, with tors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the present
the real good-will of a mind delighted with its own ideas, evening had particular pleasure in sending them away
did she then do all the honours of the meal, and help and happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal to her
recommend the minced chicken and scalloped oysters, with intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage in
an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the early Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given
hours and civil scruples of their guests. as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little
Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings girl went off with highly gratified feelings, delighted with
were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid, because the affability with which Miss Woodhouse had treated her
it had been the fashion of his youth, but his conviction of all the evening, and actually shaken hands with her at last!
suppers being very unwholesome made him rather sorry
to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality would
have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their
health made him grieve that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all
that he could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend;
though he might constrain himself, while the ladies were
comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
‘Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of

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Chapter IV Smith’s being exactly the young friend she wanted—exactly
the something which her home required. Such a friend as
Mrs. Weston was out of the question. Two such could never
be granted. Two such she did not want. It was quite a dif-
ferent sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent.
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled Mrs. Weston was the object of a regard which had its basis
thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time in gratitude and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to
in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was noth-
and as their acquaintance increased, so did their satisfac- ing to be done; for Harriet every thing.
tion in each other. As a walking companion, Emma had Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to
very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In that find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her father She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this
never went beyond the shrubbery, where two divisions of subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy
the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or his short, as what she liked—but she could never believe that in the same
the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s marriage her ex- situation she should not have discovered the truth. Harriet
ercise had been too much confined. She had ventured once had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear and be-
alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet lieve just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked
Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time no farther.
to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the af-
in every respect, as she saw more of her, she approved her, fairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great part
and was confirmed in all her kind designs. of the conversation—and but for her acquaintance with the
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole.
docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit, But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good deal; she had
and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up spent two very happy months with them, and now loved
to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe the many
her inclination for good company, and power of appreciat- comforts and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her
ing what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no talkativeness— amused by such a picture of another set of
want of taste, though strength of understanding must not beings, and enjoying the youthful simplicity which could
be expected. Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet speak with so much exultation of Mrs. Martin’s having ‘two

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parlours, two very good parlours, indeed; one of them quite der to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how
as large as Mrs. Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her hav- fond she was of them, and in every thing else he was so very
ing an upper maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with obliging. He had his shepherd’s son into the parlour one
her; and of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, night on purpose to sing to her. She was very fond of sing-
and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow in- ing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very
deed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of it, it clever, and understood every thing. He had a very fine flock,
should be called her cow; and of their having a very hand- and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
some summer-house in their garden, where some day next wool than any body in the country. She believed every body
year they were all to drink tea:— a very handsome summer- spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very fond
house, large enough to hold a dozen people.’ of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there was a
For some time she was amused, without thinking be- blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any body to be
yond the immediate cause; but as she came to understand a better son, and therefore she was sure, whenever he mar-
the family better, other feelings arose. She had taken up a ried, he would make a good husband. Not that she wanted
wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and daughter, a son him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
and son’s wife, who all lived together; but when it appeared ‘Well done, Mrs. Martin!’ thought Emma. ‘You know
that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and what you are about.’
was always mentioned with approbation for his great good- ‘And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very
nature in doing something or other, was a single man; that kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the fin-
there was no young Mrs. Martin, no wife in the case; she did est goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had
suspect danger to her poor little friend from all this hospi- dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three teachers,
tality and kindness, and that, if she were not taken care of, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup
she might be required to sink herself forever. with her.’
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in ‘Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information be-
number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to yond the line of his own business? He does not read?’
talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike ‘Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe he
to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had has read a good deal—but not what you would think any
in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other
dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured books that lay in one of the window seats—but he reads all
and obliging. He had gone three miles round one day in or- them to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we

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went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the El- well. What do you imagine his age to be?’
egant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know he has read ‘He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my
the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the Romance of the birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—
Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard which is very odd.’
of such books before I mentioned them, but he is deter- ‘Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His
mined to get them now as soon as ever he can.’ mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem
The next question was— very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any
‘What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?’ pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years
‘Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought him hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman
very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now. One in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be
does not, you know, after a time. But did you never see him? very desirable.’
He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride ‘Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be
through every week in his way to Kingston. He has passed thirty years old!’
you very often.’ ‘Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to
‘That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin,
without having any idea of his name. A young farmer, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at
whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of per- all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might
son to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely the come into when his father died, whatever his share of the
order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do. family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in
A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good
interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he
some way or other. But a farmer can need none of my help, should have realised any thing yet.’
and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as ‘To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably. They
in every other he is below it.’ have no indoors man, else they do not want for any thing;
‘To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.’
observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—I mean ‘I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever
by sight.’ he does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted with his
‘I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young wife—for though his sisters, from a superior education, are
man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him not to be altogether objected to, it does not follow that he

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might marry any body at all fit for you to notice. The mis- help it.’
fortune of your birth ought to make you particularly careful Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this
as to your associates. There can be no doubt of your being a speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The young
gentleman’s daughter, and you must support your claim to man had been the first admirer, but she trusted there was
that station by every thing within your own power, or there no other hold, and that there would be no serious difficulty,
will be plenty of people who would take pleasure in degrad- on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly arrangement of her
ing you.’ own.
‘Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walk-
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I ing on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking
am not afraid of what any body can do.’ very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satis-
‘You understand the force of influence pretty well, Har- faction at her companion. Emma was not sorry to have such
riet; but I would have you so firmly established in good an opportunity of survey; and walking a few yards forward,
society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss while they talked together, soon made her quick eye suffi-
Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connect- ciently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance
ed, and to that end it will be advisable to have as few odd was very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but
acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if you his person had no other advantage; and when he came to be
should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the
I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the ground he had gained in Harriet’s inclination. Harriet was
sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will probably be not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her
some mere farmer’s daughter, without education.’ father’s gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr.
‘To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.
marry any body but what had had some education—and They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss
been very well brought up. However, I do not mean to set Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then
up my opinion against your’s—and I am sure I shall not came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of
wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always have spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to com-
a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, pose.
and should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite ‘Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very
as well educated as me. But if he marries a very ignorant, odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not gone
vulgar woman, certainly I had better not visit her, if I can round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked this

36 Emma Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 37

road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most days. a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the dif-
He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet. ference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a
He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he man!’
quite forgot it, but he goes again to-morrow. So very odd ‘Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not
we should happen to meet! Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he fair to compare Mr. Martin with him. You might not see
like what you expected? What do you think of him? Do you one in a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in
think him so very plain?’ Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have
‘He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—but been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr.
that is nothing compared with his entire want of gentility. I Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of them. Compare
had no right to expect much, and I did not expect much; but their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speak-
I had no idea that he could be so very clownish, so totally ing; of being silent. You must see the difference.’
without air. I had imagined him, I confess, a degree or two ‘Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston is
nearer gentility.’ almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty and
‘To be sure,’ said Harriet, in a mortified voice, ‘he is not fifty.’
so genteel as real gentlemen.’ ‘Which makes his good manners the more valuable.
‘I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it is
have been repeatedly in the company of some such very real that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring and
gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the differ- disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness be-
ence in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good comes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later age.
specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be sur- Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at
prized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with Mr. Weston’s time of life?’
Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very infe- ‘There is no saying, indeed,’ replied Harriet rather sol-
rior creature—and rather wondering at yourself for having emnly.
ever thought him at all agreeable before. Do not you begin ‘But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a
to feel that now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to ap-
have been struck by his awkward look and abrupt manner, pearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss.’
and the uncouthness of a voice which I heard to be wholly ‘Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.’
unmodulated as I stood here.’ ‘How much his business engrosses him already is very
‘Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not such plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for

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the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full you. Did not I tell you what he said of you the other day?’
of the market to think of any thing else—which is just as She then repeated some warm personal praise which
it should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to;
books? And I have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always
very rich man in time—and his being illiterate and coarse thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
need not disturb us.’ Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for
‘I wonder he did not remember the book’—was all Har- driving the young farmer out of Harriet’s head. She thought
riet’s answer, and spoken with a degree of grave displeasure it would be an excellent match; and only too palpably de-
which Emma thought might be safely left to itself. She, sirable, natural, and probable, for her to have much merit
therefore, said no more for some time. Her next beginning in planning it. She feared it was what every body else must
was, think of and predict. It was not likely, however, that any
‘In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are supe- body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it
rior to Mr. Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have more had entered her brain during the very first evening of Har-
gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a pattern. riet’s coming to Hartfield. The longer she considered it, the
There is an openness, a quickness, almost a bluntness in Mr. greater was her sense of its expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation
Weston, which every body likes in him, because there is so was most suitable, quite the gentleman himself, and with-
much good-humour with it—but that would not do to be out low connexions; at the same time, not of any family that
copied. Neither would Mr. Knightley’s downright, decided, could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a
commanding sort of manner, though it suits him very well; comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very suf-
his figure, and look, and situation in life seem to allow it; ficient income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not
but if any young man were to set about copying him, he large, he was known to have some independent property;
would not be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young and she thought very highly of him as a good-humoured,
man might be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton well-meaning, respectable young man, without any defi-
as a model. Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, oblig- ciency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.
ing, and gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet
gentle of late. I do not know whether he has any design of a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meet-
ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by additional ings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and
softness, but it strikes me that his manners are softer than on Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the idea of be-
they used to be. If he means any thing, it must be to please ing preferred by him would have all the usual weight and

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efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man, a
young man whom any woman not fastidious might like. He Chapter V
was reckoned very handsome; his person much admired in
general, though not by her, there being a want of elegance
of feature which she could not dispense with:—but the girl
who could be gratified by a Robert Martin’s riding about the ‘I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,’
country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered said Mr. Knightley, ‘of this great intimacy between Emma
by Mr. Elton’s admiration. and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing.’
‘A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?— why
so?’
‘I think they will neither of them do the other any
good.’
‘You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by
supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may
be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their inti-
macy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we
feel!—Not think they will do each other any good! This
will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about
Emma, Mr. Knightley.’
‘Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel
with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still
fight your own battle.’
‘Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were
here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We were
speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it
was for Emma, that there should be such a girl in Highbury
for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I shall not allow
you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to
live alone, that you do not know the value of a companion;

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and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a or two he had done. ‘But I,’ he soon added, ‘who have had
woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear,
used to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the cleverest of
Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma’s her family. At ten years old, she had the misfortune of being
friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seven-
to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her teen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and
to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been
I know.’ mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost
‘Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her moth-
was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her er’s talents, and must have been under subjection to her.’
drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to read ‘I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent
regularly through—and very good lists they were—very on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse’s
well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes alpha- family and wanted another situation; I do not think you
betically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list she would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am
drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it did sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held.’
her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some time; ‘Yes,’ said he, smiling. ‘You are better placed here; very
and I dare say she may have made out a very good list now. fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were
But I have done with expecting any course of steady reading preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you
from Emma. She will never submit to any thing requir- were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a com-
ing industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to plete education as your powers would seem to promise; but
the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, you were receiving a very good education from her, on the
I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.— very material matrimonial point of submitting your own
You never could persuade her to read half so much as you will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me
wished.—You know you could not.’ to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named
‘I dare say,’ replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘that I thought Miss Taylor.’
so then;—but since we have parted, I can never remember ‘Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a
Emma’s omitting to do any thing I wished.’ good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston.’
‘There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory ‘Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown
as that,’—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be

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nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma’s
may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son being pretty.’
may plague him.’ ‘Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing
‘I hope not that.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether— face and fig-
not foretell vexation from that quarter.’ ure?’
‘Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend ‘I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I
to Emma’s genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than
all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and hers. But I am a partial old friend.’
a Churchill in fortune.—But Harriet Smith—I have not half ‘Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant! reg-
done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort ular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh!
of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and
nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health, not
thing. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance.
worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flat- One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture of health;’
tery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the com-
herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful infe- plete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr.
riority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she Knightley, is not she?’
cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put ‘I have not a fault to find with her person,’ he replied. ‘I
her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I will
She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Con-
those among whom birth and circumstances have placed sidering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little
her home. I am much mistaken if Emma’s doctrines give occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston,
any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt her- I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet Smith, or
self rationally to the varieties of her situation in life.—They my dread of its doing them both harm.’
only give a little polish.’ ‘And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence
‘I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than you of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma’s little
do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a bet-
lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!’ ter daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she
‘Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any

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one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere interest
Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times.’ in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never
‘Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall be excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is
an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder
brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with a reason- what will become of her!’
able and therefore not a blind affection, and Isabella always ‘So do I,’ said Mrs. Weston gently, ‘very much.’
thinks as he does; except when he is not quite frightened ‘She always declares she will never marry, which, of
enough about the children. I am sure of having their opin- course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she
ions with me.’ has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be a bad
‘I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object. I
unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a re-
(I consider myself, you know, as having somewhat of the turn; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts
privilege of speech that Emma’s mother might have had) the to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.’
liberty of hinting that I do not think any possible good can ‘There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break
arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy being made a matter of her resolution at present,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘as can well be;
much discussion among you. Pray excuse me; but suppos- and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to
ing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the be forming any attachment which would be creating such
intimacy, it cannot be expected that Emma, accountable to difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse’s account. I do not rec-
nobody but her father, who perfectly approves the acquain- ommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no
tance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a source of slight to the state, I assure you.’
pleasure to herself. It has been so many years my province Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite
to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as
at this little remains of office.’ much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls respecting
‘Not at all,’ cried he; ‘I am much obliged to you for it. It Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have them sus-
is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your pected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon
advice has often found; for it shall be attended to.’ afterwards made to ‘What does Weston think of the weath-
‘Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be er; shall we have rain?’ convinced her that he had nothing
made unhappy about her sister.’ more to say or surmise about Hartfield.
‘Be satisfied,’ said he, ‘I will not raise any outcry. I will

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Chapter VI and artlessness in herself. I have done very little.’
‘If it were admissible to contradict a lady,’ said the gallant
Mr. Elton—
‘I have perhaps given her a little more decision of charac-
ter, have taught her to think on points which had not fallen
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fan- in her way before.’
cy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her young ‘Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much
vanity to a very good purpose, for she found her decidedly superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the
more sensible than before of Mr. Elton’s being a remarkably hand!’
handsome man, with most agreeable manners; and as she ‘Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met with
had no hesitation in following up the assurance of his admi- a disposition more truly amiable.’
ration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty confident of ‘I have no doubt of it.’ And it was spoken with a sort of
creating as much liking on Harriet’s side, as there could be sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She
any occasion for. She was quite convinced of Mr. Elton’s be- was not less pleased another day with the manner in which
ing in the fairest way of falling in love, if not in love already. he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s pic-
She had no scruple with regard to him. He talked of Harriet, ture.
and praised her so warmly, that she could not suppose any ‘Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?’ said
thing wanting which a little time would not add. His per- she: ‘did you ever sit for your picture?’
ception of the striking improvement of Harriet’s manner, Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only
since her introduction at Hartfield, was not one of the least stopt to say, with a very interesting naivete,
agreeable proofs of his growing attachment. ‘Oh! dear, no, never.’
‘You have given Miss Smith all that she required,’ said he; No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
‘you have made her graceful and easy. She was a beautiful ‘What an exquisite possession a good picture of her
creature when she came to you, but, in my opinion, the at- would be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to
tractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she attempt her likeness myself. You do not know it I dare say,
received from nature.’ but two or three years ago I had a great passion for tak-
‘I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Har- ing likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
riet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from one
hints. She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper cause or another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could

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almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It would be such immediately made; and she had no scruples which could
a delight to have her picture!’ stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both
‘Let me entreat you,’ cried Mr. Elton; ‘it would indeed be the others. Emma wished to go to work directly, and there-
a delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise fore produced the portfolio containing her various attempts
so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I know what at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that
your drawings are. How could you suppose me ignorant? they might decide together on the best size for Harriet. Her
Is not this room rich in specimens of your landscapes and many beginnings were displayed. Miniatures, half-lengths,
flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable figure- whole-lengths, pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been
pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?’ all tried in turn. She had always wanted to do every thing,
Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all that and had made more progress both in drawing and music
to do with taking likenesses? You know nothing of draw- than many might have done with so little labour as she
ing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine. Keep your would ever submit to. She played and sang;—and drew in
raptures for Harriet’s face. ‘Well, if you give me such kind almost every style; but steadiness had always been wanting;
encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try what I can and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence
do. Harriet’s features are very delicate, which makes a like- which she would have been glad to command, and ought
ness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of not to have failed of. She was not much deceived as to her
the eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not
catch.’ unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her rep-
‘Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about the utation for accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray at- There was merit in every drawing—in the least finished,
tempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your own perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had there been
words, be an exquisite possession.’ much less, or had there been ten times more, the delight
‘But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit. and admiration of her two companions would have been
She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you observe the same. They were both in ecstasies. A likeness pleases
her manner of answering me? How completely it meant, every body; and Miss Woodhouse’s performances must be
‘why should my picture be drawn?’’ capital.
‘Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on me. ‘No great variety of faces for you,’ said Emma. ‘I had only
But still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded.’ my own family to study from. There is my father—another
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost of my father—but the idea of sitting for his picture made

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him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; nei- agreed in thinking it very like)—only too handsome—too
ther of them very like therefore. Mrs. Weston again, and flattering—but that was a fault on the right side— after all
again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs. Weston! always my this, came poor dear Isabella’s cold approbation of—‘Yes,
kindest friend on every occasion. She would sit whenever I it was a little like—but to be sure it did not do him justice.’
asked her. There is my sister; and really quite her own little We had had a great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit
elegant figure!—and the face not unlike. I should have made at all. It was made a great favour of; and altogether it was
a good likeness of her, if she would have sat longer, but she more than I could bear; and so I never would finish it, to
was in such a hurry to have me draw her four children that have it apologised over as an unfavourable likeness, to ev-
she would not be quiet. Then, here come all my attempts ery morning visitor in Brunswick Square;—and, as I said,
at three of those four children;—there they are, Henry and I did then forswear ever drawing any body again. But for
John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no
any one of them might do for any one of the rest. She was so husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my
eager to have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there resolution now.’
is no making children of three or four years old stand still Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by
you know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of the idea, and was repeating, ‘No husbands and wives in the
them, beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coars- case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No hus-
er featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is bands and wives,’ with so interesting a consciousness, that
my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave
was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the
cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down his declaration must wait a little longer.
head most conveniently. That’s very like. I am rather proud She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was
of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knight-
here is my last,’—unclosing a pretty sketch of a gentleman ley’s, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a
in small size, whole-length— ‘my last and my best—my very honourable station over the mantelpiece.
brother, Mr. John Knightley. —This did not want much The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and
of being finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, present-
would never take another likeness. I could not help being ed a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady
provoked; for after all my pains, and when I had really made eyes of the artist. But there was no doing any thing, with
a very good likeness of it—(Mrs. Weston and I were quite Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every touch.

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She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and
gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged reading to them again.
to put an end to it, and request him to place himself else- ‘By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as
where. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading. one of the party.’
‘If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and
kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied
part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.’ the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and hap-
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and py. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was
Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still fre- in continual raptures, and defended it through every criti-
quently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have cism.
been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest ‘Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty
intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, she wanted,’—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the
and be charmed.—There was no being displeased with such least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—‘The ex-
an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a like- pression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not
ness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that
eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexception- she has them not.’
able. ‘Do you think so?’ replied he. ‘I cannot agree with you. It
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature.
enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the
There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the effect of shade, you know.’
attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement ‘You have made her too tall, Emma,’ said Mr. Knightley.
to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr.
more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in ev- Elton warmly added,
ery way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined ‘Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall.
place with credit to them both—a standing memorial of the Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a
beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the
both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr. El- proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions,
ton’s very promising attachment was likely to add. fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!’

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 ‘It is very pretty,’ said Mr. Woodhouse. ‘So prettily done! errand.’
Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know ‘He was too good!—she could not endure the thought!—
any body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do she would not give him such a troublesome office for the
not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of world,’—brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and
doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders—and it assurances,—and a very few minutes settled the business.
makes one think she must catch cold.’ Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse
‘But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she
day in summer. Look at the tree.’ could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incom-
‘But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.’ moding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being
‘You, sir, may say any thing,’ cried Mr. Elton, ‘but I must incommoded enough.
confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the plac- ‘What a precious deposit!’ said he with a tender sigh, as
ing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with he received it.
such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been ‘This man is almost too gallant to be in love,’ thought
much less in character. The naivete of Miss Smith’s man- Emma. ‘I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a
ners—and altogether—Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent
keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.’ young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an ‘Ex-
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and actly so,’ as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish,
here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must and study for compliments rather more than I could endure
be done in London; the order must go through the hands of as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.’
and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be
applied to, because it was December, and Mr. Woodhouse
could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the
fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to
Mr. Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on
the alert. ‘Might he be trusted with the commission, what
infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he could
ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how
much he should be gratified by being employed on such an

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Chapter VII not to lose any thing for want of asking. He will connect
himself well if he can.’
‘Will you read the letter?’ cried Harriet. ‘Pray do. I’d
rather you would.’
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was
The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a surprized. The style of the letter was much above her expec-
fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend. Har- tation. There were not merely no grammatical errors, but
riet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast; as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman;
and, after a time, had gone home to return again to dinner: the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and
she returned, and sooner than had been talked of, and with the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the
an agitated, hurried look, announcing something extraor- writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm at-
dinary to have happened which she was longing to tell. Half tachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling. She
a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as soon as she paused over it, while Harriet stood anxiously watching for
got back to Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin had been there her opinion, with a ‘Well, well,’ and was at last forced to add,
an hour before, and finding she was not at home, nor par- ‘Is it a good letter? or is it too short?’
ticularly expected, had left a little parcel for her from one of ‘Yes, indeed, a very good letter,’ replied Emma rather
his sisters, and gone away; and on opening this parcel, she slowly—‘so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing consid-
had actually found, besides the two songs which she had ered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can
lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to herself; and this letter was hardly imagine the young man whom I saw talking with
from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct pro- you the other day could express himself so well, if left quite
posal of marriage. ‘Who could have thought it? She was so to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no,
surprized she did not know what to do. Yes, quite a proposal certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough
of marriage; and a very good letter, at least she thought so. for a woman. No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose
And he wrote as if he really loved her very much—but she may have a natural talent for—thinks strongly and clearly—
did not know—and so, she was come as fast as she could and when he takes a pen in hand, his thoughts naturally
to ask Miss Woodhouse what she should do.—‘ Emma was find proper words. It is so with some men. Yes, I understand
half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so the sort of mind. Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a
doubtful. certain point, not coarse. A better written letter, Harriet
‘Upon my word,’ she cried, ‘the young man is determined (returning it,) than I had expected.’

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 ‘Well,’ said the still waiting Harriet;—‘ well—and— and ‘No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do?
what shall I do?’ What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Wood-
‘What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with house, tell me what I ought to do.’
regard to this letter?’ ‘I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have noth-
‘Yes.’ ing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with
‘But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of your feelings.’
course—and speedily.’ ‘I had no notion that he liked me so very much,’ said
‘Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do ad- Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma
vise me.’ persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the
‘Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own. bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful, she
You will express yourself very properly, I am sure. There is thought it best to say,
no danger of your not being intelligible, which is the first ‘I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman
thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no doubts or de- doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she
murs: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to ‘Yes,’
pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will present she ought to say ‘No’ directly. It is not a state to be safe-
themselves unbidden to your mind, I am persuaded. You ly entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I
need not be prompted to write with the appearance of sor- thought it my duty as a friend, and older than yourself, to
row for his disappointment.’ say thus much to you. But do not imagine that I want to in-
‘You think I ought to refuse him then,’ said Harriet, fluence you.’
looking down. ‘Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—but
‘Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you if you would just advise me what I had best do—No, no, I
mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I beg do not mean that—As you say, one’s mind ought to be quite
your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I cer- made up—One should not be hesitating—It is a very serious
tainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in doubt thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’ perhaps.—Do you think
as to the purport of your answer. I had imagined you were I had better say ‘No?’’
consulting me only as to the wording of it.’ ‘Not for the world,’ said Emma, smiling graciously,
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner, Emma ‘would I advise you either way. You must be the best judge
continued: of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to every
‘You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.’ other person; if you think him the most agreeable man you

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have ever been in company with, why should you hesitate? aghast. ‘No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought
You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else occur to you at this of that before. That would have been too dreadful!—What
moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not give up
deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any
compassion. At this moment whom are you thinking of?’ thing in the world.’
The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering, ‘Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose
Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself
the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was out of all good society. I must have given you up.’
now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma ‘Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would
waited the result with impatience, but not without strong have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!’
hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said— ‘Dear affectionate creature!—You banished to Abbey-
‘Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, Mill Farm!—You confined to the society of the illiterate
I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have now quite and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could
determined, and really almost made up my mind—to refuse have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty good
Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?’ opinion of himself.’
‘Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are ‘I do not think he is conceited either, in general,’ said
doing just what you ought. While you were at all in sus- Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; ‘at least, he
pense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged
completely decided I have no hesitation in approving. Dear to him, and have a great regard for— but that is quite a dif-
Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would have grieved me ferent thing from—and you know, though he may like me,
to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the conse- it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must con-
quence of your marrying Mr. Martin. While you were in the fess that since my visiting here I have seen people—and if
smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because one comes to compare them, person and manners, there is
I would not influence; but it would have been the loss of a no comparison at all, one is so very handsome and agree-
friend to me. I could not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of able. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very amiable
Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I am secure of you for ever.’ young man, and have a great opinion of him; and his being
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of so much attached to me—and his writing such a letter—but
it struck her forcibly. as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any con-
‘You could not have visited me!’ she cried, looking sideration.’

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 ‘Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her amiable
will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking of her
because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the idea of
can write a tolerable letter.’ Mr. Elton.
‘Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.’ ‘I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,’ was said in
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with rather a sorrowful tone.
a ‘very true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for ‘Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my
the clownish manner which might be offending her every Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be
hour of the day, to know that her husband could write a spared to Abbey-Mill.’
good letter.’ ‘And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am
‘Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be never happy but at Hartfield.’
always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite deter- Some time afterwards it was, ‘I think Mrs. Goddard
mined to refuse him. But how shall I do? That shall I say?’ would be very much surprized if she knew what had hap-
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the pened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks
answer, and advised its being written directly, which was her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-drap-
agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma er.’
continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, ‘One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in
it was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would
looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a envy you such an opportunity as this of being married. Even
softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to this conquest would appear valuable in her eyes. As to any
brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so thing superior for you, I suppose she is quite in the dark.
very much concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, The attentions of a certain person can hardly be among the
and thought so much of what his mother and sisters would tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto I fancy you and I are
think and say, and was so anxious that they should not fan- the only people to whom his looks and manners have ex-
cy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the young man plained themselves.’
had come in her way at that moment, he would have been Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about
accepted after all. wondering that people should like her so much. The idea of
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent. Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time, she
The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr. Martin.

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 ‘Now he has got my letter,’ said she softly. ‘I wonder what
they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is un- Chapter VIII
happy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not mind it
so very much.’
‘Let us think of those among our absent friends who are
more cheerfully employed,’ cried Emma. ‘At this moment, Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks
perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his mother past she had been spending more than half her time there,
and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the original, and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to
and after being asked for it five or six times, allowing them herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and
to hear your name, your own dear name.’ kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at
‘My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bond-street.’ present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour
‘Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No, my or two to Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be settled that
dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of
not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his horse to- some days.
morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his solace, his While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some
delight. It opens his designs to his family, it introduces you time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse,
among them, it diffuses through the party those pleasantest who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was per-
feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm preposses- suaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by
sion. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his
busy their imaginations all are!’ own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr.
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was
offering by his short, decided answers, an amusing contrast
to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the oth-
er.
‘Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if
you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall
take Emma’s advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. As
the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns
while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley.

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We invalids think we are privileged people.’ lieve I had been of some use; but it is not every body who
‘My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.’ will bestow praise where they may. You do not often over-
‘I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will power me with it.’
be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I will beg ‘You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?’
your excuse and take my three turns—my winter walk.’ ‘Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already
‘You cannot do better, sir.’ than she intended.’
‘I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. ‘Something has happened to delay her; some visitors per-
Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would haps.’
be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another long walk ‘Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!’
before you, to Donwell Abbey.’ ‘Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you
‘Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment my- would.’
self; and I think the sooner you go the better. I will fetch Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and
your greatcoat and open the garden door for you.’ therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, in- ‘I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell
stead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will
seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of soon hear of something to her advantage.’
Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise ‘Indeed! how so? of what sort?’
than Emma had ever heard before. ‘A very serious sort, I assure you;’ still smiling.
‘I cannot rate her beauty as you do,’ said he; ‘but she is ‘Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in
a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well love with her? Who makes you their confidant?’
of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s having
with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable wom- dropt a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and
an.’ adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him.
‘I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may ‘I have reason to think,’ he replied, ‘that Harriet Smith
not be wanting.’ will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unex-
‘Come,’ said he, ‘you are anxious for a compliment, so I ceptionable quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit
will tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his busi-
of her school-girl’s giggle; she really does you credit.’ ness. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.’
‘Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not be- ‘He is very obliging,’ said Emma; ‘but is he sure that Har-

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riet means to marry him?’ ‘Pray, Mr. Knightley,’ said Emma, who had been smiling
‘Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do? to herself through a great part of this speech, ‘how do you
He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to con- know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?’
sult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him ‘Certainly,’ replied he, surprized, ‘I do not absolutely
and all his family, and, I believe, considers me as one of his know it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day
best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would with you?’
be imprudent in him to settle so early; whether I thought ‘Come,’ said she, ‘I will tell you something, in return for
her too young: in short, whether I approved his choice al- what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he
together; having some apprehension perhaps of her being wrote, and was refused.’
considered (especially since your making so much of her) This was obliged to be repeated before it could be be-
as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased lieved; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprize
with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation, and
than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the purpose; open, said,
straightforward, and very well judging. He told me every ‘Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.
thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all pro- What is the foolish girl about?’
posed doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent ‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Emma, ‘it is always incomprehen-
young man, both as son and brother. I had no hesitation in sible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of
advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for
it; and that being the case, I was convinced he could not do any body who asks her.’
better. I praised the fair lady too, and altogether sent him ‘Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But
away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion be- what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert
fore, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.’
say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsel- ‘I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.’
lor man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, ‘You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too. Emma,
as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.’
pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear ‘And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I
to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very
be at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Har-
visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.’ riet’s equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he should

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have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I made
to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not
got over.’ regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the sake of her
‘Not Harriet’s equal!’ exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, ‘Even
and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few mo- Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a
ments afterwards, ‘No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is good match.’’
as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your ‘I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of
infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are Harriet Emma as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and
Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing
connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural more,) a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret her
daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I
provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder
is known only as parlour-boarder at a common school. She you should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I
is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has assure you mine are very different. I must think your state-
been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too sim- ment by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet’s claims.
ple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can They would be estimated very differently by others as well
have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very likely as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but
ever to have any that can avail her. She is pretty, and she is he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in society.—The
good tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising sphere in which she moves is much above his.—It would be
the match was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, a degradation.’
and a bad connexion for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all ‘A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be mar-
probability he might do much better; and that as to a ratio- ried to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!’
nal companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. ‘As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal
But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing sense she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common
to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being
sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be held below the level of those with whom she is brought
easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentle-
match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest man—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her allowance is very
doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cry-out liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement

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or comfort.—That she is a gentleman’s daughter, is indubi- clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of,
table to me; that she associates with gentlemen’s daughters, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of
no one, I apprehend, will deny.—She is superior to Mr. Rob- so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and supposing
ert Martin.’ her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured,
‘Whoever might be her parents,’ said Mr. Knightley, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them, they
‘whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for
to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by
what you would call good society. After receiving a very in- ninety-nine people out of an hundred; and till it appears
different education she is left in Mrs. Goddard’s hands to that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beau-
shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard’s line, ty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall in love
to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her friends evidently with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl,
thought this good enough for her; and it was good enough. with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being ad-
She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her mired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from
into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-
any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with nature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as
the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a
then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to be
friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your
have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not sex in general would not think such beauty, and such tem-
being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much per, the highest claims a woman could possess.’
real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of self- ‘Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason
ish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of you have, is almost enough to make me think so too. Better
any man I know. Depend upon it he had encouragement.’ be without sense, than misapply it as you do.’
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct ‘To be sure!’ cried she playfully. ‘I know that is the feeling
reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what
line of the subject again. every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses
‘You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse.
before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry well Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman
are not so contemptible as you represent them. She is not a for you. And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just

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beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does be making each other more angry. But as to my letting her
not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has refused him,
time to look about her.’ and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second ap-
‘I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,’ said plication. She must abide by the evil of having refused him,
Mr. Knightley presently, ‘though I have kept my thoughts whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will not
to myself; but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortu- pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I
nate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas assure you there was very little for me or for any body to
of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim to, that, in do. His appearance is so much against him, and his man-
a little while, nobody within her reach will be good enough ner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him,
for her. Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort she is not now. I can imagine, that before she had seen any
of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her body superior, she might tolerate him. He was the brother of
expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find of- her friends, and he took pains to please her; and altogether,
fers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty having seen nobody better (that must have been his great
girl. Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find
want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of him disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows
connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity— and now what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in
most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience education and manner has any chance with Harriet.’
and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery ‘Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!’ cried
of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Mr. Knightley.—‘Robert Martin’s manners have sense,
Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his
if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could un-
her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of conse- derstand.’
quence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerful-
Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Har- ly unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and
riet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent
she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing- what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge
master’s son.’ of such a point of female right and refinement than he could
‘We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knight- be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judg-
ley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only ment in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly

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against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to her in riet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at
angry state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done
this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma’s with match-making indeed. I could never hope to equal my
side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.’
thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these ‘Good morning to you,’—said he, rising and walking off
words. abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappoint-
‘Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think so; ment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the
and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and
Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you make no se- the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the
cret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
views, and plans, and projects you have;—and as a friend I Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was
shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will more indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his. She
be all labour in vain.’ did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so
Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued, entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her ad-
‘Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good versary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more
sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but complete self-approbation than he left for her. She was
not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time
value of a good income as well as any body. Elton may talk and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives.
sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well ac- Harriet’s staying away so long was beginning to make her
quainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet’s. uneasy. The possibility of the young man’s coming to Mrs.
He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a Goddard’s that morning, and meeting with Harriet and
great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread of
of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness;
present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and
himself away. I have heard him speak with great animation without having any such reason to give for her long absence,
of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind,
with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.’ and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said Emma, laughing he would, she had done nothing which woman’s friendship
again. ‘If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying Har- and woman’s feelings would not justify.

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 He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he
she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had
him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor (she must remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby
be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr. Knightley’s preten- it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried
sions) with the skill of such an observer on such a question very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one
as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been determined to
was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished go on, and had said in a very particular way indeed, that
resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about. he was going on business which he would not put off for
He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more any inducement in the world; and something about a very
unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not enviable commission, and being the bearer of something
be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand
matters; he might naturally be rather attentive than oth- him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case,
erwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very con-
allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with scious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash
all interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about
and of course thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,
much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations ‘that she did not pretend to understand what his business
that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. El-
more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she ton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the
was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton. world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for
Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she beauty or agreeableness.’
came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. El-
ton. Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she
repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been
to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had
seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming
back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton,
and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actu-
ally on his road to London, and not meaning to return till

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Chapter IX prehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary
pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental
provision she was making for the evening of life, was the
collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that
she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed pa-
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could per, made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers
not quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that and trophies.
it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand
and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs.
was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On Goddard’s, had written out at least three hundred; and Har-
the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and riet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with
more justified and endeared to her by the general appear- Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more. Emma as-
ances of the next few days. sisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement
after Mr. Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantel- of the first order, in form as well as quantity.
piece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the
and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect some-
ought; and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were visibly form- thing worth their putting in. ‘So many clever riddles as there
ing themselves into as strong and steady an attachment used to be when he was young— he wondered he could not
as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon remember them! but he hoped he should in time.’ And it al-
perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no otherwise re- ways ended in ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.’
membered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on
of the utmost advantage to the latter. the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the rid-
Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a great dle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and
deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led as he went about so much, something, he thought, might
to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of go- come from that quarter.
ing on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study; It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the intellects
much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr.
Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her com- Elton was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was

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invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, diately convinced must be his own.
or conundrums that he might recollect; and she had the ‘I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,’ said he. ‘Be-
pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recol- ing my friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any degree
lections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking
earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did at it.’
not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass his lips. The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which
They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles; and Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness
the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled, and about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her
rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade, friend’s. He was gone the next moment:—after another mo-
ment’s pause,
My first doth affliction denote, ‘Take it,’ said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper to-
Which my second is destin’d to feel wards Harriet—‘it is for you. Take your own.’
And my whole is the best antidote But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and
That affliction to soften and heal.— Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it her-
self.
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had tran-
scribed it some pages ago already. To Miss—
‘Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?’
said she; ‘that is the only security for its freshness; and noth- CHARADE.
ing could be easier to you.’
‘Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
not even Miss Woodhouse’—he stopt a moment— ‘or Miss Another view of man, my second brings,
Smith could inspire him.’ Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
The very next day however produced some proof of inspi-
ration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of But ah! united, what reverse we have!
paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was imme- And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

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 Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, length, by the eagerness of Harriet’s wondering questions.
May its approval beam in that soft eye! ‘What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, have not an idea—I cannot guess it in the least. What can it
read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress possibly be? Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help
of the lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily smil- me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder
ing, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over who the friend was—and who could be the young lady. Do
the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness, ‘Very you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?
well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse cha-
rades. Courtship—a very good hint. I give you credit for it. And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
This is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly— ‘Pray,
Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you. Ap- Can it be Neptune?
prove my charade and my intentions in the same glance.’
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of all is only one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not
epithets, the justest that could be given. have brought it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we
shall ever find it out?’
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply. ‘Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what
are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing
Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man must us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark?
be very much in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Give me the paper and listen.
Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think this For Miss —————, read Miss Smith.
would convince you. For once in your life you would be
obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade in- My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
deed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
a crisis soon now.’
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant ob- That is court.
servations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great

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 Another view of man, my second brings; or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have re-
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas! ally so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate
you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attach-
That is ship;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream. ment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is
a connexion which offers nothing but good. It will give you
But ah! united, (courtship, you know,) what reverse we have! every thing that you want—consideration, independence, a
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are flown. proper home—it will fix you in the centre of all your real
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our inti-
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. macy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never
raise a blush in either of us.’
A very proper compliment!—and then follows the ap- ‘Dear Miss Woodhouse!’—and ‘Dear Miss Woodhouse,’
plication, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces could ar-
much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to ticulate at first; but when they did arrive at something more
yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that
and to you.’ she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought.
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. Mr. Elton’s superiority had very ample acknowledgment.
She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happi- ‘Whatever you say is always right,’ cried Harriet, ‘and
ness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but
It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her. otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much be-
‘There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this yond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry any
compliment,’ said she, ‘that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. body! There cannot be two opinions about him. He is so
Elton’s intentions. You are his object— and you will soon very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To Miss
receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I ————.’ Dear me, how clever!—Could it really be meant
thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is clear; the for me?’
state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my wishes on ‘I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about
the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, that. It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort
just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be
happen what has happened. I could never tell whether an soon followed by matter-of-fact prose.’
attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable ‘It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected.

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I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea myself!—The and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind
strangest things do take place!’ when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and
‘When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—they scolded us away, and staid to look through herself; howev-
do indeed—and really it is strange; it is out of the common er, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which
course that what is so evidently, so palpably desirable— was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he
what courts the pre-arrangement of other people, should so looked! He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.’
immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. ‘This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your
Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one an- friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least
other by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your they have common sense; and we are not to be addressing
marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily
seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every
love exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very assurance of it;—if they wish to have you settled in the same
channel where it ought to flow. country and circle which they have chosen to place you in,
here it will be accomplished; and if their only object is that
The course of true love never did run smooth— you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is
the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long rise in the world which must satisfy them.’
note on that passage.’ ‘Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.
‘That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—me, You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as
of all people, who did not know him, to speak to him, at clever as the other. This charade!—If I had studied a twelve-
Michaelmas! And he, the very handsomest man that ever month, I could never have made any thing like it.’
was, and a man that every body looks up to, quite like Mr. ‘I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of de-
Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body clining it yesterday.’
says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not ‘I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I
chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are days in ever read.’
the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has ‘I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.’
put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he ‘It is as long again as almost all we have had before.’
came to Highbury. Dear me! When I look back to the first ‘I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.
time I saw him! How little did I think!— The two Abbots Such things in general cannot be too short.’

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 Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most sat- lant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it,
isfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better
‘It is one thing,’ said she, presently—her cheeks in a than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both
glow—‘to have very good sense in a common way, like every capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down,
body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and and then there can be no possible reflection on you.’
write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly sepa-
and another, to write verses and charades like this.’ rate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not
Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious
of Mr. Martin’s prose. an offering for any degree of publicity.
‘Such sweet lines!’ continued Harriet—‘these two last!— ‘I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,’ said
But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have she.
found it out?—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about ‘Very well,’ replied Emma; ‘a most natural feeling; and
that?’ the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is
‘Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this eve- my father coming: you will not object to my reading the
ning, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure! He
nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing that
committed.—Your soft eyes shall chuse their own time for pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of
beaming. Trust to me.’ gallantry towards us all!— You must let me read it to him.’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write Harriet looked grave.
this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have not ‘My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon
got one half so good.’ this charade.—You will betray your feelings improperly, if
‘Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix
you should not write it into your book.’ more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be
‘Oh! but those two lines are’— affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute
—‘The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment; and of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would
for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed
written you know, because you divide them. The couplet it towards me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn
does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed,
it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gal- without our sighing out our souls over this charade.’

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 ‘Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
you please.’ Though of his near approach afraid,
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the sub- So fatal to my suit before.
ject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of
‘Well, my dears, how does your book go on?—Have you got And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very clev-
any thing fresh?’ er all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you
‘Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something had got it.’
quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this ‘Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied
morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)— containing a it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you know.’
very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.’ ‘Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read,
slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with ex- Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.
planations of every part as she proceeded— and he was very
much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially struck The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was
with the complimentary conclusion. very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama.
‘Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said. Very I hope we shall have her here next week. Have you thought,
true. ‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty charade, my my dear, where you shall put her—and what room there will
dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.— Nobody be for the children?’
could have written so prettily, but you, Emma.’ ‘Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the room
Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little thinking, she always has;—and there is the nursery for the children,—
and a very tender sigh, he added, just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change?’
‘Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your ‘I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she was
dear mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but her here!—not since last Easter, and then only for a few days.—Mr.
memory! But I can remember nothing;—not even that par- John Knightley’s being a lawyer is very inconvenient.—Poor
ticular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can only Isabella!—she is sadly taken away from us all!—and how sor-
recollect the first stanza; and there are several. ry she will be when she comes, not to see Miss Taylor here!’
‘She will not be surprized, papa, at least.’
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, ‘I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much sur-
Kindled a flame I yet deplore, prized when I first heard she was going to be married.’

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 ‘We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while branch of the subject as must raise them.
Isabella is here.’ ‘Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can
‘Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very depressed while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be
tone)—she is coming for only one week. There will not be pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children,
time for any thing.’ are not we, papa? I wonder which she will think the hand-
‘It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it somest, Henry or John?’
seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in ‘Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad
town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful, papa, they will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hart-
that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the field, Harriet.’
country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for ‘I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is
the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this not.’
Christmas— though you know it is longer since they were ‘Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Hen-
with him, than with us.’ ry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his father.
‘It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella John, the second, is named after his father. Some people
were to be anywhere but at Hartfield.’ are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of
claims on his brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella, ex- her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remark-
cept his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said, ably clever; and they have so many pretty ways. They will
‘But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to come and stand by my chair, and say, ‘Grandpapa, can you
go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try give me a bit of string?’ and once Henry asked me for a knife,
and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas. I think
might stay very well.’ their father is too rough with them very often.’
‘Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to ac- ‘He appears rough to you,’ said Emma, ‘because you are
complish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with
bear to stay behind her husband.’ other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, boys to be active and hardy; and if they misbehave, can give
Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as them a sharp word now and then; but he is an affectionate
Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter’s father—certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate fa-
attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a ther. The children are all fond of him.’

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 ‘And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much,
ceiling in a very frightful way!’ that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s collection.
‘But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not
It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay transcribed beyond the first eight lines.’
down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say.
never give way to the other.’ He looked rather doubtingly—rather confused; said some-
‘Well, I cannot understand it.’ thing about ‘honour,’—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and
‘That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and ex-
cannot understand the pleasures of the other.’ amined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
separate in preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner, ‘You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good
the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be
turned away; but Emma could receive him with the usual sure of every woman’s approbation while he writes with such
smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the conscious- gallantry.’
ness of having made a push—of having thrown a die; and ‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ replied Mr. Elton, though
she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His hesitating a good deal while he spoke; ‘I have no hesitation
ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Wood- in saying—at least if my friend feels at all as I do—I have not
house’s party could be made up in the evening without him, the smallest doubt that, could he see his little effusion hon-
or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at oured as I see it, (looking at the book again, and replacing it
Hartfield. If he were, every thing else must give way; but oth- on the table), he would consider it as the proudest moment
erwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his of his life.’
dining with him—had made such a point of it, that he had After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma
promised him conditionally to come. could not think it too soon; for with all his good and agree-
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disap- able qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches
pointing his friend on their account; her father was sure of which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to
his rubber. He re-urged —she re-declined; and he seemed indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime
then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the of pleasure to Harriet’s share.
table, she returned it—
‘Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave

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Chapter X es, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury.’
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side
the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme,
that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could
only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton’s seeing ready
Though now the middle of December, there had yet been wit in her.
no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably reg- ‘I wish we could contrive it,’ said she; ‘but I cannot think
ular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable of any tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that
visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out I want to inquire about of his housekeeper—no message
of Highbury. from my father.’
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual
Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again—
irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred, ‘I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not
containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior be married, or going to be married! so charming as you
dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter are!’—
of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not Emma laughed, and replied,
very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. ‘My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to in-
It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much duce me to marry; I must find other people charming—one
smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was, other person at least. And I am not only, not going to be
there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it married, at present, but have very little intention of ever
without a slackened pace and observing eyes.—Emma’s marrying at all.’
remark was— ‘Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.’
‘There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of ‘I must see somebody very superior to any one I have
these days.’— Harriet’s was— seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting
‘Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—There herself,) is out of the question: and I do not wish to see any
are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.’ such person. I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really
‘I do not often walk this way now,’ said Emma, as they change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to
proceeded, ‘but then there will be an inducement, and I repent it.’
shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedg- ‘Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!’—

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 ‘I have none of the usual inducements of women to mar- as appears at first; for a very narrow income has a tendency
ry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! to contract the mind, and sour the temper. Those who can
but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and gen-
and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure erally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross.
I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. For- This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only
tune I do not want; employment I do not want; consequence too good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general,
I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much she is very much to the taste of every body, though single
mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her
never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and im- mind: I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world,
portant; so always first and always right in any man’s eyes she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it; and no-
as I am in my father’s.’ body is afraid of her: that is a great charm.’
‘But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!’ ‘Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ
‘That is as formidable an image as you could present, yourself when you grow old?’
Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so ‘If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind,
silly—so satisfied— so smiling—so prosing—so undistin- with a great many independent resources; and I do not per-
guishing and unfastidious— and so apt to tell every thing ceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty
relative to every body about me, I would marry to-morrow. or fifty than one-and-twenty. Woman’s usual occupations of
But between us, I am convinced there never can be any like- hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now;
ness, except in being unmarried.’ or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read
‘But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dread- more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as
ful!’ for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in
‘Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is re-
and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible ally the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be
to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much,
income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probabil-
proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of good ity, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can
fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear;
pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not quite so and though my attachment to none can equal that of a par-
much against the candour and common sense of the world ent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer

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and blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I shall often have a the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,
niece with me.’ ‘These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How tri-
‘Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you fling they make every thing else appear!—I feel now as if I
must have seen her a hundred times—but are you acquaint- could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest
ed?’ of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish
‘Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever from my mind?’
she comes to Highbury. By the bye, that is almost enough to ‘Very true,’ said Harriet. ‘Poor creatures! one can think
put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, of nothing else.’
that I should ever bore people half so much about all the ‘And really, I do not think the impression will soon be
Knightleys together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is over,’ said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and totter-
sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her ing footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through
is read forty times over; her compliments to all friends go the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again.
round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt ‘I do not think it will,’ stopping to look once more at all
the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still
grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish greater within.
Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death.’ ‘Oh! dear, no,’ said her companion.
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle top- They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when
ics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight;
the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her per- and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther,
sonal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, ‘Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our sta-
as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow bility in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be
for their ignorance and their temptations, had no romantic allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief
expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we
education had done so little; entered into their troubles feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for them, the
with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves.’
as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance, it Harriet could just answer, ‘Oh! dear, yes,’ before the gen-
was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit; tleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor
and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had
or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer;

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but they had a very interesting parley about what could be involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather
done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to ac- slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their be-
company them. ing evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr.
‘To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,’ Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with
thought Emma; ‘to meet in a charitable scheme; this will a very pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child
bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not won- on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little
der if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged
not here. I wish I were anywhere else.’ to join them.
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some inter-
she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a esting detail; and Emma experienced some disappointment
little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in when she found that he was only giving his fair companion
the main road. But she had not been there two minutes when an account of the yesterday’s party at his friend Cole’s, and
she found that Harriet’s habits of dependence and imitation that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the north
were bringing her up too, and that, in short, they would Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery, the beet-root, and all the
both be soon after her. This would not do; she immediately dessert.
stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make ‘This would soon have led to something better, of course,’
in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in com- was her consoling reflection; ‘any thing interests between
plete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the those who love; and any thing will serve as introduction
goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. to what is near the heart. If I could but have kept longer
They did as they were desired; and by the time she judged it away!’
reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort They now walked on together quietly, till within view of
of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least get-
from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her ting Harriet into the house, made her again find something
pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange
this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natu- it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dex-
ral thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, terously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to
had she been acting just then without design; and by this entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put
means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable
obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, comfort.

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 ‘Part of my lace is gone,’ said she, ‘and I do not know how other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but
I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion nothing serious.
to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. ‘Cautious, very cautious,’ thought Emma; ‘he advances
Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes him-
housekeeper for a bit of ribband or string, or any thing just self secure.’
to keep my boot on.’ Still, however, though every thing had not been accom-
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and plished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter
nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in con- herself that it had been the occasion of much present en-
ducting them into his house and endeavouring to make joyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the
every thing appear to advantage. The room they were taken great event.
into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards;
behind it was another with which it immediately communi-
cated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed
into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the
most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door
ajar as she found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton
should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained
ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conver-
sation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse
his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she
could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no
longer. She was then obliged to be finished, and make her
appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.
It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute,
Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it
would not do; he had not come to the point. He had been
most agreeable, most delightful; he had told Harriet that
he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them;

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Chapter XI stalling this too short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and
not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman
who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way;
but his alarms were needless; the sixteen miles being hap-
Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer pily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their
in Emma’s power to superintend his happiness or quicken five children, and a competent number of nursery-maids,
his measures. The coming of her sister’s family was so very all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such
near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged,
it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and dur- and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise
ing the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be and confusion which his nerves could not have borne un-
expected—she did not herself expect— that any thing be- der any other cause, nor have endured much longer even
yond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her fa-
her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, ther were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite
however; they must advance somehow or other whether of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her
they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and
for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and
the less they will do for themselves. playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a
than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course rath- disturbance to him, either in themselves or in any restless
er more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long attendance on them.
vacation since their marriage had been divided between Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman,
Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of this of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably ami-
autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and able and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife,
it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and
regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might
Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as Lon- have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any
don, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and who consequently of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or
was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in fore- any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she

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inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and fidgetiness were some-
fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. times provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp
Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr.
were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-
strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him;
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very but it was too often for Emma’s charity, especially as there
clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respect- was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured,
able in his private character; but with reserved manners though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of
which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and
of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tem- this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away
pered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and
such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfec- composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake
tion; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the
hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt ‘Ah, my dear,’ said he, ‘poor Miss Taylor—It is a griev-
his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which ous business.’
she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or ‘Oh yes, sir,’ cried she with ready sympathy, ‘how you
say a severe thing. must miss her! And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful loss
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. to you both!— I have been so grieved for you.—I could not
Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feel- imagine how you could possibly do without her.—It is a sad
ing the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty well, sir.’
herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his ‘Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not
manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were know but that the place agrees with her tolerably.’
only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether
praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of per- there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.
sonal compliment could have made her regardless of that ‘Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston bet-
greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, ter in my life— never looking so well. Papa is only speaking
the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There his own regret.’

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 ‘Very much to the honour of both,’ was the handsome obliged to go away again.’
reply. ‘It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not,
‘And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?’ asked Isabella in papa.— You quite forget poor Mr. Weston.’
the plaintive tone which just suited her father. ‘I think, indeed,’ said John Knightley pleasantly, ‘that
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—‘Not near so often, my dear, Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will
as I could wish.’ venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a hus-
‘Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire band, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may
day since they married. Either in the morning or evening very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has
of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston been married long enough to see the convenience of putting
or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.’
here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently ‘Me, my love,’ cried his wife, hearing and understand-
here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is ing only in part.— ‘Are you talking about me?—I am sure
really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melan- nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for mat-
choly way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. rimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of
Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss
but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and
Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I
to the extent we ourselves anticipated—which is the exact think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is
truth.’ one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Ex-
‘Just as it should be,’ said Mr. John Knightley, ‘and just as cepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal
I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry’s kite for
attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged him that very windy day last Easter—and ever since his
and social man makes it all easy. I have been always tell- particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing
ing you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me
very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been con-
have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.’ vinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better
‘Why, to be sure,’ said Mr. Woodhouse—‘yes, certain- man in existence.—If any body can deserve him, it must be
ly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, Miss Taylor.’
does come and see us pretty often— but then—she is always ‘Where is the young man?’ said John Knightley. ‘Has he

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been here on this occasion—or has he not?’ could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to
‘He has not been here yet,’ replied Emma. ‘There was a any body else.’
strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, ‘Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,’
but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him men- observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. ‘But you need not imag-
tioned lately.’ ine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up
‘But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,’ said her Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tem-
father. ‘He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congrat- pered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as
ulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or
shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called
Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating
is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—‘ and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five
‘My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that
time passes.’ home affords.’
‘Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on
have thought it— and he was but two years old when he Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she
lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!—and my struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if pos-
memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, sible; and there was something honourable and valuable in
pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to
pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look
dated Sept. 28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those
how it went on; and it was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’— to whom it was important.—It had a high claim to forbear-
I remember that perfectly.’ ance.
‘How very pleasing and proper of him!’ cried the good-
hearted Mrs. John Knightley. ‘I have no doubt of his being
a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should
not live at home with his father! There is something so
shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and
natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston
could part with him. To give up one’s child! I really never

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Chapter XII she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,
‘What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our neph-
ews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are
sometimes very different; but with regard to these children,
I observe we never disagree.’
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against the ‘If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate
inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one of men and women, and as little under the power of fan-
should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense cy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where
of right however had decided it; and besides the consider- these children are concerned, we might always think alike.’
ation of what was due to each brother, she had particular ‘To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from
pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement my being in the wrong.’
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the ‘Yes,’ said he, smiling—‘and reason good. I was sixteen
proper invitation. years old when you were born.’
She hoped they might now become friends again. She ‘A material difference then,’ she replied—‘and no doubt
thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would you were much my superior in judgment at that period of
not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years
would never own that he had. Concession must be out of bring our understandings a good deal nearer?’
the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they ‘Yes—a good deal nearer.’
had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the ‘But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being
restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room right, if we think differently.’
she had one of the children with her—the youngest, a nice ‘I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experi-
little girl about eight months old, who was now making her ence, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled
first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no
in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though he began with more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to
grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances,
of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.’
her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. ‘That’s true,’ she cried—‘very true. Little Emma, grow up
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giv- a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and
ing her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two

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more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home
were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose at-
the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know tachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a
that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.’ fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre
‘A man cannot be more so,’ was his short, full answer. for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as
‘Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands with much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners
me.’ rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him
This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a
John Knightley made his appearance, and ‘How d’ye do, tone of eagerness.
George?’ and ‘John, how are you?’ succeeded in the true While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Wood-
English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but house was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful
indifference, the real attachment which would have led ei- affection with his daughter.
ther of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of ‘My poor dear Isabella,’ said he, fondly taking her hand,
the other. and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Wood- some one of her five children—‘How long it is, how terribly
house declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable long since you were here! And how tired you must be after
talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear—and I rec-
natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the ommend a little gruel to you before you go.—You and I will
other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose
or very rarely mixing—and Emma only occasionally join- we all have a little gruel.’
ing in one or the other. Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pur- did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on
suits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper that article as herself;—and two basins only were ordered.
was by much the most communicative, and who was always After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some
the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every
point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection,
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the ‘It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the
home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had
to bear next year, and to give all such local information as much opinion of the sea air.’

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 ‘Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir— little Bella’s throat.’
or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the ‘Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have
children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella’s hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of
throat,— both sea air and bathing.’ the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to
‘Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s, which we have
doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long per- been applying at times ever since August.’
fectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, ‘It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have
that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it al- been of use to her—and if I had known you were wanting
most killed me once.’ an embrocation, I would have spoken to—
‘Come, come,’ cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe ‘You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates,’
subject, ‘I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me said Emma, ‘I have not heard one inquiry after them.’
envious and miserable;— I who have never seen it! South ‘Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of myself—
End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they
heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates—I will call upon her to-
never forgets you.’ morrow, and take my children.—They are always so pleased
‘Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?’ to see my children.— And that excellent Miss Bates!—such
‘Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bil- thorough worthy people!— How are they, sir?’
ious, and he has not time to take care of himself—he tells ‘Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor
me he has not time to take care of himself—which is very Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.’
sad—but he is always wanted all round the country. I sup- ‘How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as
pose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that
there is not so clever a man any where.’ he has never known them more general or heavy—except
‘And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the when it has been quite an influenza.’
children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope ‘That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not
he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been
ones.’ very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known
‘I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly
or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, season.’
my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at ‘No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very

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sickly except— trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking
‘Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it ill,’ turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her
is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, no- husband.
body can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live ‘Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think
there! so far off!— and the air so bad!’ Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.’
‘No, indeed—we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of ‘What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?’ cried
London is very superior to most others!—You must not Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The ‘I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think
neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from you looking well—but I hope it is only from being a little fa-
almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwill- tigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you
ing, I own, to live in any other part of the town;— there is had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.’
hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my chil- ‘My dear Isabella,’—exclaimed he hastily—‘pray do not
dren in: but we are so remarkably airy!—Mr. Wingfield concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctor-
thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most ing and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look
favourable as to air.’ as I chuse.’
‘Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best ‘I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling
of it— but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are your brother,’ cried Emma, ‘about your friend Mr. Graham’s
all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his
Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice
well at present.’ be too strong?’
‘I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, ex- And she talked in this way so long and successfully that,
cepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations when forced to give her attention again to her father and
which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind in-
well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they quiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no great
went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very
than usual, from their journey and the happiness of com- happy to assist in praising.
ing. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; ‘That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!’ said Mrs. John Knight-
for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not be- ley.— ‘It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then
lieve he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I for a moment accidentally in town! What happiness it must

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be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt, when his eyes on her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in
she comes to visit them! I always regret excessively on dear Emma’s ear expressed, ‘Ah! there is no end of the sad conse-
Emma’s account that she cannot be more at Highbury; but quences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking
now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. of.’ And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it,
Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to
be such a delightful companion for Emma.’ the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, minutes, however, he began with,
‘Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such an- ‘I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this
other pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. autumn, instead of coming here.’
Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet.’ ‘But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did
‘I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one the children a great deal of good.’
knows to be so very accomplished and superior!—and ex- ‘And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better
actly Emma’s age.’ not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy
This topic was discussed very happily, and others suc- place. Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South
ceeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar End.’
harmony; but the evening did not close without a little re- ‘I know there is such an idea with many people, but
turn of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal indeed it is quite a mistake, sir.—We all had our health per-
to be said—much praise and many comments— undoubt- fectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from
ing decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to
and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he may be de-
it was never met with tolerable;—but, unfortunately, among pended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the
the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most air, and his own brother and family have been there repeat-
recent, and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook edly.’
at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who never ‘You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went
had been able to understand what she meant by a basin of anywhere.— Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds
nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea,
wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any he says, and very pure air. And, by what I understand, you
thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening. might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea—a
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have

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consulted Perry.’ not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any
‘But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means
consider how great it would have been.—An hundred miles, of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to
perhaps, instead of forty.’ mind exactly the present line of the path…. The only way of
‘Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, noth- proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see
ing else should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we
not much to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.— will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion.’
Better not move at all, better stay in London altogether than Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflec-
travel forty miles to get into a worse air. This is just what tions on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though
Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure.’ unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings
Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and and expressions;— but the soothing attentions of his daugh-
when he had reached such a point as this, she could not ters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate
wonder at her brother-in-law’s breaking out. alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the oth-
‘Mr. Perry,’ said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, er, prevented any renewal of it.
‘would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. Why
does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I
do?— at my taking my family to one part of the coast or
another?—I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment
as well as Mr. Perry.— I want his directions no more than
his drugs.’ He paused— and growing cooler in a moment,
added, with only sarcastic dryness, ‘If Mr. Perry can tell
me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of an
hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or incon-
venience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to
prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself.’
‘True, true,’ cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready inter-
position— ‘very true. That’s a consideration indeed.—But
John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the
path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may

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Chapter XIII Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in ev-
ery thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very great
event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of
December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world had gone home so much indisposed with a cold, that, but
than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard,
going about every morning among her old acquaintance Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma
with her five children, and talking over what she had done called on her the next day, and found her doom already
every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and
wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and af-
was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short. fection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from
than their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of
and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at her loss without many tears.
Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her
dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr. Woodhouse was per- in Mrs. Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her
suaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton’s would be de-
of the party. pressed when he knew her state; and left her at last tolerably
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most
a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s car- comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.
riage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard’s
to make more than a simple question on that head; it hardly door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently
amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long to con- coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together
vince him that they might in one of the carriages find room in conversation about the invalid— of whom he, on the ru-
for Harriet also. mour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own espe- he might carry some report of her to Hartfield— they were
cial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;—the overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily
hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr. visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy,

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glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you con-
seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and sider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow
rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined will bring, I think it would be no more than common pru-
company and proceeded together. Emma was just describ- dence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night.’
ing the nature of her friend’s complaint;— ‘a throat very Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what
much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though
low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and
that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had of- not liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not really the
ten alarmed her with them.’ Mr. Elton looked all alarm on least inclination to give up the visit;— but Emma, too ea-
the occasion, as he exclaimed, ger and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to
‘A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a pu- hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very
trid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its be-
take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat ing ‘very cold, certainly very cold,’ and walked on, rejoicing
you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her?’ in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tran- the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of
quillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. the evening.
Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still re- ‘You do quite right,’ said she;—‘we will make your apolo-
main a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to gies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.’
reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her broth-
not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another sub- er was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather
ject, were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton actually ac-
‘It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very cepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a
much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad
any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day— handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this mo-
and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made ment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more
up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I exulting than when he next looked at her.
do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a dis- ‘Well,’ said she to herself, ‘this is most strange!—After I
appointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word, had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and
Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. leave Harriet ill behind!—Most strange indeed!—But there

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is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over
inclination— such a passion for dining out—a dinner en- negligent superiority. There is such perfect good-temper
gagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value.’
employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any ‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some sly-
thing gives way to it—and this must be the case with Mr. ness, ‘he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards
Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man un- you.’
doubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still, he ‘Me!’ she replied with a smile of astonishment, ‘are you
cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is imagining me to be Mr. Elton’s object?’
asked. What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in ‘Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and
Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.’ if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could into consideration now.’
not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great ‘Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!’
deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at part- ‘I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consid-
ing; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should er whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour
call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair friend, the last accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I
thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you,
again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.’
he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the bal- ‘I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken.
ance of approbation much in his favour. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;’
After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of
Knightley began with— the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of
‘I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agree- circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pre-
able than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where tensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very
ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and un- well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and
affected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.
works.’ Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to
‘Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,’ replied Emma; ‘but the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed
where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last
one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own car-

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riage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to
either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own go- his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all
ing, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that under shelter that he can;— here are we setting forward to
it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it. The cold, how- spend five dull hours in another man’s house, with nothing
ever, was severe; and by the time the second carriage was in to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and
motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dis-
and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as mal weather, to return probably in worse;—four horses and
to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle,
very short time. shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the hap- than they might have had at home.’
piest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased as-
weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were sent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to
evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knight- emulate the ‘Very true, my love,’ which must have been usu-
ley did not by any means like; he anticipated nothing in the ally administered by his travelling companion; but she had
visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the whole resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at
of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in express- all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrel-
ing his discontent. some; her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him
‘A man,’ said he, ‘must have a very good opinion of him- to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up,
self when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and without opening her lips.
encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to see They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down,
him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I could and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them
not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—Actually instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of
snowing at this moment!— The folly of not allowing peo- subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness; he
ple to be comfortable at home—and the folly of people’s was so very cheerful in his civilities indeed, that she began
not staying comfortably at home when they can! If we were to think he must have received a different account of Har-
obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty riet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing,
or business, what a hardship we should deem it;—and here and the answer had been, ‘Much the same— not better.’
are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, ‘My report from Mrs. Goddard’s,’ said she presently,
setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of ‘was not so pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was my

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answer.’ modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman’s carriage
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the
voice of sentiment as he answered. weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermit-
‘Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of tell- ted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a
ing you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door, which I very cold afternoon—but in this carriage we know nothing
did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I was told of the matter.—Ha! snows a little I see.’
that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better, rather ‘Yes,’ said John Knightley, ‘and I think we shall have a
worse. Very much grieved and concerned— I had flattered good deal of it.’
myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I knew ‘Christmas weather,’ observed Mr. Elton. ‘Quite sea-
had been given her in the morning.’ sonable; and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves
Emma smiled and answered—‘My visit was of use to the that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day’s party,
nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse
charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold indeed. would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on
Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard.’ the ground; but now it is of no consequence. This is quite
‘Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—‘ the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas ev-
‘He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope ery body invites their friends about them, and people think
to-morrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable little of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s
report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went
loss to our party to-day!’ for only one night, and could not get away till that very day
‘Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed ev- se’nnight.’
ery moment.’ Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend
This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was the pleasure, but said only, coolly,
really estimable; but it should have lasted longer. Emma was ‘I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.’
rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he be- At another time Emma might have been amused, but she
gan to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for other
alacrity and enjoyment. feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation
‘What an excellent device,’ said he, ‘the use of a sheepskin of a pleasant party.
for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;—impos- ‘We are sure of excellent fires,’ continued he, ‘and every
sible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and

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Mrs. Weston;— Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise,
and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable, and so fond Chapter XIV
of society;— it will be a small party, but where small par-
ties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any.
Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not accommodate more
than ten comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, un- Some change of countenance was necessary for each
der such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-
two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft air room;—Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and Mr.
to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation, John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton must
though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings.’ place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew
‘I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment
never dine with any body.’ to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a great favourite,
‘Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke
the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any one, to whom
come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have she related with such conviction of being listened to and un-
little labour and great enjoyment.’ derstood, of being always interesting and always intelligible,
‘My first enjoyment,’ replied John Knightley, as they the little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures
passed through the sweep-gate, ‘will be to find myself safe of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield,
at Hartfield again.’ in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern; and half an
hour’s uninterrupted communication of all those little mat-
ters on which the daily happiness of private life depends,
was one of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit
might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the pres-
ent half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile,
her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she deter-
mined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s oddities, or
of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoy-

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able to the utmost. tively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was
The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering pe-
gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been riod of Mr. Elton’s nonsense, which she particularly wished
safely seated long enough to give the history of it, besides all to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston
the history of his own and Isabella’s coming, and of Emma’s was giving some information about his son; she heard the
being to follow, and had indeed just got to the end of his words ‘my son,’ and ‘Frank,’ and ‘my son,’ repeated several
satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter, times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much
when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his
almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so
to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. completely past that any reviving question from her would
Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made have been awkward.
her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution
places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the
driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet, from her idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her.
mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continu- She had frequently thought—especially since his father’s
ally obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and marriage with Miss Taylor—that if she were to marry, he
solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead was the very person to suit her in age, character and con-
of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could dition. He seemed by this connexion between the families,
not avoid the internal suggestion of ‘Can it really be as my quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a
brother imagined? can it be possible for this man to be match that every body who knew them must think of. That
beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me?— Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she was very strongly
Absurd and insufferable!’— Yet he would be so anxious for persuaded; and though not meaning to be induced by him,
her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her or by any body else, to give up a situation which she believed
father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would more replete with good than any she could change it for, she
begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so lit- had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of find-
tle knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and ing him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree,
made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. and a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in
For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet’s, in their friends’ imaginations.
the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even posi- With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were dread-

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fully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing very ‘Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be an-
polite, while feeling very cross—and of thinking that the other put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so
rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as
forward the same information again, or the substance of I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is quite between our-
it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it proved;— for selves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room.
when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. There are secrets in all families, you know)—The case is,
Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe
the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle in January; and that Frank’s coming depends upon their be-
of mutton, to say to her, ing put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know
‘We want only two more to be just the right number. I they will, because it is a family that a certain lady, of some
should like to see two more here,—your pretty little friend, consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular dislike to: and
Miss Smith, and my son—and then I should say we were though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two
quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling the or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the
others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank. I point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as con-
had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us fident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as
within a fortnight.’ I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nod-
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and ding towards the upper end of the table) has so few vagaries
fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and herself, and has been so little used to them at Hartfield, that
Miss Smith making their party quite complete. she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in
‘He has been wanting to come to us,’ continued Mr. the practice of doing.’
Weston, ‘ever since September: every letter has been full of ‘I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the
it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to case,’ replied Emma; ‘but am disposed to side with you, Mr.
please who must be pleased, and who (between ourselves) Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too; for
are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. you know Enscombe.’
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the sec- ‘Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I have
ond week in January.’ never been at the place in my life.—She is an odd woman!—
‘What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on Frank’s
Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she account; for I do believe her to be very fond of him. I used
must be almost as happy as yourself.’ to think she was not capable of being fond of any body, ex-

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cept herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her upon her being willing to spare him.’
way—allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting ‘Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill,’
every thing to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in replied Isabella: ‘and I am sure I never think of that poor
my opinion, to him, that he should excite such an affection; young man without the greatest compassion. To be con-
for, though I would not say it to any body else, she has no stantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be dreadful.
more heart than a stone to people in general; and the devil It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but it
of a temper.’ must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, any children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would
to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the draw- have made them!’
ing-room: wishing her joy— yet observing, that she knew Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She
the first meeting must be rather alarming.— Mrs. Weston should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to
agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be se- her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not haz-
cure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time ard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would scarcely
talked of: ‘for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills from her,
be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I dare say, has been imagination had already given her such instinctive knowl-
telling you exactly how the matter stands?’ edge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr.
‘Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-hu- Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-
mour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most room. To be sitting long after dinner, was a confinement
certain thing in the world.’ that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation
‘My Emma!’ replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘what is the was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with
certainty of caprice?’ Then turning to Isabella, who had whom he was always comfortable.
not been attending before—‘You must know, my dear Mrs. While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an
Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. opportunity of saying,
Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It de- ‘And so you do not consider this visit from your son as
pends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in short, by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction
upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may ven- must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the sooner
ture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is it could be over, the better.’
a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends ‘Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of

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other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put she owes nothing at all.’
off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for dis- ‘My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet tem-
appointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on per, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you
his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchills’ must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at
to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jeal- times, considerable influence; but it may be perfectly im-
ous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no possible for him to know beforehand when it will be.’
dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less Emma listened, and then coolly said, ‘I shall not be satis-
sanguine.’ fied, unless he comes.’
‘He ought to come,’ said Emma. ‘If he could stay only a ‘He may have a great deal of influence on some points,’
couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly con- continued Mrs. Weston, ‘and on others, very little: and
ceive a young man’s not having it in his power to do as much among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but too
as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad hands, may be likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming away
teazed, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be from them to visit us.’
with; but one cannot comprehend a young man’s being un-
der such restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his
father, if he likes it.’
‘One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the
family, before one decides upon what he can do,’ replied
Mrs. Weston. ‘One ought to use the same caution, per-
haps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual of any
one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be
judged by general rules: she is so very unreasonable; and ev-
ery thing gives way to her.’
‘But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a
favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it
would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice
for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every
thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards him,
she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom

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Chapter XV ity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at
once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat
on her account, than on Harriet’s—more anxious that she
should escape the infection, than that there should be no in-
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when fection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to
he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again,
was as much as his three companions could do, to entertain for the present—to entreat her to promise him not to ven-
away his notice of the lateness of the hour, before the other ture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt
gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, his opinion; and though she tried to laugh it off and bring
and no friend to early separations of any sort; but at last the subject back into its proper course, there was no putting
the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. an end to his extreme solicitude about her. She was vexed.
Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. It did appear—there was no concealing it—exactly like the
Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He pretence of being in love with her, instead of Harriet; an in-
joined them immediately, and, with scarcely an invitation, constancy, if real, the most contemptible and abominable!
seated himself between them. and she had difficulty in behaving with temper. He turned
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement afforded to Mrs. Weston to implore her assistance, ‘Would not she
her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was give him her support?—would not she add her persuasions
willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satis- to his, to induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. God-
fied with him as before, and on his making Harriet his very dard’s till it were certain that Miss Smith’s disorder had no
first subject, was ready to listen with most friendly smiles. infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise—
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair would not she give him her influence in procuring it?’
friend— her fair, lovely, amiable friend. ‘Did she know?— ‘So scrupulous for others,’ he continued, ‘and yet so care-
had she heard any thing about her, since their being at less for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by staying
Randalls?— he felt much anxiety—he must confess that the at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger
nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.’ And in of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs.
this style he talked on for some time very properly, not much Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I some right to com-
attending to any answer, but altogether sufficiently awake to plain? I am sure of your kind support and aid.’
the terror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite in char- Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must

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be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages;
assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and if one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field
as for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to there will be the other at hand. I dare say we shall be all safe
have the power of directly saying any thing to the purpose. at Hartfield before midnight.’
She could only give him a look; but it was such a look as she Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was con-
thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the fessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but
sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse
attention. uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the re- to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to
proof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr. John impede their return, that was a mere joke; he was afraid they
Knightley now came into the room from examining the would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be im-
weather, and opened on them all with the information of passable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls;
the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snow- and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommoda-
ing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these tion might be found for every body, calling on his wife to
words to Mr. Woodhouse: agree with him, that with a little contrivance, every body
‘This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter en- might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from
gagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the
horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.’ house.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation; but ‘What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be
every body else had something to say; every body was ei- done?’ was Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all that
ther surprized or not surprized, and had some question to he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort;
ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma tried and her assurances of safety, her representation of the ex-
earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his son- cellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so
in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather unfeelingly. many friends about them, revived him a little.
‘I admired your resolution very much, sir,’ said he, ‘in His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The
venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children
would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and fancying
snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we the road to be now just passable for adventurous people, but
shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it set-

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tled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there
while she and her husband set forward instantly through was every appearance of its being soon over. He had seen
all the possible accumulations of drifted snow that might the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there be-
impede them. ing nothing to apprehend.
‘You had better order the carriage directly, my love,’ said To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great, and
she; ‘I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set off di- they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father’s
rectly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I can get out account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the
and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm
half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the mo- that had been raised could not be appeased so as to admit
ment I got home; and it is not the sort of thing that gives of any comfort for him while he continued at Randalls. He
me cold.’ was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning
‘Indeed!’ replied he. ‘Then, my dear Isabella, it is the home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe
most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general to stay; and while the others were variously urging and rec-
every thing does give you cold. Walk home!—you are pret- ommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few
tily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be bad enough brief sentences: thus—
for the horses.’ ‘Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?’
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of ‘I am ready, if the others are.’
the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then ‘Shall I ring the bell?’
went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up ‘Yes, do.’
the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A
still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had left few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one trouble-
the room immediately after his brother’s first report of the some companion deposited in his own house, to get sober
snow, came back again, and told them that he had been out and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness
of doors to examine, and could answer for there not be- when this visit of hardship were over.
ing the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first
they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone be- object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own
yond the sweep— some way along the Highbury road—the by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that either
snow was nowhere above half an inch deep—in many places could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight
hardly enough to whiten the ground; a very few flakes were of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of

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a much darker night than he had been prepared for. ‘He was ing—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself
afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unex-
Isabella would not like it. And there would be poor Emma ampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in
in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as
do. They must keep as much together as they could;’ and soon as possible. It really was so. Without scruple—without
James was talked to, and given a charge to go very slow and apology— without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the
wait for the other carriage. lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley, for- to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. An-
getting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after gry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve
his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on being es- to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this
corted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that
that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with
were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would not have been the a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped
awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a plea- would best suit his half and half state, she replied,
sure, previous to the suspicions of this very day; she could ‘I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me! you
have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a forget yourself— you take me for my friend—any message
mile would have seemed but one. But now, she would rath- to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no more of this
er it had not happened. She believed he had been drinking to me, if you please.’
too much of Mr. Weston’s good wine, and felt sure that he ‘Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could she
would want to be talking nonsense. possibly mean!’— And he repeated her words with such as-
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own man- surance of accent, such boastful pretence of amazement,
ners, she was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite that she could not help replying with quickness,
calmness and gravity of the weather and the night; but ‘Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and I
scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep- can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself, or
gate and joined the other carriage, than she found her you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such a
subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention demanded, manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and I
and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to her: availing will endeavour to forget it.’
himself of the precious opportunity, declaring sentiments But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate his
which must be already well known, hoping—fearing—ador- spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly knew

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his own meaning; and having warmly protested against her Every thing that I have said or done, for many weeks past,
suspicion as most injurious, and slightly touched upon his has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of
respect for Miss Smith as her friend,— but acknowledging yourself. You cannot really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an
his wonder that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all,—he accent meant to be insinuating)—I am sure you have seen
resumed the subject of his own passion, and was very urgent and understood me.’
for a favourable answer. It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on hearing
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more of this— which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost.
his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer struggles She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able
for politeness, replied, to reply: and two moments of silence being ample encour-
‘It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have agement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state of mind, he tried to
made yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is much take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed—
beyond any thing I can express. After such behaviour, as I ‘Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this
have witnessed during the last month, to Miss Smith—such interesting silence. It confesses that you have long under-
attentions as I have been in the daily habit of observing—to stood me.’
be addressing me in this manner—this is an unsteadiness ‘No, sir,’ cried Emma, ‘it confesses no such thing. So far
of character, indeed, which I had not supposed possible! Be- from having long understood you, I have been in a most
lieve me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the complete error with respect to your views, till this moment.
object of such professions.’ As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giv-
‘Good Heaven!’ cried Mr. Elton, ‘what can be the mean- ing way to any feelings— Nothing could be farther from my
ing of this?— Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss Smith wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pur-
in the whole course of my existence—never paid her any suit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave me great pleasure,
attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether she and I have been very earnestly wishing you success: but had
were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has fancied I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield,
otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I am very I should certainly have thought you judged ill in mak-
sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith, indeed!—Oh! ing your visits so frequent. Am I to believe that you have
Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss Smith, when Miss never sought to recommend yourself particularly to Miss
Woodhouse is near! No, upon my honour, there is no un- Smith?—that you have never thought seriously of her?’
steadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest ‘Never, madam,’ cried he, affronted in his turn: ‘never, I
against having paid the smallest attention to any one else. assure you. I think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith is

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a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her re- the door of his house; and he was out before another syl-
spectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no doubt, lable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him
there are men who might not object to—Every body has a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and
their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much proudly; and, under indescribable irritation of spirits, she
at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as was then conveyed to Hartfield.
to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!— No, madam, my There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her
visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only; and the en- father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a soli-
couragement I received—‘ tary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner which
‘Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir, you he could never bear to think of— and in strange hands—a
have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have seen you mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed as
only as the admirer of my friend. In no other light could you if her return only were wanted to make every thing go well:
have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now
exceedingly sorry: but it is well that the mistake ends where all kindness and attention; and so particularly solicitous for
it does. Had the same behaviour continued, Miss Smith the comfort of her father, as to seem—if not quite ready to
might have been led into a misconception of your views; not join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly sensible of its be-
being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very ing exceedingly wholesome; and the day was concluding in
great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the peace and comfort to all their little party, except herself.—
disappointment is single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I But her mind had never been in such perturbation; and it
have no thoughts of matrimony at present.’ needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheer-
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too ful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of
decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swell- quiet reflection.
ing resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had
to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of
Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there
had not been so much anger, there would have been des-
perate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions
left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. With-
out knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane,
or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at

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Chapter XVI 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
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed
sat down to think and be miserable.—It was a wretched as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of
business indeed!—Such an overthrow of every thing she taste, as one proof among others that he had not always
had been wishing for!—Such a development of every thing lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his
most unwelcome!—Such a blow for Harriet!—that was the address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this
worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to mean
of some sort or other; but, compared with the evil to Har- any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s friend.
riet, all was light; and she would gladly have submitted to To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first idea
feel yet more mistaken— more in error—more disgraced by on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was
mis-judgment, than she actually was, could the effects of no denying that those brothers had penetration. She re-
her blunders have been confined to herself. membered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about
‘If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had
could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his pre- professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly;
sumption to me— but poor Harriet!’ and blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his
How she could have been so deceived!—He protested character had been there shewn than any she had reached
that he had never thought seriously of Harriet—never! She herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but Mr. Elton was
looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what
She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every she had meant and believed him; proud, assuming, conceit-
thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been un- ed; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about
marked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so the feelings of others.
misled. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s want-
The picture!—How eager he had been about the ing to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion.
picture!— and the charade!—and an hundred other cir- His professions and his proposals did him no service. She
cumstances;— how clearly they had seemed to point at thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his

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hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance field certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch
to raise his eyes to her, pretended to be in love; but she was in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of High-
perfectly easy as to his not suffering any disappointment bury belonged; but their fortune, from other sources, was
that need be cared for. There had been no real affection ei- such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey
ther in his language or manners. Sighs and fine words had itself, in every other kind of consequence; and the Wood-
been given in abundance; but she could hardly devise any houses had long held a high place in the consideration of
set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied the neighbourhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not
with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He two years ago, to make his way as he could, without any
only wanted to aggrandise and enrich himself; and if Miss alliances but in trade, or any thing to recommend him to
Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand notice but his situation and his civility.— But he had fan-
pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, cied her in love with him; that evidently must have been
he would soon try for Miss Somebody else with twenty, or his dependence; and after raving a little about the seeming
with ten. incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma
But—that he should talk of encouragement, should con- was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her
sider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions, own behaviour to him had been so complaisant and oblig-
meaning (in short), to marry him!—should suppose him- ing, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
self her equal in connexion or mind!—look down upon her motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary ob-
friend, so well understanding the gradations of rank below servation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a
him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself very decided favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feel-
shewing no presumption in addressing her!— It was most ings, she had little right to wonder that he, with self-interest
provoking. to blind him, should have mistaken hers.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was fool-
much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies ish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any
of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming
perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and con- too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick
sequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and
the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family—and ‘Here have I,’ said she, ‘actually talked poor Harriet into
that the Eltons were nobody. The landed property of Hart- being very much attached to this man. She might never have

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thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have fulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of powerful
thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his at- operation; and if the distress be not poignant enough to
tachment, for she is as modest and humble as I used to think keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to open to sensa-
him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with persuading her not tions of softened pain and brighter hope.
to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort
well done of me; but there I should have stopped, and left than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of
the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out
company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing some of it.
one worth having; I ought not to have attempted more. But It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be
now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make
but half a friend to her; and if she were not to feel this disap- it shocking to disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature should
pointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any not be of that superior sort in which the feelings are most
body else who would be at all desirable for her;—William acute and retentive— and that there could be no necessity
Coxe—Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe— a pert for any body’s knowing what had passed except the three
young lawyer.’ principals, and especially for her father’s being given a mo-
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then ment’s uneasiness about it.
resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a
what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for
explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor any thing was welcome that might justify their all three be-
Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future ing quite asunder at present.
meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the The weather was most favourable for her; though Christ-
acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, mas Day, she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would
and avoiding eclat, were enough to occupy her in most un- have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she
mirthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleas-
at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having ant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with
blundered most dreadfully. snow, and the atmosphere in that unsettled state between
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though frost and thaw, which is of all others the most unfriendly
under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and
hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and cheer- every evening setting in to freeze, she was for many days

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a most honourable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet
possible but by note; no church for her on Sunday any more Chapter XVII
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 Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at
taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those
to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as
his own house, too wise to stir out; and to hear him say to usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with
Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off,
them,— and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor
‘Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with those
poor Mr. Elton?’ she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and
These days of confinement would have been, but for her always innocently busy, might have been a model of right
private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such seclu- feminine happiness.
sion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always The evening of the very day on which they went brought
be of great importance to his companions; and he had, be- a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, cer-
sides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at Randalls, emonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s best compliments,
that his amiableness never failed him during the rest of his ‘that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following
stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and morning in his way to Bath; where, in compliance with
speaking pleasantly of every body. But with all the hopes the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to
of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossi-
was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of expla- bility he was under, from various circumstances of weather
nation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse,
ever perfectly at ease. 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 ab-
sence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She

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admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him servations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last
much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Re- six weeks.
sentment could not have been more plainly spoken than The confession completely renewed her first shame—and
in a civility to her father, from which she was so point- the sight of Harriet’s tears made her think that she should
edly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening never be in charity with herself again.
compliments.—Her name was not mentioned;— and there Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming no-
was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged body— and in every thing testifying such an ingenuousness
solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, of disposition and lowly opinion of herself, as must appear
as she thought, at first, could not escape her father’s suspi- with particular advantage at that moment to her friend.
cion. Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and mod-
It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with the esty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to
surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet
might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing ex- did not consider herself as having any thing to complain of.
traordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been
supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversa- too great a distinction.— She never could have deserved
tion during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse him—and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss
talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade Woodhouse would have thought it possible.
them away with all her usual promptitude. Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly art-
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. less, that no dignity could have made it more respectable
She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her in Emma’s eyes— and she listened to her and tried to con-
cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time sole her with all her heart and understanding—really for
as possible for getting the better of her other complaint be- the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature
fore the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs. Goddard’s of the two—and that to resemble her would be more for her
accordingly the very next day, to undergo the necessary own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelli-
penance of communication; and a severe one it was.— She gence could do.
had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industri- It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-
ously feeding—to appear in the ungracious character of the minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous
one preferred— and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and re-
and mis-judging in all her ideas on one subject, all her ob- pressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty

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now, inferior only to her father’s claims, was to promote er of removal, or of effecting any material change of society.
Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove her own affec- They must encounter each other, and make the best of it.
tion in some better method than by match-making. She got Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her com-
her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kind- panions at Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the adoration of
ness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and all the teachers and great girls in the school; and it must be
conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thorough- him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth.
ly done; and she could suppose herself but an indifferent Where the wound had been given, there must the cure be
judge of such matters in general, and very inadequate to found if anywhere; and Emma felt that, till she saw her in
sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular; but the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.
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 good-
ness—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 continu-
ing 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 pow-

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Chapter XVIII really about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as
a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at pres-
ent 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
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time pro- to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter
posed drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in the as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as
arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could not be might naturally belong to their friendship.
spared, to his ‘very great mortification and regret; but still She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and ex-
he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at claimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being acting a
no distant period.’ part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the Churchills,
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much more in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal
disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her depen- more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to
dence on seeing the young man had been so much more their confined society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at
sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever expecting somebody new; the gala-day to Highbury entire, which the
more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes sight of him would have made; and ending with reflections
by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the pres- on the Churchills again, found herself directly involved in a
ent failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. disagreement with Mr. Knightley; and, to her great amuse-
Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to per- ment, perceived that she was taking the other side of the
ceive that Frank’s coming two or three months later would question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs.
be a much better plan; better time of year; better weather; Weston’s arguments against herself.
and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay con- ‘The Churchills are very likely in fault,’ said Mr. Knight-
siderably longer with them than if he had come sooner. ley, coolly; ‘but I dare say he might come if he would.’
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. ‘I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceed-
Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw noth- ingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him.’
ing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all her ‘I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if
concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to believe it
deal more herself. without proof.’
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care ‘How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done,

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to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature?’ an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has
‘I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficul-
in suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his con- ties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be
nexions, and to care very little for any thing but his own acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s tem-
pleasure, from living with those who have always set him per, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can
the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than
could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are he can at others.’
proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud, luxurious, ‘There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if
and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and fi-
father, he would have contrived it between September and nessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank Churchill’s
January. A man at his age—what is he?—three or four-and- duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so,
twenty—cannot be without the means of doing as much as by his promises and messages; but if he wished to do it, it
that. It is impossible.’ might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once,
‘That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have always simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill— ‘Every sacrifice
been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to
Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not your convenience; but I must go and see my father immedi-
know what it is to have tempers to manage.’ ately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark
‘It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four- of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore,
and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that set off to-morrow.’— If he would say so to her at once, in the
amount. He cannot want money—he cannot want leisure. tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposi-
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that tion made to his going.’
he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the king- ‘No,’ said Emma, laughing; ‘but perhaps there might be
dom. We hear of him for ever at some watering-place or some made to his coming back again. Such language for a
other. A little while ago, he was at Weymouth. This proves young man entirely dependent, to use!—Nobody but you,
that he can leave the Churchills.’ Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not
‘Yes, sometimes he can.’ an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to
‘And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech
while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure.’ as that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up, and
‘It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct, without are to provide for him!—Standing up in the middle of the

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room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could!—How easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and
can you imagine such conduct practicable?’ set all their claims on his gratitude and regard at nought. He
‘Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no may have as strong a sense of what would be right, as you
difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the can have, without being so equal, under particular circum-
declaration—made, of course, as a man of sense would stances, to act up to it.’
make it, in a proper manner— would do him more good, ‘Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to pro-
raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people duce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction.’
he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedi- ‘Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you
ents can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would try to understand what an amiable young man may
would feel that they could trust him; that the nephew who be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child
had done rightly by his father, would do rightly by them; and boy he has been looking up to all his life.’
for they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world ‘Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if
must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father; and this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolu-
while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their tion to do right against the will of others. It ought to have
hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty,
whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by every body. If he instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears
would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, of the child, but not of the man. As he became rational, he
regularly, their little minds would bend to his.’ ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was
‘I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the
minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in au- first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had
thority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they he begun as he ought, there would have been no difficulty
are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that now.’
if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and ‘We shall never agree about him,’ cried Emma; ‘but that
placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his be-
would be able to say and do just what you have been recom- ing a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston
mending for him; and it might have a very good effect. The would not be blind to folly, though in his own son; but he
Churchills might not have a word to say in return; but then, is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild dis-
you would have no habits of early obedience and long obser- position than would suit your notions of man’s perfection.
vance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so I dare say he has; and though it may cut him off from some

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advantages, it will secure him many others.’ except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and
‘Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.’
move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and fancy- ‘Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he
ing himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon
can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of pro- fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be
fessions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot
hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming
peace at home and preventing his father’s having any right will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the
to complain. His letters disgust me.’ parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but one interest— one
‘Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every object of curiosity; it will be all Mr. Frank Churchill; we
body else.’ shall think and speak of nobody else.’
‘I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly ‘You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I
can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings: find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance;
standing in a mother’s place, but without a mother’s affection but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy
to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is much of my time or thoughts.’
doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she ‘My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation
been a person of consequence herself, he would have come I to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the
dare say; and it would not have signified whether he did or wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of
no. Can you think your friend behindhand in these sort of farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every
considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all body, having that general information on all subjects which
this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as
be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each;
‘aimable,’ have very good manners, and be very agreeable; that is my idea of him.’
but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of ‘And mine,’ said Mr. Knightley warmly, ‘is, that if he
other people: nothing really amiable about him.’ turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insuffer-
‘You seem determined to think ill of him.’ able fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the
‘Me!—not at all,’ replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased; king of his company—the great man— the practised politi-
‘I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to ac- cian, who is to read every body’s character, and make every
knowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, body’s talents conduce to the display of his own superiority;

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to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all
appear like fools compared with himself! My dear Emma, Volume II
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 ap-
peared 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 un-
just to the merit of another.

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Chapter I 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.
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morn- The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss
ing, and, in Emma’s opinion, had been talking enough of Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in the
Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet’s very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing to
solace or her own sins required more; and she was therefore them, the visitors were most cordially and even gratefully
industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned;— welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with her knitting
but it burst out again when she thought she had succeeded, was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up
and after speaking some time of what the poor must suf- her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking
fer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and
plaintive— ‘Mr. Elton is so good to the poor!’ she found kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes,
something else must be done. anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse’s health, cheerful
They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. communications about her mother’s, and sweet-cake from
and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek the beaufet—‘Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in
safety in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with
such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called on, them, and she had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as
and she knew she was considered by the very few who pre- to say she liked it very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss
sumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to
that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the eat a piece too.’
stock of their scanty comforts. The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and
some from her own heart, as to her deficiency—but none Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away.
were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter
disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women— and all over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how
the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second- much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he
rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them was wherever he went, and how full the Master of the Cer-

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emonies’ ball had been; and she went through it very well, ‘Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am ex-
with all the interest and all the commendation that could be tremely happy. I hope she is well?’
requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet’s ‘Thank you. You are so kind!’ replied the happily deceived
being obliged to say a word. aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.—‘Oh! here it is. I
This she had been prepared for when she entered the was sure it could not be far off; but I had put my huswife
house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely over, upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite
to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome topic, and hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost
to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses and Misses sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole,
of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had not been pre- and since she went away, I was reading it again to my moth-
pared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton; but he was er, for it is such a pleasure to her— a letter from Jane—that
actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped away from she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it could not
him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from be far off, and here it is, only just under my huswife—and
her niece. since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says;—but,
‘Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to danc- first of all, I really must, in justice to Jane, apologise for her
ing— Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at writing so short a letter—only two pages you see— hardly
Bath was— Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with two—and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses
us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so
inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there. well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, ‘Well,
Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to Hetty, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that
shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves checker-work’— don’t you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I
it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring af- am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had
ter her directly, saying, ‘I know you cannot have heard from nobody to do it for her— every word of it—I am sure she
Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing;’ and when would pore over it till she had made out every word. And,
I immediately said, ‘But indeed we have, we had a letter this indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they
very morning,’ I do not know that I ever saw any body more were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the
surprized. ‘Have you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well, help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother’s are re-
that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’’ ally very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here, ‘I
Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong eyes
smiling interest— to see as you do—and so much fine work as you have done

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too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’’ shall hardly know how to make enough of her now.’
All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to stop ‘Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?’
for breath; and Emma said something very civil about the ‘Oh yes; next week.’
excellence of Miss Fairfax’s handwriting. ‘Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.’
‘You are extremely kind,’ replied Miss Bates, highly grat- ‘Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every
ified; ‘you who are such a judge, and write so beautifully body is so surprized; and every body says the same oblig-
yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that could give ing things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends
us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My mother does at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Satur-
not hear; she is a little deaf you know. Ma’am,’ addressing day; she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will
her, ‘do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very
about Jane’s handwriting?’ good of them to send her the whole way! But they always do,
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly you know. Oh yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she
compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule,
could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the meanwhile, as we call it; for, in the common course, we should not have
upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of mak- heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday.’
ing her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost ‘Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little
resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight ex- chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.’
cuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her ‘So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it
attention. had not been for this particular circumstance, of her be-
‘My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just noth- ing to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!—for
ing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any thing she is to be three months with us at least. Three months,
two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then she is she says so, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of
used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are
always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and
distinct! However, she will not find her grandmama at all mother to come over and see her directly. They had not in-
deafer than she was two years ago; which is saying a great tended to go over till the summer, but she is so impatient to
deal at my mother’s time of life—and it really is full two see them again—for till she married, last October, she was
years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long never away from them so much as a week, which must make
without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to

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say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very panying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’
urgent letter to her mother—or her father, I declare I do ‘Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we have
not know which it was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s always been rather afraid of; for we should not have liked to
letter—wrote in Mr. Dixon’s name as well as her own, to have her at such a distance from us, for months together—
press their coming over directly, and they would give them not able to come if any thing was to happen. But you see,
the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country every thing turns out for the best. They want her (Mr. and
seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs.
great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean— I do not Campbell; quite depend upon it; nothing can be more kind
know that she ever heard about it from any body else; but or pressing than their joint invitation, Jane says, as you will
it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak hear presently; Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least back-
of his own place while he was paying his addresses—and as ward in any attention. He is a most charming young man.
Jane used to be very often walking out with them—for Col- Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when
onel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sud-
daughter’s not walking out often with only Mr. Dixon, for den whirling round of something or other among the sails,
which I do not at all blame them; of course she heard ev- would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually
ery thing he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own was all but gone, if he had not, with the greatest presence
home in Ireland; and I think she wrote us word that he had of mind, caught hold of her habit— (I can never think of it
shewn them some drawings of the place, views that he had without trembling!)—But ever since we had the history of
taken himself. He is a most amiable, charming young man, that day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!’
I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his ‘But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own wish
account of things.’ of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion you and Mrs. Bates?’
entering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this ‘Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice;
charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite right,
with the insidious design of farther discovery, just what they should recommend; and indeed they particu-
‘You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should larly wish her to try her native air, as she has not been quite
be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the so well as usual lately.’
very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you ‘I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wise-
could hardly have expected her to be excused from accom- ly. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs.

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Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of person- an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make
al beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first, be-
Fairfax.’ fore I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of
‘Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but there being any thing in them to distress her. Jane desired
certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss me to do it, so I always do: and so I began to-day with my
Campbell always was absolutely plain—but extremely ele- usual caution; but no sooner did I come to the mention of
gant and amiable.’ her being unwell, than I burst out, quite frightened, with
‘Yes, that of course.’ ‘Bless me! poor Jane is ill!’— which my mother, being on
‘Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the 7th the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. How-
of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has never ever, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had
been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to hang fancied at first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she
upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I
not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But however, could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon, we
she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of;
think she had better come home, and try an air that always and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane that I dare
agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four say he would not mean to charge any thing for attendance,
months at Highbury will entirely cure her— and it is cer- we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and
tainly a great deal better that she should come here, than go family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time.
to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her, as we Well, now I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes
should do.’ about, we will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her
‘It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her.’
world.’ ‘I am afraid we must be running away,’ said Emma,
‘And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise—‘My father will
and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead the be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no pow-
Monday following— as you will find from Jane’s letter. So er of staying more than five minutes, when I first entered
sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a the house. I merely called, because I would not pass the
flurry it has thrown me in! If it was not for the drawback door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I have been so
of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must wish you and
grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what Mrs. Bates good morning.’

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 And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded.
She regained the street—happy in this, that though much Chapter II
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.
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates’s
youngest daughter.
The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the regiment of in-
fantry, 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 ac-
tion 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 grandmoth-
er 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 un-
derstanding, 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 offi-
cer 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

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passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before his own by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and
return to England put any thing in his power. When he did abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do;
return, he sought out the child and took notice of her. He and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early
was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about age can be qualified for the care of children, fully competent
Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest, paying them long to the office of instruction herself; but she was too much
visits and growing a favourite with all; and before she was beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could
nine years old, his daughter’s great fondness for her, and his promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day
own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young;
from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daugh-
her education. It was accepted; and from that period Jane ter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a
had belonged to Colonel Campbell’s family, and had lived judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the
with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own
time to time. good understanding to remind her that all this might soon
The plan was that she should be brought up for educating be over.
others; the very few hundred pounds which she inherit- The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment
ed from her father making independence impossible. To of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable
provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell’s to each party from the circumstance of Jane’s decided su-
power; for though his income, by pay and appointments, periority both in beauty and acquirements. That nature
was handsome, his fortune was moderate and must be all had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young
his daughter’s; but, by giving her an education, he hoped woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by
to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence here- the parents. They continued together with unabated re-
after. gard however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who by
Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into good that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in
hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbells, matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate
and been given an excellent education. Living constant- rather than to what is superior, engaged the affections of
ly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon
and understanding had received every advantage of disci- as they were acquainted; and was eligibly and happily set-
pline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being tled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn.
in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, This event had very lately taken place; too lately for any

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thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend to- her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though
wards entering on her path of duty; though she had now there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice
reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for to give the time of their absence to Highbury; to spend,
beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind
should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted no- relations to whom she was so very dear: and the Campbells,
vitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single,
sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational or double, or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanc-
intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to penance and tion, and said, that they depended more on a few months
mortification for ever. spent in her native air, for the recovery of her health, than on
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not any thing else. Certain it was that she was to come; and that
oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which
as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their home had been so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must
might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort they would put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring
have retained her wholly; but this would be selfishness:— only the freshness of a two years’ absence.
what must be at last, had better be soon. Perhaps they began Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person
to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted she did not like through three long months!—to be always
the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of doing more than she wished, and less than she ought! Why
such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relin- she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult question to
quished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she
reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched mo- saw in her the really accomplished young woman, which
ment. She had never been quite well since the time of their she wanted to be thought herself; and though the accusation
daughter’s marriage; and till she should have completely re- had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of
covered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging self-examination in which her conscience could not quite
in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weak- acquit her. But ‘she could never get acquainted with her: she
ened frame and varying spirits, seemed, under the most did not know how it was, but there was such coldness and
favourable circumstances, to require something more than reserve— such apparent indifference whether she pleased or
human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with not—and then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and
tolerable comfort. she was made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, been always imagined that they were to be so intimate—

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because their ages were the same, every body had supposed Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure and
they must be so fond of each other.’ These were her rea- the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she
sons— she had no better. would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history,
It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty; when she con-
magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the first sidered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was
time after any considerable absence, without feeling that going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed
she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was paid, impossible to feel any thing but compassion and respect; es-
on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was particu- pecially, if to every well-known particular entitling her to
larly struck with the very appearance and manners, which interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an
for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally start-
Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she had ed to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable
herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved
just such as almost every body would think tall, and no- on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having se-
body could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; duced Mr. Dixon’s actions from his wife, or of any thing
her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin, mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first.
though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on
the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this; her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking
and then, her face—her features— there was more beauty in in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with
them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regu- her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might
lar, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey, now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to
with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by
their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil at, soon beginning her career of laborious duty.
as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which really Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, char-
needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of which el- itable feelings, as made her look around in walking home,
egance was the reigning character, and as such, she must, in and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy
honour, by all her principles, admire it:—elegance, which, of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to
whether of person or of mind, she saw so little in Highbury. scheme about for her.
There, not to be vulgar, was distinction, and merit. These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane she had committed herself by any public profession of eter-

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nal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a to her first surmises. There probably was something more
recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps,
Knightley, ‘She certainly is handsome; she is better than had been very near changing one friend for the other, or
handsome!’ Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future
her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing twelve thousand pounds.
much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr.
The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It
anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syl-
powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly lable of real information could Emma procure as to what he
how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how truly was. ‘Was he handsome?’—‘She believed he was reck-
small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibi- oned a very fine young man.’ ‘Was he agreeable?’— ‘He was
tions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and generally thought so.’ ‘Did he appear a sensible young man;
herself; and Jane’s offences rose again. They had music; a young man of information?’—‘At a watering-place, or in a
Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on
necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of can- such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged
dour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of
style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners
which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was pleasing.’ Emma could not forgive her.
no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of polite-
ness, 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 com-
pany, 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 cau-
tion was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned

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Chapter III ‘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.’
Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither provocation ‘No,’ said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; ‘you are
nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or
been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.’
pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next An arch look expressed—‘I understand you well enough;’
morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. but she said only, ‘Miss Fairfax is reserved.’
Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as ‘I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon
he might have done had her father been out of the room, overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be over-
but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. come, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises
He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now from discretion must be honoured.’
great pleasure in marking an improvement. ‘You think her diffident. I do not see it.’
‘A very pleasant evening,’ he began, as soon as Mr. Wood- ‘My dear Emma,’ said he, moving from his chair into one
house had been talked into what was necessary, told that close by her, ‘you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you
he understood, and the papers swept away;—‘particularly had not a pleasant evening.’
pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good mu- ‘Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in ask-
sic. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting ing questions; and amused to think how little information
at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such I obtained.’
young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with ‘I am disappointed,’ was his only answer.
conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the ‘I hope every body had a pleasant evening,’ said Mr.
evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was Woodhouse, in his quiet way. ‘I had. Once, I felt the fire
glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little,
at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.’ a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very
‘I am happy you approved,’ said Emma, smiling; ‘but chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she
I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable,
Hartfield.’ and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and

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Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very ‘That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of
pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt
have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very
she had Emma.’ thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very
‘True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.’ moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.’
least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one ‘Emma,’ said Mr. Knightley presently, ‘I have a piece of
could question— news for you. You like news—and I heard an article in my
‘She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep way hither that I think will interest you.’
one’s eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I ‘News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why do
do pity her from my heart.’ you smile so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?’
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he He had time only to say,
cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. ‘No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,’ when
Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates’s, said— the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax
‘It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss
confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon
it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syl-
of any thing uncommon— Now we have killed a porker, and lable of communication could rest with him.
Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small ‘Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear
and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork— Miss Woodhouse— I come quite over-powered. Such a
but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma, unless one could beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have
be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married.’
are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and
no stomach can bear roast pork—I think we had better send she was so completely surprized that she could not avoid a
the leg— do not you think so, my dear?’ little start, and a little blush, at the sound.
‘My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you ‘There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,’ said
would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a conviction of
which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in some part of what had passed between them.
any manner they like.’ ‘But where could you hear it?’ cried Miss Bates. ‘Where

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could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five ing great wealth themselves, had every thing they could
minutes since I received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it cannot be wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that ‘our lot is
more than five— or at least ten—for I had got my bonnet and cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you
spencer on, just ready to come out—I was only gone down actually saw the letter; well—‘
to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was standing ‘It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful, exult-
in the passage—were not you, Jane?— for my mother was ing, of course.’— Here was a sly glance at Emma. ‘He had
so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So been so fortunate as to— I forget the precise words—one
I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go has no business to remember them. The information was, as
down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawk-
has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’ said I—well, ins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled.’
and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins— that’s all ‘Mr. Elton going to be married!’ said Emma, as soon as
I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how she could speak. ‘He will have every body’s wishes for his
could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. happiness.’
Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A ‘He is very young to settle,’ was Mr. Woodhouse’s obser-
Miss Hawkins—‘ vation. ‘He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me
‘I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at
He had just read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and handed Hartfield.’
it to me directly.’ ‘A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!’ said Miss
‘Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece Bates, joyfully; ‘my mother is so pleased!—she says she can-
of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really not bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a mistress.
are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compli- This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never seen Mr.
ments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you Elton!—no wonder that you have such a curiosity to see
really quite oppress her.’ him.’
‘We consider our Hartfield pork,’ replied Mr. Wood- Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature
house—‘indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all as wholly to occupy her.
other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure ‘No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,’ she replied, starting
than—-‘ on this appeal; ‘is he—is he a tall man?’
‘Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only ‘Who shall answer that question?’ cried Emma. ‘My fa-
too good to us. If ever there were people who, without hav- ther would say ‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates and

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I that he is just the happy medium. When you have been Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few
here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that more wonderings, Emma said,
Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in ‘You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to
person and mind.’ take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing
‘Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have
best young man—But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account—
told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Per- we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton
ry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent young woman. and Miss Hawkins.’
His extreme attention to my mother— wanting her to sit ‘When I have seen Mr. Elton,’ replied Jane, ‘ I dare say I
in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my shall be interested—but I believe it requires that with me.
mother is a little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the
does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell impression may be a little worn off.’
is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it— ‘Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you ob-
the warm bath— but she says it did him no lasting benefit. serve, Miss Woodhouse,’ said Miss Bates, ‘four weeks
Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel. And Mr. yesterday.—A Miss Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather
Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that I
him. It is such a happiness when good people get together— ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I immediately
and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man—but’—In
Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people; short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sort
and the Perrys—I suppose there never was a happier or a of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I
better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,’ turning to see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton
Mr. Woodhouse, ‘I think there are few places with such so- should have aspired—Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on,
ciety as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our so good-humouredly. She knows I would not offend for the
neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered
loves better than another, it is pork— a roast loin of pork—‘ now. Have you heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh!
‘As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has those dear little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy
been acquainted with her,’ said Emma, ‘nothing I suppose Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person—tall,
can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long ac- and with that sort of look—and not very talkative.’
quaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.’ ‘Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.’

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 ‘Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any body and the other half she could give to her own view of the
beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away with it. subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome
Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?’ piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suf-
‘Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I told fered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel
you he was plain.’ it—and all that she could hope was, by giving the first in-
‘My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow formation herself, to save her from hearing it abruptly from
him to be plain, and that you yourself—‘ others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call.
‘Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way!—and upon its
have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But I beginning to rain, Emma was obliged to expect that the
gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called him weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that
plain.’ the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without
‘Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. preparation.
The weather does not look well, and grandmama will be un- The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been
easy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse; but over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the heat-
we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable ed, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart
piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Cole’s; was likely to give; and the ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do
but I shall not stop three minutes: and, Jane, you had better you think has happened!’ which instantly burst forth, had
go home directly—I would not have you out in a shower!— all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow
We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater
we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran ea-
for I really do not think she cares for any thing but boiled gerly through what she had to tell. ‘She had set out from
pork: when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good Mrs. Goddard’s half an hour ago—she had been afraid it
morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming would rain—she had been afraid it would pour down every
too. Well, that is so very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will moment—but she thought she might get to Hartfield first—
be so kind as to give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss she had hurried on as fast as possible; but then, as she was
Hawkins!—Good morning to you.’ passing by the house where a young woman was making up
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see
wanted by him while he lamented that young people would how it went on; and though she did not seem to stay half
be in such a hurry to marry— and to marry strangers too— a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain,

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and she did not know what to do; so she ran on directly, as more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember
fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford’s.’—Ford’s was she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought
the principal woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdash- almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely
er’s shop united; the shop first in size and fashion in the miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and
place.—‘And so, there she had set, without an idea of any I was determined that nothing should stop me from get-
thing in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of ting away—and then—only think!— I found he was coming
a sudden, who should come in— to be sure it was so very up towards me too—slowly you know, and as if he did not
odd!—but they always dealt at Ford’s— who should come quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I
in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother!— Dear Miss answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you
Woodhouse! only think. I thought I should have fainted. know, one can’t tell how; and then I took courage, and said
I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door— it did not rain, and I must go; and so off I set; and I had not
Elizabeth saw me directly; but he did not; he was busy with got three yards from the door, when he came after me, only
the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away di- to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much
rectly, and took no notice; and they both went to quite the better go round by Mr. Cole’s stables, for I should find the
farther end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!— near way quite floated by this rain. Oh! dear, I thought it
Oh! dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as would have been the death of me! So I said, I was very much
white as my gown. I could not go away you know, because of obliged to him: you know I could not do less; and then he
the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables—I
there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well, at last, I fancy, he believe I did—but I hardly knew where I was, or any thing
looked round and saw me; for instead of going on with her about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I would rather done any
buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure thing than have it happen: and yet, you know, there was a
they were talking of me; and I could not help thinking that sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and
he was persuading her to speak to me—(do you think he so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do
was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for presently she came forward— talk to me and make me comfortable again.’
came quite up to me, and asked me how I did, and seemed Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not
ready to shake hands, if I would. She did not do any of it immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and
in the same way that she used; I could see she was altered; think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The
but, however, she seemed to try to be very friendly, and we young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result
shook hands, and stood talking some time; but I know no of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Har-

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riet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of and before their first conversation was over, she had talked
wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behaviour. herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and re-
But she had believed them to be well-meaning, worthy peo- gret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins,
ple before; and what difference did this make in the evils of which could conduce to place the Martins under proper
the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course, subordination in her fancy.
he must be sorry to lose her—they must be all sorry. Am- Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been such
bition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They a meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the first
might all have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and shock, without retaining any influence to alarm. As Harriet
besides, what was the value of Harriet’s description?—So now lived, the Martins could not get at her, without seek-
easily pleased—so little discerning;— what signified her ing her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage
praise? or the condescension to seek her; for since her refusal of
She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable, the brother, the sisters never had been at Mrs. Goddard’s;
by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite and a twelvemonth might pass without their being thrown
unworthy of being dwelt on, together again, with any necessity, or even any power of
‘It might be distressing, for the moment,’ said she; ‘but speech.
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 know-
ing 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;

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Chapter IV usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in pos-
session 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.
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are or thereabouts; and he had gained her with such delightful
in interesting situations, that a young person, who either rapidity— the first hour of introduction had been so very
marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of. soon followed by distinguishing notice; the history which
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the af-
was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some fair was so glorious—the steps so quick, from the accidental
means or other, discovered to have every recommenda- rencontre, to the dinner at Mr. Green’s, and the party at
tion of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and blushes rising in importance—
accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton with consciousness and agitation richly scattered—the lady
himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and cir- had been so easily impressed—so sweetly disposed—had in
culate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready
him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say whose to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally con-
music she principally played. tented.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone He had caught both substance and shadow—both for-
away rejected and mortified—disappointed in a very san- tune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to
guine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong be; talking only of himself and his own concerns—expect-
encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but find- ing to be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and, with
ing himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies
gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to an- of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been
other—and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as more cautiously gallant.
under such circumstances what is gained always is to what The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had
is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary
caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath again,
Smith. there was a general expectation, which a certain glance of
The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that when he next

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entered Highbury he would bring his bride. aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Har-
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen riet’s superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.
him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a
and to give her the impression of his not being improved Bristol— merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the
by the mixture of pique and pretension, now spread over whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very
his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of
that she had ever thought him pleasing at all; and his sight trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she
was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home,
feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a penance, a les- the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother
son, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she had died some years ago, an uncle remained— in the law
would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him line—nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded
again. She wished him very well; but he gave her pain, and of him, than that he was in the law line; and with him the
his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satis- daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of
faction. some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And all the grandeur
The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, how- of the connexion seemed dependent on the elder sister, who
ever, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain was very well married, to a gentleman in a great way, near
solicitudes would be prevented— many awkwardnesses Bristol, who kept two carriages! That was the wind-up of the
smoothed by it. A Mrs. Elton would be an excuse for any history; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.
change of intercourse; former intimacy might sink without Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it all!
remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so eas-
again. ily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy
Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little. She the many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to be talk-
was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt; accomplished ed away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly
enough for Highbury— handsome enough—to look plain, would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Mar-
probably, by Harriet’s side. As to connexion, there Emma tin would have been sufficient; but nothing else, she feared,
was perfectly easy; persuaded, that after all his own vaunt- would cure her. Harriet was one of those, who, having once
ed claims and disdain of Harriet, he had done nothing. On begun, would be always in love. And now, poor girl! she
that article, truth seemed attainable. What she was, must be was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. El-
uncertain; but who she was, might be found out; and setting ton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere

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or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times to touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of
every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been
to miss him, just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could
to have something occur to preserve him in her fancy, in be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to
all the favouring warmth of surprize and conjecture. She confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven away all such
was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him; for, except- cares. While he staid, the Martins were forgotten; and on
ing when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma,
no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best
the discussion of his concerns; and every report, therefore, for her to return Elizabeth Martin’s visit.
every guess—all that had already occurred, all that might How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would
occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending in- be necessary— and what might be safest, had been a point
come, servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the
around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be ingrati-
praise of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritat- tude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the
ed by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s happiness, and acquaintance!—
continual observation of, how much he seemed attached!— After much thinking, she could determine on nothing
his air as he walked by the house—the very sitting of his hat, better, than Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that,
being all in proof of how much he was in love! if they had understanding, should convince them that it was
Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in
pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the waverings of the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she drove a
Harriet’s mind, Emma would have been amused by its vari- little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to allow no
ations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to
Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of
other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of the agi- intimacy was chosen for the future.
tation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced She could think of nothing better: and though there was
by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put something in it which her own heart could not approve—
aside by Elizabeth Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—it must be
days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home; but a note done, or what would become of Harriet?
had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style

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Chapter V 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
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour the two girls. They had received her doubtingly, if not cool-
before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil ly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been
stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a talked almost all the time— till just at last, when Mrs. Mar-
trunk, directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart, Bath, tin’s saying, all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith
was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject, and
butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where the coach- a warmer manner. In that very room she had been mea-
es past; and every thing in this world, excepting that trunk sured last September, with her two friends. There were the
and the direction, was consequently a blank. pencilled marks and memorandums on the wainscot by the
She went, however; and when they reached the farm, and window. He had done it. They all seemed to remember the
she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat grav- day, the hour, the party, the occasion—to feel the same con-
el walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the front sciousness, the same regrets—to be ready to return to the
door, the sight of every thing which had given her so much same good understanding; and they were just growing again
pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little like themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready
local agitation; and when they parted, Emma observed her as the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the car-
to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which riage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and
determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen
quarter of an hour. She went on herself, to give that portion minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully
of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma could not but
Donwell. picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how nat-
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the urally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would
white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons, have given a great deal, or endured a great deal, to have had
was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarm- the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving,
ing young man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk—a that a little higher should have been enough: but as it was,
Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with how could she have done otherwise?—Impossible!—She

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could not repent. They must be separated; but there was a has turned out exactly as we could wish.’
great deal of pain in the process— so much to herself at this There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoid-
time, that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, ing the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s,
and resolved on going home by way of Randalls to procure confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance
it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose.
The refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary. To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in
heard that neither ‘master nor mistress was at home;’ they their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted
had both been out some time; the man believed they were spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what
gone to Hartfield. was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought,
‘This is too bad,’ cried Emma, as they turned away. ‘And she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
now we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do not know Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at
when I have been so disappointed.’ And she leaned back in Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an
the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to reason them away; entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and the
probably a little of both— such being the commonest pro- method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled, and
cess of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopt; congratulated.
she looked up; it was stopt by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who ‘I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,’ said he, at the
were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in conclusion.
the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this
sound—for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, speech, from his wife.
‘How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting with ‘We had better move on, Mr. Weston,’ said she, ‘we are
your father— glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-mor- detaining the girls.’
row—I had a letter this morning—we see him to-morrow ‘Well, well, I am ready;’—and turning again to Emma,
by dinner-time to a certainty— he is at Oxford to-day, and ‘but you must not be expecting such a very fine young man;
he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be so. If he you have only had my account you know; I dare say he is
had come at Christmas he could not have staid three days; really nothing extraordinary:’— though his own sparkling
I was always glad he did not come at Christmas; now we eyes at the moment were speaking a very different convic-
are going to have just the right weather for him, fine, dry, tion.
settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely; every thing Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent,

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and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of
‘Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will
o’clock,’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken with bring him soon.’
some anxiety, and meant only for her. She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen
‘Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by three,’ sitting with her father—Mr. Weston and his son. They
was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended a most had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had
satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted quite scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day be-
up to happiness; every thing wore a different air; James and fore his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very
his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to
looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at least must have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure.
soon be coming out; and when she turned round to Har- The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in inter-
riet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile est, was actually before her—he was presented to her, and
even there. she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he
‘Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as was a very good looking young man; height, air, address, all
Oxford?’— was a question, however, which did not augur were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal
much. of the spirit and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all at and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him;
once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that they and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to
should both come in time. talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be ac-
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. quainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be.
Weston’s faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or eleven, He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was
or twelve o’clock, that she was to think of her at four. pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him
‘My dear, dear anxious friend,’—said she, in mental so- alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he
liloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, might gain half a day.
‘always overcareful for every body’s comfort but your own; ‘I told you yesterday,’ cried Mr. Weston with exultation,
I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again ‘I told you all that he would be here before the time named.
into his room, to be sure that all is right.’ The clock struck I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep
twelve as she passed through the hall. ‘‘Tis twelve; I shall upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one
not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one’s

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friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal quaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find
more than any little exertion it needs.’ an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with
‘It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,’ said each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking
the young man, ‘though there are not many houses that I of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm ad-
should presume on so far; but in coming home I felt I might miration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured
do any thing.’ to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was
The word home made his father look on him with fresh an additional proof of his knowing how to please— and of
complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her.
make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew
by what followed. He was very much pleased with Ran- to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubt-
dalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would edly he could know very little of the matter. He understood
hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. ‘His
the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, father’s marriage,’ he said, ‘had been the wisest measure, ev-
and professed himself to have always felt the sort of inter- ery friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he
est in the country which none but one’s own country gives, had received such a blessing must be ever considered as hav-
and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never ing conferred the highest obligation on him.’
have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Tay-
suspiciously through Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a lor’s merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the
falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His common course of things it was to be rather supposed that
manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s character, than
look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if resolved
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an open- to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its
ing acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—‘Was she object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth
a horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?— Pleasant walks?—Had and beauty of her person.
they a large neighbourhood?—Highbury, perhaps, afforded ‘Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,’ said he;
society enough?—There were several very pretty houses in ‘but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not ex-
and about it.—Balls—had they balls?—Was it a musical so- pected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a
ciety?’ certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young
But when satisfied on all these points, and their ac- woman in Mrs. Weston.’

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 ‘You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for pose they meant to marry till it were proved against them.
my feelings,’ said Emma; ‘were you to guess her to be eigh- She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, with-
teen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be ready to out the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a
quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let her imag- glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give
ine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman.’ way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous in-
‘I hope I should know better,’ he replied; ‘no, depend upon quiries after Mr. Frank Churchill’s accommodation on his
it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs. Weston I journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the
should understand whom I might praise without any dan- road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know
ger of being thought extravagant in my terms.’ that he had certainly escaped catching cold—which, how-
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what ever, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself
might be expected from their knowing each other, which till after another night.
had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—‘He
his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay,
marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford’s, but he
more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt need not hurry any body else.’ His son, too well bred to hear
they were agreeable. the hint, rose immediately also, saying,
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking ‘As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the
about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some
towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have
might have determined not to look, she was confident that the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours,
he was often listening. (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near Highbury; a
Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought of family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I
the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of pen- suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is
etration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. not the proper name—I should rather say Barnes, or Bates.
Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony Do you know any family of that name?’
than from foreseeing it.— Though always objecting to every ‘To be sure we do,’ cried his father; ‘Mrs. Bates—we
marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand passed her house— I saw Miss Bates at the window. True,
from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you
think so ill of any two persons’ understanding as to sup- knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her,

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by all means.’ have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to
‘There is no necessity for my calling this morning,’ said see you, I am sure; and one of my servants shall go with you
the young man; ‘another day would do as well; but there was to shew you the way.’
that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—‘ ‘My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father
‘Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to can direct me.’
be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give ‘But your father is not going so far; he is only going to the
you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her here should Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there are a
be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when great many houses; you might be very much at a loss, and it
she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath; but my
is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to coachman can tell you where you had best cross the street.’
live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight.’ Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious
The son looked convinced. as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling
‘I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,’ said Emma; out, ‘My good friend, this is quite unnecessary; Frank knows
‘she is a very elegant young woman.’ a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates’s, he
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a ‘Yes,’ as inclined her may get there from the Crown in a hop, step, and jump.’
almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial nod
a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gen-
Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with tlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with
it. this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage
‘If you were never particularly struck by her manners be- to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the day, with
fore,’ said she, ‘I think you will to-day. You will see her to full confidence in their comfort.
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

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Chapter VI whole manner to her—nothing could more agreeably de-
note 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
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. for an hour or two— first round the shrubberies of Hart-
He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he field, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with
seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Wood-
it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual house’s ear; and when their going farther was resolved on,
hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their walk, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole
immediately fixed on Highbury.—‘He did not doubt there village, and found matter of commendation and interest
being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to much oftener than Emma could have supposed.
him, he should always chuse the same. Highbury, that airy, Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable
cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his father
attraction.’— Highbury, with Mrs. Weston, stood for Hart- had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his
field; and she trusted to its bearing the same construction father’s father; and on recollecting that an old woman who
with him. They walked thither directly. had nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cot-
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston, who tage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that his some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive
son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards High-
it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to perceive bury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he
them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was with.
was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as
company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he had
her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had not
nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them to- been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere profes-
gether, she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely sions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him
in fine words or hyperbolical compliment that he paid his justice.
duty; nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable

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house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple were given and families described, he was still unwilling
of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would
the neighbourhood than from any run on the road; and his be any thing, or that there would be the smallest difficulty
companions had not expected to be detained by any interest in every body’s returning into their proper place the next
excited there; but in passing it they gave the history of the morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on
large room visibly added; it had been built many years ago dancing; and Emma was rather surprized to see the consti-
for a ball-room, and while the neighbourhood had been in a tution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits
particularly populous, dancing state, had been occasionally of the Churchills. He seemed to have all the life and spirit,
used as such;—but such brilliant days had long passed away, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and
and now the highest purpose for which it was ever want- nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, in-
ed was to accommodate a whist club established among the deed, there was, perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference
gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was imme- to a confusion of rank, bordered too much on inelegance
diately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught him; of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was
and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes at the holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
two superior sashed windows which were open, to look in At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the
and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original Crown; and being now almost facing the house where the
purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room, he Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day
would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was before, and asked him if he had paid it.
long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would ‘Yes, oh! yes’—he replied; ‘I was just going to mention it.
hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and felt
there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the
not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must have
the room?—She who could do any thing in Highbury! The been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into
want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have
none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper; and
tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was not satis- I had told my father I should certainly be at home before
fied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking him—but there was no getting away, no pause; and, to my
houses as he saw around him, could not furnish numbers utter astonishment, I found, when he (finding me nowhere
enough for such a meeting; and even when particulars else) joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting

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with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good body attends every day of their lives, as my father informs
lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.’ me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of
‘And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?’ the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If it be not in-
‘Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed convenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may prove myself
to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I
Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss must buy something at Ford’s. It will be taking out my free-
Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the dom.— I dare say they sell gloves.’
appearance of ill health.— A most deplorable want of com- ‘Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your pa-
plexion.’ triotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm de- popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston’s
fence of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. ‘It was certainly never son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and your popular-
brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in ity will stand upon your own virtues.’
general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of
which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face.’ ‘Men’s Beavers’ and ‘York Tan’ were bringing down and
He listened with all due deference; acknowledged that he displaying on the counter, he said—‘But I beg your pardon,
had heard many people say the same—but yet he must con- Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you were say-
fess, that to him nothing could make amends for the want ing something at the very moment of this burst of my amor
of the fine glow of health. Where features were indifferent, patriae. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch
a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and where they of public fame would not make me amends for the loss of
were good, the effect was—fortunately he need not attempt any happiness in private life.’
to describe what the effect was. ‘I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘there is no disputing about taste.—At Fairfax and her party at Weymouth.’
least you admire her except her complexion.’ ‘And now that I understand your question, I must pro-
He shook his head and laughed.—‘I cannot separate Miss nounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady’s right
Fairfax and her complexion.’ to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must
‘Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in already have given her account.— I shall not commit myself
the same society?’ by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.’
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he ‘Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could do
hastily exclaimed, ‘Ha! this must be the very shop that every herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much to be

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guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing
the least information about any body, that I really think you of the matter myself.— I am excessively fond of music, but
may say what you like of your acquaintance with her.’ without the smallest skill or right of judging of any body’s
‘May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and nothing performance.—I have been used to hear her’s admired; and
suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a
known the Campbells a little in town; and at Weymouth we man, a very musical man, and in love with another wom-
were very much in the same set. Colonel Campbell is a very an—engaged to her—on the point of marriage— would yet
agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-heart- never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument, if
ed woman. I like them all.’ the lady in question could sit down instead—never seemed
‘You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude; to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That, I thought,
what she is destined to be?’ in a man of known musical talent, was some proof.’
‘Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.’ ‘Proof indeed!’ said Emma, highly amused.—‘Mr. Dixon
‘You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,’ said Mrs. Weston is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all,
smiling; ‘remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax would have
hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s vouchsafed in half a year.’
situation in life. I will move a little farther off.’ ‘Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons;
‘I certainly do forget to think of her,’ said Emma, ‘as and I thought it a very strong proof.’
having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest ‘Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a great
friend.’ deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell, would
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man’s
a sentiment. having more music than love—more ear than eye—a more
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did
the shop again, ‘Did you ever hear the young lady we were Miss Campbell appear to like it?’
speaking of, play?’ said Frank Churchill. ‘It was her very particular friend, you know.’
‘Ever hear her!’ repeated Emma. ‘You forget how much ‘Poor comfort!’ said Emma, laughing. ‘One would rather
she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our have a stranger preferred than one’s very particular friend—
lives since we both began. She plays charmingly.’ with a stranger it might not recur again—but the misery of
‘You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some having a very particular friend always at hand, to do ev-
one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play ery thing better than one does oneself!— Poor Mrs. Dixon!

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Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.’ take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she
‘You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss Camp- always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all their set.
bell; but she really did not seem to feel it.’ And then, her reserve—I never could attach myself to any
‘So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not one so completely reserved.’
know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in her— ‘It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,’ said he. ‘Often-
quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling—there was times very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There
one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss Fairfax is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a re-
herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous dis- served person.’
tinction.’ ‘Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then the
‘As to that—I do not—‘ attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of
‘Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to
Fairfax’s sensations from you, or from any body else. They take the trouble of conquering any body’s reserve to procure
are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of
she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dix- the question. I have no reason to think ill of her—not the
on, one may guess what one chuses.’ least—except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness
‘There appeared such a perfectly good understanding of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea
among them all—‘ he began rather quickly, but checking about any body, is apt to suggest suspicions of there being
himself, added, ‘however, it is impossible for me to say on something to conceal.’
what terms they really were— how it might all be behind the He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking together
scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness outwardly. so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so
But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it
be a better judge of her character, and of how she is likely to to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what
conduct herself in critical situations, than I can be.’ she had expected; less of the man of the world in some of
‘I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, therefore
been children and women together; and it is natural to better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more mod-
suppose that we should be intimate,—that we should have erate— his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by
taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we his manner of considering Mr. Elton’s house, which, as well
never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little, per- as the church, he would go and look at, and would not join
haps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to them in finding much fault with. No, he could not believe it

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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 Chapter VII
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 Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a lit-
was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and tle shaken the following day, by hearing that he was gone
without ever thinking how many advantages and accom- off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden freak
modations were attached to its size, he could be no judge seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for
of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner, but with
Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know no more important view that appeared than having his hair
what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very ami- cut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen
able inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from miles twice over on such an errand; but there was an air of
worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on foppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It
domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper’s room, did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation
or a bad butler’s pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel in expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart, which
that Enscombe could not make him happy, and that when- she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity,
ever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which
wealth to be allowed an early establishment. 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 quick-
ly 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

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pleasant a companion he made himself—how much she saw and bowed so well; but there was one spirit among them not
to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a to be softened, from its power of censure, by bows or smiles—
very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and lively one; Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield;
she could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal for the moment, he was silent; but Emma heard him almost
decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was immediately afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he
fond of talking of him—said he would be the best man in the held in his hand, ‘Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took
world if he were left to himself; and though there was no be- him for.’ She had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s ob-
ing attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with servation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve
gratitude, and seemed to mean always to speak of her with his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
respect. This was all very promising; and, but for such an un- let it pass.
fortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings,
denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in another re-
imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being really spect particularly opportune. Something occurred while
in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only they were at Hartfield, to make Emma want their advice;
by her own indifference— (for still her resolution held of nev- and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the ad-
er marrying)—the honour, in short, of being marked out for vice they gave.
her by all their joint acquaintance. This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled
Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of people—
which must have some weight. He gave her to understand friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the other hand,
that Frank admired her extremely—thought her very beau- they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel.
tiful and very charming; and with so much to be said for On their first coming into the country, they had lived in pro-
him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. portion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and
As Mrs. Weston observed, ‘all young people would have their that little unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought
little whims.’ them a considerable increase of means— the house in town
There was one person among his new acquaintance in had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled
Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged, on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their want
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great of a larger house, their inclination for more company. They
candour; liberal allowances were made for the little excesses added to their house, to their number of servants, to their
of such a handsome young man— one who smiled so often expenses of every sort; and by this time were, in fortune and

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style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a question
love of society, and their new dining-room, prepared every of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther irritation on
body for their keeping dinner-company; and a few parties, her spirits; and her being left in solitary grandeur, even sup-
chiefly among the single men, had already taken place. The posing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but
regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they poor comfort.
would presume to invite— neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, It was the arrival of this very invitation while the Westons
nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt her to go, if they did; were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable;
and she regretted that her father’s known habits would be for though her first remark, on reading it, was that ‘of course
giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The it must be declined,’ she so very soon proceeded to ask them
Coles were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going
taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which was most prompt and successful.
the superior families would visit them. This lesson, she very She owned that, considering every thing, she was not abso-
much feared, they would receive only from herself; she had lutely without inclination for the party. The Coles expressed
little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. themselves so properly—there was so much real attention
But she had made up her mind how to meet this presump- in the manner of it— so much consideration for her father.
tion so many weeks before it appeared, that when the insult ‘They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been
came at last, it found her very differently affected. Donwell waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from London, which
and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any draught of
come for her father and herself; and Mrs. Weston’s account- air, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them
ing for it with ‘I suppose they will not take the liberty with the honour of his company. ‘Upon the whole, she was very
you; they know you do not dine out,’ was not quite sufficient. persuadable; and it being briefly settled among themselves
She felt that she should like to have had the power of refus- how it might be done without neglecting his comfort—how
al; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depend-
there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dear- ed on for bearing him company— Mr. Woodhouse was to
est to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that be talked into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to
she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole
there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speak- evening away from him. As for his going, Emma did not wish
ing of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and him to think it possible, the hours would be too late, and the
Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence. party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.

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 ‘I am not fond of dinner-visiting,’ said he—‘I never was. ble. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where,
No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sor- and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; begin-
ry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be ning with my compliments, of course. But you will do every
much better if they would come in one afternoon next sum- thing right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must
mer, and take their tea with us—take us in their afternoon remember to let James know that the carriage will be want-
walk; which they might do, as our hours are so reasonable, ed on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We
and yet get home without being out in the damp of the eve- have never been there above once since the new approach was
ning. The dews of a summer evening are what I would not made; but still I have no doubt that James will take you very
expose any body to. However, as they are so very desirous safely. And when you get there, you must tell him at what
to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be time you would have him come for you again; and you had
there, and Mr. Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You
to prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither will get very tired when tea is over.’
damp, nor cold, nor windy.’ Then turning to Mrs. Weston, ‘But you would not wish me to come away before I am
with a look of gentle reproach—‘Ah! Miss Taylor, if you had tired, papa?’
not married, you would have staid at home with me.’ ‘Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There will
‘Well, sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘as I took Miss Taylor away, be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the
it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can; and I will noise.’
step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it.’ ‘But, my dear sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘if Emma comes away
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was early, it will be breaking up the party.’
increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The la- ‘And no great harm if it does,’ said Mr. Woodhouse. ‘The
dies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, sooner every party breaks up, the better.’
and every thing deliberately arranged. ‘But you do not consider how it may appear to the Coles.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon com- Emma’s going away directly after tea might be giving offence.
posed enough for talking as usual. ‘He should be happy to see They are good-natured people, and think little of their own
Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard; and claims; but still they must feel that any body’s hurrying away
Emma should write a line, and invite her. James could take is no great compliment; and Miss Woodhouse’s doing it would
the note. But first of all, there must be an answer written to be more thought of than any other person’s in the room. You
Mrs. Cole.’ would not wish to disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am
‘You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possi- sure, sir; friendly, good sort of people as ever lived, and who

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have been your neighbours these ten years.’
‘No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am much Chapter VIII
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. Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his
Cole is very bilious. No, I would not be the means of giving father’s dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for
them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite with
sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which could
you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will be concealed.
not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at him-
among your friends.’ self with a very good grace, but without seeming really at
‘Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I should all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish
have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no reason
your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits. He was
not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after seeing
Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you know; but when she is him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself, in- ‘I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly
stead of going to bed at your usual time—and the idea of that silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible
would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wick-
not to sit up.’ edness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon the
He did, on the condition of some promises on her side: character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is not
such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have done
warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take this differently. He would either have gloried in the achieve-
something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her; ment, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either
and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing were the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions of a mind too
safe in the house, as usual. 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

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again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging of his while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
general manners, and by inference, of the meaning of his ‘This is coming as you should do,’ said she; ‘like a gentle-
manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it might be man.— I am quite glad to see you.’
necessary for her to throw coldness into her air; and of fan- He thanked her, observing, ‘How lucky that we should
cying what the observations of all those might be, who were arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the
now seeing them together for the first time. drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene be- me to be more of a gentleman than usual.— You might not
ing laid at Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.’
among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his fa- ‘Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of
vour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which
dine with Mr. Cole. they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado,
well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last pleas- an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I
ing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects meet you under those circumstances. Now you have noth-
to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her fa- ing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed.
ther was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make You are not striving to look taller than any body else. Now I
the two ladies all the amends in her power, by helping them shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with
to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatev- you.’
er unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might ‘Nonsensical girl!’ was his reply, but not at all in anger.
have obliged them to practise during the meal.—She had Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest
provided a plentiful dinner for them; she wished she could of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a
know that they had been allowed to eat it. cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and was consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived,
pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr. Knight- the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were
ley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great for her, from both husband and wife; the son approached her
deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar
Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his object, and at dinner she found him seated by her—and, as
carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side.
She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation The party was rather large, as it included one other fam-

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ily, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the was only surprized that there could ever have been a doubt.
Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquain- But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately, and
tance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the lawyer of not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best; but
Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the eve- I should not consider their silence as any reason for their
ning, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but not meaning to make the present. They might chuse to sur-
already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject prize her.’
of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr. Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body who
Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must
attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first re- come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that
mote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend, was such a present had been made; and there were enough ready
the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and still lis-
something of her that was expected to be very interesting. ten to Mrs. Cole.
She listened, and found it well worth listening to. That very ‘I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing
dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing sup- that has given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite
ply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should
Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, espe-
by the sight of a pianoforte—a very elegant looking instru- cially considering how many houses there are where fine
ment—not a grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giv-
the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ing ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday I
ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our
her side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do not
pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before, know one note from another, and our little girls, who are
to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing of
unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane her- it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of mu-
self was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could sic, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, not
possibly have ordered it— but now, they were both perfectly even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself
satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—of course with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday, and he
it must be from Colonel Campbell. quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly fond of mu-
‘One can suppose nothing else,’ added Mrs. Cole, ‘and I sic that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase,

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hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so oblig- pect; but at present I do not see what there is to question. If
ing occasionally to put it to a better use than we can; and Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be?’
that really is the reason why the instrument was bought— ‘What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?’
or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it.—We are in ‘Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs.
great hopes that Miss Woodhouse may be prevailed with to Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how acceptable
try it this evening.’ an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode of it, the
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and mystery, the surprize, is more like a young woman’s scheme
finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I dare say. I told you
communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill. that your suspicions would guide mine.’
‘Why do you smile?’ said she. ‘If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend
‘Nay, why do you?’ Mr. Dixon in them.’
‘Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Camp- ‘Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive that
bell’s being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were
present.’ speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm an
‘Very.’ admirer of her performance.’
‘I rather wonder that it was never made before.’ ‘Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an
‘Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so idea which I had entertained before.—I do not mean to re-
long before.’ flect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss
‘Or that he did not give her the use of their own instru- Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after mak-
ment— which must now be shut up in London, untouched ing his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to
by any body.’ fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a lit-
‘That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too tle attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things
large for Mrs. Bates’s house.’ without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure there must
‘You may say what you chuse—but your countenance be a particular cause for her chusing to come to Highbury
testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here, she
like mine.’ must be leading a life of privation and penance; there it
‘I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretence of try-
credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you ing her native air, I look upon that as a mere excuse.—In
smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you sus- the summer it might have passed; but what can any body’s

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native air do for them in the months of January, February, when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occu-
and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more pation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,
to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare ‘The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I want-
say in her’s. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, ed to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough.
though you make so noble a profession of doing it, but I Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a present from
honestly tell you what they are.’ Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.’
‘And, upon my word, they have an air of great probabil- ‘And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all knowledge
ity. Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her friend’s, I can of it we must conclude it to come from the Campbells.’
answer for being very decided.’ ‘No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss Fair-
‘And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?— fax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would have
A water party; and by some accident she was falling been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled, had
overboard. He caught her.’ she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you per-
‘He did. I was there—one of the party.’ haps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is
‘Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing of a principal in the business.’
course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had been ‘Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced.
there, I think I should have made some discoveries.’ Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them en-
‘I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but tirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel
the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the ves- Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness,
sel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.—It was the work of a and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when
moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm was you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more proba-
very great and much more durable—indeed I believe it was ble that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship.
half an hour before any of us were comfortable again— yet And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering
that was too general a sensation for any thing of peculiar of love.’
anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The
you might not have made discoveries.’ conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said no
The conversation was here interrupted. They were called more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the din-
on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval be- ner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children came
tween the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of
as the others; but when the table was again safely covered, conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly,

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but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of ‘my ex-
other—nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repeti- cellent friend Colonel Campbell.’
tions, old news, and heavy jokes. Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particu-
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room, before larly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not
the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived. Emma help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the
watched the entree of her own particular little friend; and if subject; and having so much to ask and to say as to tone,
she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying
only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the
but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsen- fair heroine’s countenance.
timental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and the
of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed af- very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked,
fection. There she sat—and who would have guessed how the first and the handsomest; and after paying his compli-
many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, ments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way
nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss
sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her, would not
for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look sit at all. Emma divined what every body present must be
and move superior; but Emma suspected she might have thinking. She was his object, and every body must perceive
been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and, at
purchased the mortification of having loved—yes, of having convenient moments afterwards, heard what each thought
loved even Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the of the other. ‘He had never seen so lovely a face, and was
dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the hus- delighted with her naivete.’ And she, ‘Only to be sure it was
band of her friend. paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma were some looks a little like Mr. Elton.’ Emma restrained
should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pi- her indignation, and only turned from her in silence.
anoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentle-
the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore man on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most
purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been im-
was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush patient to leave the dining-room— hated sitting long—was
of consciousness with which congratulations were received, always the first to move when he could— that his father, Mr.

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Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were left very busy over very eager indeed to be allowed to travel—but she would not
parish business—that as long as he had staid, however, it hear of it. This had happened the year before. Now, he said,
had been pleasant enough, as he had found them in general he was beginning to have no longer the same wish.
a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so hand- The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention,
somely of Highbury altogether—thought it so abundant in Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.
agreeable families— that Emma began to feel she had been ‘I have made a most wretched discovery,’ said he, after a
used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned short pause.— ‘I have been here a week to-morrow—half my
him as to the society in Yorkshire— the extent of the neigh- time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week to-morrow!—And
bourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But just got acquainted
out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was con- with Mrs. Weston, and others!— I hate the recollection.’
cerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings ‘Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one
were among a range of great families, none very near; and whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut.’
that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it ‘No,’ said he, smiling, ‘that is no subject of regret at all. I
was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can believe
and spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no myself fit to be seen.’
fresh person; and that, though he had his separate engage- The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room, Emma
ments, it was not without difficulty, without considerable found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes,
address at times, that he could get away, or introduce an ac- and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had moved away,
quaintance for a night. and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that High- Churchill looking intently across the room at Miss Fairfax,
bury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man who was sitting exactly opposite.
who had more retirement at home than he liked. His impor- ‘What is the matter?’ said she.
tance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but He started. ‘Thank you for rousing me,’ he replied. ‘I be-
it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt lieve I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has done
where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and her hair in so odd a way—so very odd a way—that I cannot
noticing it, he owned that he believed (excepting one or two keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so outree!—
points) he could with time persuade her to any thing. One Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody
of those points on which his influence failed, he then men- else looking like her!— I must go and ask her whether it is
tioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had been an Irish fashion. Shall I?— Yes, I will—I declare I will—and

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you shall see how she takes it;— whether she colours.’ before it took us home; for I thought it would be making
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him her comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate as
its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently placed herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no occa-
himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Miss Fair- sion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought,
fax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing. and was to take them home again.’ I was quite surprized;—
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by Mrs. very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized. Such a very
Weston. kind attention—and so thoughtful an attention!— the sort
‘This is the luxury of a large party,’ said she:—‘one can of thing that so few men would think of. And, in short, from
get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma, I knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think
am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used
and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses
while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting
niece came here?’ them.’
‘How?—They were invited, were not they?’ ‘Very likely,’ said Emma—‘nothing more likely. I know
‘Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of
manner of their coming?’ thing—to do any thing really good-natured, useful, consid-
‘They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?’ erate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very
‘Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s ill-health,
how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home would appear a case of humanity to him;—and for an act of
again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I unostentatious kindness, there is nobody whom I would fix
looked at her, though I never saw her appear to more advan- on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-
tage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore day—for we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it,
be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear but he said not a word that could betray.’
the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘you give him credit
and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance
You may guess how readily he came into my wishes; and than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion
having his approbation, I made my way directly to Miss darted into my head, and I have never been able to get
Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it

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appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knight- know, independent of Jane Fairfax— and is always glad to
ley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to
company!—What do you say to it?’ match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress of
‘Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!’ exclaimed Emma. the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For his own
‘Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing?— sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.’
Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not marry!—You ‘Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting in-
would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell?— Oh! equality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I
no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to can see nothing unsuitable.’
Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I am sure it is not at all like- ‘But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he
ly. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing.’ has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why
‘My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think of should he marry?— He is as happy as possible by himself;
it. I do not want the match—I do not want to injure dear with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and all the
little Henry— but the idea has been given me by circum- parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his brother’s
stances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his
would not have him refrain on Henry’s account, a boy of six time or his heart.’
years old, who knows nothing of the matter?’ ‘My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he
‘Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplant- really loves Jane Fairfax—‘
ed.— Mr. Knightley marry!—No, I have never had such an ‘Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the
idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any good to
all women!’ her, or her family; but—‘
‘Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, laughing, ‘perhaps the great-
you very well know.’ est good he could do them, would be to give Jane such a
‘But the imprudence of such a match!’ respectable home.’
‘I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probabil- ‘If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil
ity.’ to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion. How
‘I see no probability in it, unless you have any better would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him?—To
foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking him all day
humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?— ‘So very
for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you kind and obliging!—But he always had been such a very

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kind neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a sentence, repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circum-
to her mother’s old petticoat. ‘Not that it was such a very old stance would, in the common course of things, occur to
petticoat either—for still it would last a great while—and, him.’
indeed, she must thankfully say that their petticoats were ‘Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he
all very strong.’’ would have told her so.’
‘For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me ‘There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I
against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not think have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure
Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Lit- he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at
tle things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he dinner.’
wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk loud- ‘You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it;
er, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no
would be a bad connexion for him, but whether he wishes sign of attachment— I believe nothing of the pianoforte—
it; and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has
you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax! The interest he takes any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.’
in her— his anxiety about her health—his concern that she They combated the point some time longer in the same
should have no happier prospect! I have heard him express way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her
himself so warmly on those points!—Such an admirer of friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to
her performance on the pianoforte, and of her voice! I have yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was
heard him say that he could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I over, and the instrument in preparation;— and at the same
had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pi- moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse
anoforte that has been sent here by somebody— though we would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill,
have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs.
the Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had
help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it, found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his
even without being in love.’ very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited
‘Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance.
But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well
Knightley does nothing mysteriously.’ to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she
‘I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are

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generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice the heir of Donwell.
well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat
by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank down by her. They talked at first only of the performance.
Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought,
song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort
having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of mu- of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness
sic; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was
of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to
sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of
place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and his own.
instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from her- ‘I often feel concern,’ said she, ‘that I dare not make our
self, was infinitely superior to her own. carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance without the wish; but you know how impossible my father
from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank would deem it that James should put-to for such a pur-
Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, pose.’
it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley ‘Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,’ he
among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma’s replied;— ‘but you must often wish it, I am sure.’ And he
mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that
of Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of she must proceed another step.
the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her ‘This present from the Campbells,’ said she—‘this piano-
objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying did not in the least forte is very kindly given.’
subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a ‘Yes,’ he replied, and without the smallest apparent em-
great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently barrassment.— ‘But they would have done better had they
to Isabella. A real injury to the children—a most mortifying given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The
change, and material loss to them all;—a very great deduc- pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often
tion from her father’s daily comfort—and, as to herself, she considerable. I should have expected better judgment in
could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Colonel Campbell.’
Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!—No— From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath
Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the in-

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strument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to
attachment—whether there were no actual preference—re- Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
mained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane’s While waiting till the other young people could pair
second song, her voice grew thick. themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compli-
‘That will do,’ said he, when it was finished, thinking ments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look
aloud— ‘you have sung quite enough for one evening—now about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would
be quiet.’ be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very
Another song, however, was soon begged for. ‘One alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur some-
more;—they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, thing. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was
and would only ask for one more.’ And Frank Churchill was talking to Mrs. Cole— he was looking on unconcerned;
heard to say, ‘I think you could manage this without effort; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking
the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls to Mrs. Cole.
on the second.’ Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest
Mr. Knightley grew angry. was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit
‘That fellow,’ said he, indignantly, ‘thinks of nothing but and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mus-
shewing off his own voice. This must not be.’ And touching tered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very
Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near—‘Miss Bates, delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner.
are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this They were a couple worth looking at.
manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her.’ Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be al-
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly lowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious
stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put to get home, on her mother’s account. After some attempts,
an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged
of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done.
the only young lady performers; but soon (within five min- ‘Perhaps it is as well,’ said Frank Churchill, as he attend-
utes) the proposal of dancing— originating nobody exactly ed Emma to her carriage. ‘I must have asked Miss Fairfax,
knew where—was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me,
Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give after your’s.’
proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances,
was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank

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Chapter IX 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
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rath-
Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the er hear you. Every body last night said how well you played.’
next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on ‘Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt the
the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good
splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles— enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much beyond it.’
worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!—And left a ‘Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as
name behind her that would not soon die away. she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr.
there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and
doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of wom- that he valued taste much more than execution.’
an by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax’s ‘Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.’
feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had ‘Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know
been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian
submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her pen- singing.— There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if
etration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she is
that she ought to have held her tongue. obliged to do, because she will have to teach. The Coxes were
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fair- wondering last night whether she would get into any great
fax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and family. How did you think the Coxes looked?’
unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and ‘Just as they always do—very vulgar.’
singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her ‘They told me something,’ said Harriet rather hesitating-
childhood—and sat down and practised vigorously an hour ly;’ but it is nothing of any consequence.’
and a half. Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
Harriet’s praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have ‘They told me—-that Mr. Martin dined with them last

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Saturday.’ travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two
‘Oh!’ curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling
‘He came to their father upon some business, and he children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the gin-
asked him to stay to dinner.’ gerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was
‘Oh!’ amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A
‘They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can
I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought see nothing that does not answer.
I should go and stay there again next summer.’ She looked down the Randalls road. The scene enlarged;
‘She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law; they
Anne Cox should be.’ were walking into Highbury;—to Hartfield of course. They
‘She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates’s;
sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the Coxes whose house was a little nearer Randalls than Ford’s; and
would be very glad to marry him.’ had all but knocked, when Emma caught their eye.—Im-
‘Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the mediately they crossed the road and came forward to her;
most vulgar girls in Highbury.’ and the agreeableness of yesterday’s engagement seemed to
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston in-
prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with formed her that she was going to call on the Bateses, in order
the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would be to hear the new instrument.
dangerous. ‘For my companion tells me,’ said she, ‘that I absolute-
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a ly promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this
word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she was morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I
still hanging over muslins and changing her mind, Emma had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.’
went to the door for amusement.—Much could not be hoped ‘And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed,
from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;— Mr. I hope,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘to join your party and wait for
Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in her at Hartfield— if you are going home.’
at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the ‘I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very
liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her much pleased.’
eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman ‘Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may be

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equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was
not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shop- of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon, be it ever
ping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss Woodhouse so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At
looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do?’ last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel.
‘I am here on no business of my own,’ said Emma; ‘I am ‘Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?’ asked Mrs.
only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon Ford.— ‘Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my pattern
done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to Hartfield, if you
Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.’ please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want to see it.—And I
‘Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want
Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it the ribbon directly— so it had better go to Hartfield—at least
should prove to have an indifferent tone—what shall I say? I the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford,
shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well could not you?’
by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through ‘It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trou-
her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil ble of two parcels.’
falsehood.’ ‘No more it is.’
‘I do not believe any such thing,’ replied Emma.—‘I am ‘No trouble in the world, ma’am,’ said the obliging Mrs.
persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbours, Ford.
when it is necessary; but there is no reason to suppose the ‘Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in one.
instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I un- Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard’s—
derstood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.’ I do not know—No, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I may just as
‘Do come with me,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if it be not very well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at
disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go night. What do you advise?’
to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to Hartfield. I ‘That you do not give another half-second to the subject.
really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an at- To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.’
tention! and I always thought you meant it.’ ‘Aye, that will be much best,’ said Harriet, quite satisfied,
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield ‘I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard’s.’
to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two
door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door.
interesting counter,—trying, with all the force of her own ‘My dear Miss Woodhouse,’ said the latter, ‘I am just run

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

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day. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little too large year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple any-
about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.’ where as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My
‘What was I talking of?’ said she, beginning again when mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger
they were all in the street. days. But I was really quite shocked the other day— for Mr.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would Knightley called one morning, and Jane was eating these
fix. apples, and we talked about them and said how much she
‘I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.— enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to the
Oh! my mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank end of our stock. ‘I am sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will
Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the rivet; I send you another supply; for I have a great many more than
like a job of this kind excessively.’—Which you know shewed I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity
him to be so very…. Indeed I must say that, much as I had than usual this year. I will send you some more, before they
heard of him before and much as I had expected, he very far get good for nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really
exceeds any thing…. I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, as to ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had
most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent a great many left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they
could…. ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that he
that sort excessively.’ I never shall forget his manner. And should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been already;
when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and and Jane said the same. And when he was gone, she almost
hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some, quarrelled with me—No, I should not say quarrelled, for we
‘Oh!’ said he directly, ‘there is nothing in the way of fruit never had a quarrel in our lives; but she was quite distressed
half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked that I had owned the apples were so nearly gone; she wished
apples I ever saw in my life.’ That, you know, was so very…. I had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said
And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed I, my dear, I did say as much as I could. However, the very
they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket
full justice—only we do not have them baked more than of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was
twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William
done three times— but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as Larkins and said every thing, as you may suppose. William
not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see
sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some of him. But, however, I found afterwards from Patty, that Wil-
Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every liam said it was all the apples of that sort his master had; he

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had brought them all—and now his master had not one left
to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself, Chapter X
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 The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered,
should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring. He was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usu-
told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure not to al employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank
say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would be cross Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about
sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it did her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to
not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me, them, intent on her pianoforte.
and I was excessively shocked indeed! I would not have Mr. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to
Knightley know any thing about it for the world! He would shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
be so very…. I wanted to keep it from Jane’s knowledge; but, ‘This is a pleasure,’ said he, in rather a low voice, ‘coming
unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware.’ at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I shall succeed.’
her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular ‘What!’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘have not you finished it yet?
narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her you would not earn a very good livelihood as a working sil-
desultory good-will. versmith at this rate.’
‘Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turn- ‘I have not been working uninterruptedly,’ he replied,
ing. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark ‘I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her
staircase— rather darker and narrower than one could wish. instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an uneven-
Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite ness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging
concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be per-
at the turning.’ suaded 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

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work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the pi- ‘How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your
anoforte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say they often
did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she had think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise
not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it day of the instrument’s coming to hand. Do you imagine
without emotion; she must reason herself into the power of Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward
performance; and Emma could not but pity such feelings, just at this time?—Do you imagine it to be the consequence
whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to ex- of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have
pose them to her neighbour again. sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time,
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were fee- to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?’
bly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid
full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and answering,
was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and ‘Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,’ said she, in
the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was pro- a voice of forced calmness, ‘I can imagine nothing with any
nounced to be altogether of the highest promise. confidence. It must be all conjecture.’
‘Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,’ said Frank ‘Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right, and
Churchill, with a smile at Emma, ‘the person has not cho- sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture
sen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste at how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense
Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks
exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize. at all;—your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues;
I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very but we gentlemen labourers if we get hold of a word—Miss
minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not Fairfax said something about conjecturing. There, it is
you think so?’ done. I have the pleasure, madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restor-
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. ing your spectacles, healed for the present.’
Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. He was very warmly thanked both by mother and
‘It is not fair,’ said Emma, in a whisper; ‘mine was a ran- daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the
dom guess. Do not distress her.’ pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had it, to play something more.
very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he ‘If you are very kind,’ said he, ‘it will be one of the waltzes
began again, we danced last night;—let me live them over again. You did

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not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired the whole time. together.— Emma took the opportunity of whispering,
I believe you were glad we danced no longer; but I would ‘You speak too plain. She must understand you.’
have given worlds— all the worlds one ever has to give—for ‘I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am
another half-hour.’ not in the least ashamed of my meaning.’
She played. ‘But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never tak-
‘What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made en up the idea.’
one happy!— If I mistake not that was danced at Wey- ‘I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to
mouth.’ me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel it.’
played something else. He took some music from a chair ‘She is not entirely without it, I think.’
near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said, ‘I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin Adair
‘Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it?— at this moment—his favourite.’
Cramer.— And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window,
from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was ‘Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if pos-
not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I sible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it
honour that part of the attention particularly; it shews it to would give you all cold; but I can go into my mother’s room
have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who
done; nothing incomplete. True affection only could have is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so!—Our little
prompted it.’ room so honoured!’
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke,
help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr.
Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their conversa-
saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there had tion was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it had passed
been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in the within the same apartment.
amusement, and much less compunction with respect to ‘How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank you.
her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was appar- So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We were just in
ently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come in; do come in.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over You will find some friends here.’

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 So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed de- I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.’
termined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and ‘Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.’
commandingly did he say, ‘No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another day,
‘How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire after and hear the pianoforte.’
you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax?—I ‘Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delight-
hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell ful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever
me how Miss Fairfax is.’ see such dancing?— Was not it delightful?—Miss Wood-
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer be- house and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal
fore he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners were to it.’
amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular ‘Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for
meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepti- I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are
cism. hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still
‘So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be men-
carriage,’ resumed Miss Bates. tioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs.
He cut her short with, Weston is the very best country-dance player, without
‘I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for you?’ exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any grati-
‘Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying tude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me
the other day she wanted something from Kingston.’ in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.’
‘Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for ‘Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of
you?’ consequence— so shocked!—Jane and I are both so shocked
‘No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is about the apples!’
here?— Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to ‘What is the matter now?’
call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at the ‘To think of your sending us all your store apples. You
Crown, and come in.’ said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.
‘Well,’ said he, in a deliberating manner, ‘for five min- We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.
utes, perhaps.’ William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have
‘And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!— done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never can
Quite delightful; so many friends!’ bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid now,
‘No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned….

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Well, (returning to the room,) I have not been able to suc-
ceed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. Chapter XI
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 It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instanc-
know, the door was open, and the window was open, and es have been known of young people passing many, many
Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every thing months successively, without being at any ball of any de-
to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?’ said he; scription, and no material injury accrue either to body or
so I just mentioned…. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be mind;—but when a beginning is made— when the felici-
going?—You seem but just come—so very obliging of you.’ ties of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt—it
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.
already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed
the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening which
and her companion taking leave also, could allow them- Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter
selves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes
gates, before they set off for Randalls. on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and his the great-
est 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 shew-
ing 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 discover-
ing, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of their exactly
equal size, that it was a little the largest.

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 His first proposition and request, that the dance begun who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance
at Mr. Cole’s should be finished there—that the same party who could not be left out, it became a certainty that the five
should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting specula-
with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered into the tion in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most will- The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each oth-
ingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance; er. ‘Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the
and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoning passage?’ It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so
up exactly who there would be, and portioning out the in- good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it
dispensable division of space to every couple. would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress about the
‘You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the
and the two Miss Coxes five,’ had been repeated many times score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it
over. ‘And there will be the two Gilberts, young Cox, my could not be persevered in.
father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be ‘Oh! no,’ said he; ‘it would be the extreme of impru-
quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss dence. I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong.
Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Coxes five; and for She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Har-
five couple there will be plenty of room.’ riet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid
But soon it came to be on one side, up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not
‘But will there be good room for five couple?—I really do let them talk of it. That young man (speaking lower) is very
not think there will.’ thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not
On another, quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often
‘And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately.
while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks He does not think of the draught. I do not mean to set you
seriously about it. It will not do to invite five couple. It can against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing!’
be allowable only as the thought of the moment.’ Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it
brother’s, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan given
believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other evening, up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they
if she had been asked. A word was put in for a second young were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on Frank
Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter of an hour

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before had been deemed barely sufficient for five couple, was quaintance, he was quite amiable enough.
now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten. Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield;
‘We were too magnificent,’ said he. ‘We allowed unnec- and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as
essary room. Ten couple may stand here very well.’ certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared
Emma demurred. ‘It would be a crowd—a sad crowd; that he came to announce an improvement.
and what could be worse than dancing without space to ‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ he almost immediately began,
turn in?’ ‘your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened
‘Very true,’ he gravely replied; ‘it was very bad.’ But still away, I hope, by the terrors of my father’s little rooms. I
he went on measuring, and still he ended with, bring a new proposal on the subject:—a thought of my fa-
‘I think there will be very tolerable room for ten couple.’ ther’s, which waits only your approbation to be acted upon.
‘No, no,’ said she, ‘you are quite unreasonable. It would May I hope for the honour of your hand for the two first
be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be farther dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Ran-
from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd dalls, but at the Crown Inn?’
in a little room!’ ‘The Crown!’
‘There is no denying it,’ he replied. ‘I agree with you ex- ‘Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I
actly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you have trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind
the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can prom-
exquisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is ise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls.
unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappoint- It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, pro-
ment to my father—and altogether—I do not know that—I vided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were
am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very perfectly right! Ten couple, in either of the Randalls rooms,
well.’ would have been insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing
little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose any thing to like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You
the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the compli- consent— I hope you consent?’
ment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever to marry ‘It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr.
him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as far as
and try to understand the value of his preference, and the I can answer for myself, shall be most happy—It seems the
character of his temper; but for all the purposes of their ac- only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it

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an excellent improvement?’ could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Danc-
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was ing with open windows!—I am sure, neither your father nor
fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther rep- Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was) would suffer it.’
resentations were necessary to make it acceptable. ‘Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes
‘No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a sash, with-
bad plan— much worse than the other. A room at an inn out its being suspected. I have often known it done myself.’
was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or ‘Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have sup-
fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance posed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished
at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the Crown in at what I hear. However, this does make a difference; and,
his life—did not know the people who kept it by sight.—Oh! perhaps, when we come to talk it over—but these sort of
no—a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot re-
Crown than anywhere.’ solve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be
‘I was going to observe, sir,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘that so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over,
one of the great recommendations of this change would be and see what can be done.’
the very little danger of any body’s catching cold— so much ‘But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—‘
less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr. Perry might ‘Oh!’ interrupted Emma, ‘there will be plenty of time for
have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could.’ talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it can
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, ‘you are very be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very conve-
much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of nient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable.’
character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us ‘So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that
are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the Crown James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses
can be safer for you than your father’s house.’ when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thor-
‘From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We oughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I
shall have no occasion to open the windows at all—not once do not know her, even by sight.’
the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of opening ‘I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it
the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which will be under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston undertakes
(as you well know, sir) does the mischief.’ to direct the whole.’
‘Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody ‘There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own
would think of opening the windows at Randalls. Nobody dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you re-

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member what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I had scot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I could have
the measles? ‘If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss Emma imagined.’
up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often have I heard ‘My dear, you are too particular,’ said her husband. ‘What
you speak of it as such a compliment to her!’ does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candle-
‘Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget light. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never
it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the measles; see any thing of it on our club-nights.’
that is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry’s great The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant,
attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said, ‘Men never know when things are dirty or not;’ and the gen-
from the first, it was a very good sort—which was our great tlemen perhaps thought each to himself, ‘Women will have
comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope their little nonsenses and needless cares.’
whenever poor Isabella’s little ones have the measles, she One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen did
will send for Perry.’ not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of the
‘My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this mo- ballroom’s being built, suppers had not been in question;
ment,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘examining the capabilities of and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition.
the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impa- What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as
tient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded a card-room now; or, if cards were conveniently voted un-
to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was de- necessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for
sired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure any comfortable supper? Another room of much better size
to them, if you could allow me to attend you there. They can might be secured for the purpose; but it was at the other
do nothing satisfactorily without you.’ end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council; through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was
and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was afraid of draughts for the young people in that passage; and
gone, the two young people set off together without delay neither Emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the pros-
for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston; delighted pect of being miserably crowded at supper.
to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; mere-
happy in their different way; she, in some little distress; and ly sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was
he, finding every thing perfect. scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without
‘Emma,’ said she, ‘this paper is worse than I expected. sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud
Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wain- upon the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Weston must

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not speak of it again. She then took another line of expedi- whole family, you know.’
ency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed, Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was
‘I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many, proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
you know.’ ‘Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end
And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly with the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure; and
long steps through the passage, was calling out, I do not know a properer person for shewing us how to do
‘You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are growing a little
dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But
from the stairs.’ fetch them both. Invite them both.’
‘I wish,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘one could know which ar- ‘Both sir! Can the old lady?’ …
rangement our guests in general would like best. To do what ‘The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think
would be most generally pleasing must be our object—if one you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without
could but tell what that would be.’ the niece.’
‘Yes, very true,’ cried Frank, ‘very true. You want your ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recol-
neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could lect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade
ascertain what the chief of them—the Coles, for instance. them both.’ And away he ran.
They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates? Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat,
She is still nearer.— And I do not know whether Miss Bates brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston,
is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had ex-
the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. amined the passage again, and found the evils of it much
Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?’ less than she had supposed before— indeed very trifling;
‘Well—if you please,’ said Mrs. Weston rather hesitating, and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest,
‘if you think she will be of any use.’ in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the mi-
‘You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,’ nor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea
said Emma. ‘She will be all delight and gratitude, but she and supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles
will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your ques- to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
tions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.’ Stokes.— Every body invited, was certainly to come; Frank
‘But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few
fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be re-

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fused. And a delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree Chapter XII
that it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as
an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly wel-
come. Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm
and incessant, could not but please; and for another half- One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the
hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed for a
rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy day within the granted term of Frank Churchill’s stay in
enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up with- Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she could
out Emma’s being positively secured for the two first dances not think it so very impossible that the Churchills might
by the hero of the evening, nor without her overhearing not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fort-
Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, ‘He has asked her, my dear. night. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations
That’s right. I knew he would!’ 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 an-
other, 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

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this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her hus-
nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse plea- band) when writing to her nephew two days before, though
sures for me.— Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse; from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant
and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it;
be at home, looking over William Larkins’s week’s account; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set
much rather, I confess.— Pleasure in seeing dancing!—not off for Enscombe without delay.
I, indeed—I never look at it— I do not know who does.— The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in
Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was
Those who are standing by are usually thinking of some- inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though
thing very different.’ without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his re-
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite pugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred but
angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however for her own convenience.
that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guid- Mrs. Weston added, ‘that he could only allow himself
ed by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave
the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any
animated—open hearted— she voluntarily said;— interest in him; and that he might be expected at Hartfield
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to very soon.’
prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s break-
look forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure.’ fast. When once it had been read, there was no doing any
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he would thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball—the loss
have preferred the society of William Larkins. No!—she of the young man— and all that the young man might be
was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite feeling!—It was too wretched!— Such a delightful evening
mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly as it would have been!—Every body so happy! and she and
and of compassionate attachment on his side—but no love. her partner the happiest!—‘I said it would be so,’ was the
Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. only consolation.
Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought
followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter arrived principally of Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know
from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant return. how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to
Mrs. Churchill was unwell— far too unwell to do without have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer

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at home. more precious and more delightful than the day before!—
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he ap- every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy
peared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his those, who can remain at Highbury!’
sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come ‘As you do us such ample justice now,’ said Emma, laugh-
might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much ing, ‘I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little
to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expecta-
lost in thought for the first few minutes; and when rousing tions? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to
himself, it was only to say, like us. You would not have been so long in coming, if you
‘Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.’ had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.’
‘But you will come again,’ said Emma. ‘This will not be He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the
your only visit to Randalls.’ sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
‘Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I ‘And you must be off this very morning?’
may be able to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It will ‘Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back to-
be the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if my un- gether, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid
cle and aunt go to town this spring—but I am afraid—they that every moment will bring him.’
did not stir last spring— I am afraid it is a custom gone for ‘Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss
ever.’ Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s power-
‘Our poor ball must be quite given up.’ ful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours.’
‘Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why ‘Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it
not seize the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness de- better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three min-
stroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!—You told us it utes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was
would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She
so right?’ is a woman that one may, that one must laugh at; but that
‘Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit,
would much rather have been merry than wise.’ then’—
‘If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My fa- He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
ther depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.’ ‘In short,’ said he, ‘perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think
Emma looked graciously. you can hardly be quite without suspicion’—
‘Such a fortnight as it has been!’ he continued; ‘every day He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts. She

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hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me.
something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forc- She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a
ing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, female correspondent, when one is really interested in the
she calmly said, absent!—she will tell me every thing. In her letters I shall be
‘You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay at dear Highbury again.’
your visit, then’— A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest ‘Good-
He was silent. She believed he was looking at her; proba- bye,’ closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out
bly reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice—short their
the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to part, and
feel that he had cause to sigh. He could not believe her to be foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence
encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too
sat down again; and in a more determined manner said, much.
‘It was something to feel that all the rest of my time It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost ev-
might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most ery day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls
warm’— had given great spirit to the last two weeks—indescribable
He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embar- spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every
rassed.— He was more in love with her than Emma had morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his
supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight,
father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
followed; and the necessity of exertion made him com- course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recom-
posed. mendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. What
A very few minutes more, however, completed the pres- strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject
ent trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was to be to, was another point; but at present she could not doubt his
done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious prefer-
inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, ‘It ence of herself; and this persuasion, joined to all the rest,
was time to go;’ and the young man, though he might and made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in
did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave. spite of every previous determination against it.
‘I shall hear about you all,’ said he; that is my chief con- ‘I certainly must,’ said she. ‘This sensation of listlessness,
solation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and

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employ myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and
insipid about the house!— I must be in love; I should be the Chapter XIII
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 Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in
the evening with his dear William Larkins now if he likes.’ love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first,
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant happi- she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little.
ness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account; She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked
his very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing
had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
disappointment of the others, and with considerable kind- and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how
ness added, he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what
‘You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!’ But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed
of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful;
did meet, her composure was odious. She had been particu- and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have
larly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree, faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and,
which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amus-
she did not think Jane could have attended it; and it was ing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment,
charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant let-
the languor of ill-health. ters; 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

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strong attachment certainly must produce more of a strug- good thing over; for they say every body is in love once in
gle than she could foresee in her own feelings. their lives, and I shall have been let off easily.’
‘I do not find myself making any use of the word sac- When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the
rifice,’ said she.— ‘In not one of all my clever replies, my perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and
delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a sacrifice. admiration which made her at first shake her head over
I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their
So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the par-
feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be ticulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all
sorry to be more.’ the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local
of his feelings. that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and preci-
‘He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing de- sion. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it
notes it—very much in love indeed!—and when he comes was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and
again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable to do other- between the places in some of the first blessings of social
wise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was
he can think I have been encouraging him hitherto. No, felt, and how much more might have been said but for the
if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own name was
not have been so wretched. Could he have thought himself not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once,
encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have and never without a something of pleasing connexion, ei-
been different.— Still, however, I must be on my guard. This ther a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what
is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her
now is; but I do not know that I expect it will; I do not look eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gal-
upon him to be quite the sort of man— I do not altogether lantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and
build upon his steadiness or constancy.— His feelings are acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all con-
warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable.— Every veyed. Compressed into the very lowest vacant corner were
consideration of the subject, in short, makes me thankful these words—‘I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you
that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—I shall do know, for Miss Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray
very well again after a little while—and then, it will be a make my excuses and adieus to her.’ This, Emma could not

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doubt, was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom;
from being her friend. His information and prospects as to for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s
Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been an- arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement in the con-
ticipated; Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not versation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely
yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s dis-
Randalls again. appearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were assuming the most
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in irresistible form.—His wedding-day was named. He would
the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it was soon be among them again; Mr. Elton and his bride. There
folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe
any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writ- before ‘Mr. Elton and his bride’ was in every body’s mouth,
er, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the
were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from
interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent Mr. Elton; and Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope,
consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in
and the words which clothed it, the ‘beautiful little friend,’ view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to
suggested to her the idea of Harriet’s succeeding her in his other things; but it was now too evident that she had not at-
affections. Was it impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly tained such a state of composure as could stand against the
was greatly his inferior in understanding; but he had been actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
very much struck with the loveliness of her face and the Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all
warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind
circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For Har- that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too
riet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity
‘I must not dwell upon it,’ said she.—‘I must not think and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be for ever
of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to,
stranger things have happened; and when we cease to care without being able to make their opinions the same. Har-
for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirm- riet listened submissively, and said ‘it was very true— it was
ing us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which I just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was not worth while
can already look forward to with pleasure.’ to think about them—and she would not think about them
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s behalf, any longer’ but no change of subject could avail, and the next

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half-hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Eltons wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was
as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt
‘Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so un- to what was right and support her in it very tolerably.
happy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest ‘You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my
reproach you can make me. You could not give me a great- life— Want gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—I
er reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, care for nobody as I do for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.—Deceived how ungrateful I have been!’
myself, I did very miserably deceive you— and it will be a Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing
painful reflection to me for ever. Do not imagine me in dan- that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she
ger of forgetting it.’ had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words highly before.
of eager exclamation. Emma continued, ‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,’ said
‘I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake; think she afterwards to herself. ‘There is nothing to be compared
less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for your own to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affection-
sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is ate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the
more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is tenderness of
in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved—
propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, which gives Isabella all her popularity.— I have it not—but
to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquil- I know how to prize and respect it.—Harriet is my superior
lity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I
you. They are very important—and sorry I am that you can- would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-
not feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the coldness of
from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to a Jane Fairfax!—Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for
save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes a wife— a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention
have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due—or no names; but happy the man who changes Emma for Har-
rather what would be kind by me.’ riet!’
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

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Chapter XIV 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 nei-
ther feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant.
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though devotion Emma thought at least it would turn out so.
might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no,
a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself
which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any
pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all. time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or pro- be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
priety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her was better off; she might have the assistance of fine clothes,
respects; and she made a point of Harriet’s going with her, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his
that the worst of the business might be gone through as own good sense to depend on; and when she considered
soon as possible. how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in being in the
She could not enter the house again, could not be in same room at once with the woman he had just married, the
the same room to which she had with such vain artifice woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he
retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the
recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. right to look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was as little really easy as could be.
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recol- ‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ said Harriet, when they had
lecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only rather quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to
pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was begin; ‘Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do
so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten you think of her?— Is not she very charming?’
it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond ‘Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.’
the nothing-meaning terms of being ‘elegantly dressed, and ‘I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.’
very pleasing.’ ‘Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to gown.’

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 ‘I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar;
love.’ that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and
‘Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A pret- one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, and
ty fortune; and she came in his way.’ that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
‘I dare say,’ returned Harriet, sighing again, ‘I dare say Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or
she was very much attached to him.’ refined herself, she would have connected him with those
‘Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to mar- who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed
ry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The
wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was like- rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alli-
ly to have.’ ance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.
‘Yes,’ said Harriet earnestly, ‘and well she might, nobody The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove,
could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all ‘My brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;’—a comparison of Hart-
my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall field to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small,
mind seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever;—but but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-
being married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No, in- built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the
deed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not be afraid; I can sit and size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see
admire him now without any great misery. To know that or imagine. ‘Very like Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite
he has not thrown himself away, is such a comfort!— She struck by the likeness!—That room was the very shape and
does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves. size of the morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s fa-
Happy creature! He called her ‘Augusta.’ How delightful!’ vourite room.’— Mr. Elton was appealed to.—‘Was not it
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. astonishingly like?— She could really almost fancy herself
She could then see more and judge better. From Harriet’s at Maple Grove.’
happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father’s being pres- ‘And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed
ent to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same
lady’s conversation to herself, and could composedly attend part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I as-
to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that sure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to
Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Ma-
herself, and thinking much of her own importance; that ple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (with
she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place, undoubtedly.

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Every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, Many counties, I believe, are called the garden of England,
it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, as well as Surry.’
like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very ‘No, I fancy not,’ replied Mrs. Elton, with a most satisfied
delightful it is to meet with any thing at all like what one smile.’ I never heard any county but Surry called so.’
has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of Emma was silenced.
matrimony.’ ‘My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was ful- spring, or summer at farthest,’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘and
ly sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us,
herself. we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their
‘So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely the barouche-landau, of course, which holds four perfectly;
house— the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could observe, and therefore, without saying any thing of our carriage, we
are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the should be able to explore the different beauties extremely
same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that
way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a fine season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall
large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau;
in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted with this it will be so very much preferable. When people come into a
place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are al- beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse,
ways pleased with any thing in the same style.’ one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored
great idea that people who had extensive grounds them- to King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most de-
selves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body lightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau.
else; but it was not worth while to attack an error so double- You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss
dyed, and therefore only said in reply, Woodhouse, every summer?’
‘When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid ‘No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance
you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full of of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties
beauties.’ you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of people, I believe;
‘Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of Eng- more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of
land, you know. Surry is the garden of England.’ pleasure.’
‘Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. ‘Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real com-

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fort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty gen-
quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Seli- erally understood. It would be a charming introduction for
na said, when she has been going to Bristol, ‘I really cannot you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immedi-
get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in ately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line
by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the barouche-lan- from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance; and
dau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always
own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to shew
Many a time has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to
entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut go into public with.’
themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing; It was as much as Emma could bear, without being im-
and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in polite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what
a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too was called an introduction—of her going into public under
little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably some vul-
Woodhouse— (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your fa- gar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just
ther’s state of health must be a great drawback. Why does made a shift to live!— The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of
not he try Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me recommend Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of its doing Mr. She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs
Woodhouse good.’ she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly;
‘My father tried it more than once, formerly; but without ‘but their going to Bath was quite out of the question; and
receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit
say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at her better than her father.’ And then, to prevent farther out-
all more likely to be useful now.’ rage and indignation, changed the subject directly.
‘Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss Wood- ‘I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon
house, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the these occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes her;
relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen such instances and Highbury has long known that you are a superior per-
of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it could not fail of be- former.’
ing of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits, which, I understand, ‘Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A
are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommenda- superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Con-
tions to you, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on sider from how partial a quarter your information came. I

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am doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—and my me.’’
friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as to any ‘We cannot suppose,’ said Emma, smiling, ‘that Mr.
thing else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very mu-
the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play de- sical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find he
lightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in
comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society consideration of the motive.’
I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a ‘No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am de-
necessary of life to me; and having always been used to a lighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have
very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Wood-
would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as house, you and I must establish a musical club, and have
much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it
and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be be a good plan? If we exert ourselves, I think we shall not
disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would
what I had been accustomed to—of course he was not whol- be particularly desirable for me, as an inducement to keep
ly without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that me in practice; for married women, you know— there is a
way, I honestly said that the world I could give up—parties, sad story against them, in general. They are but too apt to
balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with give up music.’
so many resources within myself, the world was not nec- ‘But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can be
essary to me. I could do very well without it. To those who no danger, surely?’
had no resources it was a different thing; but my resources ‘I should hope not; but really when I look around among
made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely given up
than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. music—never touches the instrument—though she played
I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that descrip- sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys—Clara
tion. Certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Partridge, that was—and of the two Milmans, now Mrs.
Maple Grove; but I did assure him that two carriages were Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enu-
not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apart- merate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I
ments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to be quite honest, I do not think I can used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to
live without something of a musical society. I condition for comprehend that a married woman has many things to call
nothing else; but without music, life would be a blank to her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut

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up with my housekeeper.’ particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great curiosity. ‘My
‘But every thing of that kind,’ said Emma, ‘will soon be friend Knightley’ had been so often mentioned, that I was
in so regular a train—‘ really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Elton, laughing, ‘we shall see.’ the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend.
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. De-
music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s cidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man.’
pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject. Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and
‘We have been calling at Randalls,’ said she, ‘and found Emma could breathe.
them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to ‘Insufferable woman!’ was her immediate exclama-
be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent tion. ‘Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable!
creature— quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I Knightley!—I could not have believed it. Knightley!—never
assure you. And she appears so truly good—there is some- seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!—and
thing so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar be-
upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?’ ing, with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo, and her resources,
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I
on. doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover
‘Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to pro-
find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentle- pose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One
woman.’ would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!—
‘Mrs. Weston’s manners,’ said Emma, ‘were always par- Astonished that the person who had brought me up should
ticularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her
would make them the safest model for any young woman.’ equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any
‘And who do you think came in while we were there?’ comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old ac- he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be!
quaintance— and how could she possibly guess? Ah! there I am— thinking of him directly. Always the first
‘Knightley!’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘Knightley himself!— person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank
Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!’—
other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the

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time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the avowedly due to her. A bride, you know, my dear, is always
Eltons’ departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tol- the first in company, let the others be who they may.’
erably capable of attending. ‘Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do
‘Well, my dear,’ he deliberately began, ‘considering we not know what is. And I should never have expected you
never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor
lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. young ladies.’
She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there ‘My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of
is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has noth-
like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor ing to do with any encouragement to people to marry.’
Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-be- Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and
haved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good could not understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs. El-
wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made ton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.
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 en-
couraging 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 la-
dy—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is

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Chapter XV 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
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to and gradually became much more cold and distant; and
retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced
been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on it was necessarily increasing Emma’s dislike. Her manners,
this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met too—and Mr. Elton’s, were unpleasant towards Harriet.
again,—self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must
ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, rapidly work Harriet’s cure; but the sensations which could
but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was
superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve not to be doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been
a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the
to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton’s conse- story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the
quence only could surpass. most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.— When
differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to be-
her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself gin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they
on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader
Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the hab- Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from
it of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates’s good-will, or the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young
taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from
agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a
so that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed from one mouth to anoth- natural and reasonable admiration— but without solicita-
er as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who tion, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and
readily continued her first contribution and talked with a befriend her.—Before Emma had forfeited her confidence,
good grace of her being ‘very pleasant and very elegantly and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs.

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Elton’s knight-errantry on the subject.— she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
‘Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.—I feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it.
quite rave about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet, interesting creature. I must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great
So mild and ladylike—and with such talents!—I assure you advocate for timidity—and I am sure one does not often
I think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it is ex-
to say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of mu- tremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a
sic to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely very delightful character, and interests me more than I can
charming! You will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my express.’
word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.— And her situation ‘You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware how
is so calculated to affect one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must you or any of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of those
exert ourselves and endeavour to do something for her. We who have known her longer than yourself, can shew her any
must bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be suf- other attention than’—
fered to remain unknown.—I dare say you have heard those ‘My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by
charming lines of the poet, 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
‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, all have not our situations. We have carriages to fetch and
‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’ convey her home, and we live in a style which could not
make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the least
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fair- inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased if Wright
fax.’ were to send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret
‘I cannot think there is any danger of it,’ was Emma’s having asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have
calm answer— ‘and when you are better acquainted with no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I should,
Miss Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has considering what I have been used to. My greatest danger,
been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the other way, in
you will suppose her talents can be unknown.’ doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple
‘Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such re- Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be—
tirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever for we do not at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling,
advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are in income.—However, my resolution is taken as to noticing
so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure Jane Fairfax.— I shall certainly have her very often at my

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house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall have musi- tated, what was done.
cal parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s
on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so gratitude for Mrs. Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first
very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of some- style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite
thing to suit her shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, one of her worthies— the most amiable, affable, delightful
very particularly to my brother and sister when they come woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs.
to us. I am sure they will like her extremely; and when she Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was
gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and toler-
wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either ate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking
but what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with
indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall some- the Eltons! This was astonishing!—She could not have be-
times find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of lieved it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax
our exploring parties.’ could endure such society and friendship as the Vicarage
‘Poor Jane Fairfax!’—thought Emma.—‘You have not de- had to offer.
served this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. ‘She is a riddle, quite a riddle!’ said she.—‘To chuse to
Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have remain here month after month, under privations of every
merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton!— sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s no-
‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me not suppose tice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return
that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!— But to the superior companions who have always loved her with
upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness such real, generous affection.’
of that woman’s tongue!’ Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months;
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months; but
so exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly deco- now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at
rated with a ‘dear Miss Woodhouse.’ The change on Mrs. least till Midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrived for
Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—it all came
peace—neither forced to be the very particular friend of from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would
Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the very ac- Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
tive patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still
in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was medi- she had declined it!

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 ‘She must have some motive, more powerful than ap- ‘I should not wonder,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if Miss Fairfax
pears, for refusing this invitation,’ was Emma’s conclusion. were to have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by
‘She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton’s civilities for
by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great cau- her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her
tion, great resolution somewhere.— She is not to be with the niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy
Dixons. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the
she consent to be with the Eltons?—Here is quite a separate very natural wish of a little change.’
puzzle.’ Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and af-
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the ter a few minutes silence, he said,
subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, ‘Another thing must be taken into consideration too—
Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of
‘We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or
the Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the
always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a con- influence of a something beyond common civility in our
stant companion, must be very tiresome. We must consider personal intercourse with each other— a something more
what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable
what she goes to.’ hints that we may have been very full of the hour before.
‘You are right, Mrs. Weston,’ said Mr. Knightley warm- We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this,
ly, ‘Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and man-
to associate, she would not have chosen her. But (with a re- ner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the
proachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane
Elton, which nobody else pays her.’ Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton’s way before—and
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momen- no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own
tary glance; and she was herself struck by his warmth. With comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness.’
a faint blush, she presently replied, ‘I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,’ said
‘Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have imagined, Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of
would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
invitations I should have imagined any thing but inviting.’ ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘any body may know how highly I think

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of her.’ those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a seri-
‘And yet,’ said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch ous meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest
look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You
worst at once— she hurried on—‘And yet, perhaps, you may would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way,
hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your if you were married.’
admiration may take you by surprize some day or other.’ Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons reverie was, ‘No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my ad-
of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting miration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never had
them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into a thought of her in that way, I assure you.’ And soon after-
his face, as he answered, wards, ‘Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but
‘Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably behindhand. not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not
Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.’ the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.’
He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault.
and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he ‘Well,’ said she, ‘and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I sup-
went on— pose?’
‘That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fair- ‘Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he
fax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole
I am very sure I shall never ask her.’ does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.’
Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and ‘In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants
was pleased enough to exclaim, to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how she
‘You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.’ speaks of the Coles— what she calls them! How can she find
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar vulgar-
in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon after- ity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for Mr. Cole?
wards said, And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts
‘So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fair- her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your
fax?’ argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily
‘No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much enter into the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates,
for match-making, for me to presume to take such a liberty than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax’s mind
with you. What I said just now, meant nothing. One says over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton’s acknowledg-

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ing herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of Chapter XVI
good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be con-
tinually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement,
and offers of service; that she will not be continually de-
tailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited
permanent situation to the including her in those delightful Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his mar-
exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche- riage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were made for
landau.’ him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast that she
‘Jane Fairfax has feeling,’ said Mr. Knightley—‘I do not had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to
accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are have a disengaged day.
strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbear- ‘I see how it is,’ said she. ‘I see what a life I am to lead
ance, patience, self-controul; but it wants openness. She is among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipat-
reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be—And ed. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the
I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to my sup- country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next
posed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane to Saturday, I assure you we have not a disengaged day!—A
Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and plea- woman with fewer resources than I have, need not have
sure always—but with no thought beyond.’ been at a loss.’
‘Well, Mrs. Weston,’ said Emma triumphantly when he No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made
left them, ‘what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s marry- evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove
ing Jane Fairfax?’ had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked
‘Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at
occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-
should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last. parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others,
Do not beat me.’ 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

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and unbroken packs in the true style—and more wait- to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.— Since her last conver-
ers engaged for the evening than their own establishment sation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more
could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often
the proper hour, and in the proper order. been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her. He had said
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton which
a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must not do less nobody else paid her.
than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, ‘This is very true,’ said she, ‘at least as far as relates to me,
and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there which was all that was meant—and it is very shameful.—Of
must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, the same age— and always knowing her—I ought to have
Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the been more her friend.— She will never like me now. I have
usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table neglected her too long. But I will shew her greater attention
himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who than I have done.’
should do it for him. Every invitation was successful. They were all disen-
The persons to be invited, required little thought. Besides gaged and all happy.— The preparatory interest of this
the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr. Knightley; so far dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather
it was all of course— and it was hardly less inevitable that unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were
poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth:—but engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of some
this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing
many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet’s them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield—which one
begging to be allowed to decline it. ‘She would rather not be day would be the very day of this party.—His professional
in his company more than she could help. She was not yet engagements did not allow of his being put off, but both fa-
quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, ther and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr.
without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as
not be displeased, she would rather stay at home.’ It was pre- the utmost that his nerves could bear— and here would be
cisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it a ninth—and Emma apprehended that it would be a ninth
possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the for- very much out of humour at not being able to come even
titude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was in to Hartfield for forty-eight hours without falling in with a
her to give up being in company and stay at home; and she dinner-party.
could now invite the very person whom she really wanted She comforted her father better than she could com-

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fort herself, by representing that though he certainly would ‘I went only to the post-office,’ said she, ‘and reached
make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the in- home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I al-
crease of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in ways fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and
reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his grave is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does
looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of me good.’
his brother. ‘Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.’
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than ‘No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.’
to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was unex- Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
pectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very ‘That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were
day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but cer- not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure
tainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease; and of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops
the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys and the than they could count long before. The post-office has a
philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived
removed the chief of even Emma’s vexation. to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth
The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and going through the rain for.’
Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the There was a little blush, and then this answer,
business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother ‘I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the
off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talk- midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot
ing to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls expect that simply growing older should make me indiffer-
could make her, he looked at in silence— wanting only to ent about letters.’
observe enough for Isabella’s information—but Miss Fair- ‘Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could be-
fax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could come indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference; they
talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was re- are generally a very positive curse.’
turning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been ‘You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters
just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil of friendship.’
hopes on the subject, and he said, ‘I have often thought them the worst of the two,’ re-
‘I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morn- plied he coolly. ‘Business, you know, may bring money, but
ing, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got friendship hardly ever does.’
home in time. I hope you turned directly.’ ‘Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knight-

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ley too well— I am very sure he understands the value of you change your stockings?’
friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that let- ‘Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by
ters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is your kind solicitude about me.’
not your being ten years older than myself which makes the ‘My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be
difference, it is not age, but situation. You have every body cared for.— I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are
dearest to you always at hand, I, probably, never shall again; well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health
and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post- allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal
office, I think, must always have power to draw me out, in of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I are both
worse weather than to-day.’ highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest sat-
‘When I talked of your being altered by time, by the isfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.’
progress of years,’ said John Knightley, ‘I meant to imply The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down
the change of situation which time usually brings. I consid- and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady
er one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the welcome and easy.
interest of every attachment not within the daily circle—but By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton,
that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence ‘My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the post-
you may have as many concentrated objects as I have.’ office in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You sad
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was not
pleasant ‘thank you’ seemed meant to laugh it off, but a there to take care of you.’
blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught
felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. any cold.
Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such ‘Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do
occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his not know how to take care of yourself.—To the post-office
particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with her— indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I
and with all his mildest urbanity, said, must positively exert our authority.’
‘I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out ‘My advice,’ said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, ‘I
this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not
themselves.— Young ladies are delicate plants. They should run such risks.— Liable as you have been to severe colds, in-
take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did deed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this

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time of year. The spring I always think requires more than consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome
common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it
for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my
again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you grandmama’s.’
are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do ‘Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it is
such a thing again.’ a kindness to employ our men.’
‘Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,’ eagerly re- Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but
joined Mrs. Elton. ‘We will not allow her to do such a thing instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John
again:’— and nodding significantly—‘there must be some Knightley.
arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. ‘The post-office is a wonderful establishment!’ said she.—
E. The man who fetches our letters every morning (one ‘The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of all that
of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours too it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonish-
and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties you ing!’
know; and from us I really think, my dear Jane, you can ‘It is certainly very well regulated.’
have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.’ ‘So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So
‘You are extremely kind,’ said Jane; ‘but I cannot give seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constant-
up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much ly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and
as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when one
object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands too, that
morning before.’ are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.’
‘My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is deter- ‘The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must be-
mined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can presume gin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise
to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord improves them. If you want any farther explanation,’ con-
and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cau- tinued he, smiling, ‘they are paid for it. That is the key to a
tious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be served
dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I well.’
meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and
that point as settled.’ the usual observations made.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jane earnestly, ‘I cannot by any means ‘I have heard it asserted,’ said John Knightley, ‘that the

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same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and him against the base aspersion. ‘No, it by no means wanted
where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for strength— it was not a large hand, but very clear and cer-
that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly tainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to
confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching produce?’ No, she had heard from him very lately, but hav-
after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. ing answered the letter, had put it away.
Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I ‘If we were in the other room,’ said Emma, ‘if I had my
have not always known their writing apart.’ writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a
‘Yes,’ said his brother hesitatingly, ‘there is a likeness. I note of his.— Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employ-
know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.’ ing him to write for you one day?’
‘Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,’ said Mr. ‘He chose to say he was employed’—
Woodhouse; ‘and always did. And so does poor Mrs. ‘Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner
Weston’—with half a sigh and half a smile at her. to convince Mr. Knightley.’
‘I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting’—Emma be- ‘Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill,’
gan, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on perceiving said Mr. Knightley dryly, ‘writes to a fair lady like Miss
that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one else—and the Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.’
pause gave her time to reflect, ‘Now, how am I going to in- Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could
troduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking his name at once be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had
before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into
roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire friend— your corre- the dining-parlour, was saying—
spondent in Yorkshire;—that would be the way, I suppose, ‘Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading
if I were very bad.—No, I can pronounce his name without the way.’
the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.—Now Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not
for it.’ escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again— curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning
‘Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s had produced any. She suspected that it had; that it would
hands I ever saw.’ not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expecta-
‘I do not admire it,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘It is too small— tion of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not
wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.’ been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happi-
This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated ness than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.

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 She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the ex-
pedition and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at her Chapter XVII
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 When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after din-
the beauty and grace of each. ner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making
two distinct parties;— with so much perseverance in judg-
ing and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and
slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be al-
most 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—fetch-
ing 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. El-
ton’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

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aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience real-
thing.’ ly amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your
‘I not aware!’ said Jane, shaking her head; ‘dear Mrs. El- friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is
ton, who can have thought of it as I have done?’ not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we must
‘But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. begin inquiring directly.’
You do not know how many candidates there always are for ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention;
the first situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbour- I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any
hood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the
Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There
anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon pro-
Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how de- duce something—Offices for the sale— not quite of human
sirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge’s is the flesh—but of human intellect.’
one I would most wish to see you in.’ ‘Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you
‘Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling
midsummer,’ said Jane. ‘I must spend some time with them; was always rather a friend to the abolition.’
I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may probably be ‘I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,’
glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take replied Jane; ‘governess-trade, I assure you, was all that
the trouble of making any inquiries at present.’ I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of
‘Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the vic-
of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the tims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that
Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I
am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something
give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing that would do.’
eligible.’ ‘Something that would do!’ repeated Mrs. Elton. ‘Aye,
‘Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know what
subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends
giving any body trouble.’ to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any in-
‘But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is ferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a
April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life.’

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 ‘You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indif- In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any
ferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity
mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in
suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s family is all the same half-whisper to Jane,
that I should condition for.’ ‘Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—On-
‘I know you, I know you; you would take up with any ly think of his gallantry in coming away before the other
thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the men!—what a dear creature he is;—I assure you I like him
good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your supe- excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned polite-
rior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your ness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern
musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Woodhouse,
own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner.
family as much as you chose;—that is—I do not know— if Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro sposo would be
you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a favourite; he took
but you sing as well as play;—yes, I really believe you might, notice of my gown. How do you like it?—Selina’s choice—
even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;—and handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not
you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and com- over-trimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of be-
fortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.’ ing over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. I must put on
‘You may well class the delight, the honour, and the com- a few ornaments now, because it is expected of me. A bride,
fort of such a situation together,’ said Jane, ‘they are pretty you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural taste is
sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely pref-
any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceed- erable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few
ingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show and finery
who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trim-
to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer ming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it
I shall remain where I am, and as I am.’ will look well?’
‘And I am quite serious too, I assure you,’ replied Mrs. The whole party were but just reassembled in the draw-
Elton gaily, ‘in resolving to be always on the watch, and ing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among
employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really un- them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hart-
exceptionable may pass us.’ field as soon as it was over. He had been too much expected

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by the best judges, for surprize— but there was great joy. ing to a family communication, which, though principally
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the smallest doubt of
would have been sorry to see him before. John Knightley being highly interesting to every body in the room. He gave
only was in mute astonishment.—That a man who might her a letter, it was from Frank, and to herself; he had met
have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of busi- with it in his way, and had taken the liberty of opening it.
ness in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to ‘Read it, read it,’ said he, ‘it will give you pleasure; only a
another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed compa- few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.’
ny till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling
and the noise of numbers, was a circumstance to strike him and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little sub-
deeply. A man who had been in motion since eight o’clock in dued, but very audible to every body.
the morning, and might now have been still, who had been ‘Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well,
long talking, and might have been silent, who had been in what do you say to it?—I always told you he would be here
more than one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a again soon, did not I?—Anne, my dear, did not I always tell
man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own you so, and you would not believe me?—In town next week,
fireside, and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she is as impatient as the
out again into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger black gentleman when any thing is to be done; most likely
have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been they will be there to-morrow or Saturday. As to her illness,
a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather all nothing of course. But it is an excellent thing to have
than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him with Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a
amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, ‘I could good while when they do come, and he will be half his time
not have believed it even of him.’ with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the in- news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all?
dignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual, and Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some
with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spent other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention
anywhere from home confers, was making himself agree- the circumstance to the others in a common way.’
able among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries of Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the oc-
his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all her casion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain them.
careful directions to the servants had been forgotten, and She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew she ought
spread abroad what public news he had heard, was proceed- to be happy. Her congratulations were warm and open; but

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Emma could not speak so fluently. She was a little occupied
in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the Chapter XVIII
degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was con-
siderable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too
communicative to want others to talk, was very well satis- ‘I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my son
fied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make to you,’ said Mr. Weston.
the rest of his friends happy by a partial communication of Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular compli-
what the whole room must have overheard already. ment intended her by such a hope, smiled most graciously.
It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted, ‘You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I presume,’
or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or he continued— ‘and know him to be my son, though he does
Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first not bear my name.’
entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made happy;— ‘Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance. I
from them he would have proceeded to Miss Fairfax, but am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him; and
she was so deep in conversation with John Knightley, that it we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the Vic-
would have been too positive an interruption; and finding arage.’
himself close to Mrs. Elton, and her attention disengaged, ‘You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely happy, I
he necessarily began on the subject with her. 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 pro-
test 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

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could not have believed it of you!’ ‘No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take the
‘Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—You will
yourself, Mrs. Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short letter— find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I always stand
written in a hurry, merely to give us notice—it tells us that up for women— and I assure you, if you knew how Selina
they are all coming up to town directly, on Mrs. Churchill’s feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not won-
account—she has not been well the whole winter, and thinks der at Mrs. Churchill’s making incredible exertions to avoid
Enscombe too cold for her— so they are all to move south- it. Selina says it is quite horror to her—and I believe I have
ward without loss of time.’ caught a little of her nicety. She always travels with her own
‘Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in York- sheets; an excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the
shire?’ same?’
‘Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from ‘Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that any
London. a considerable journey.’ other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be second to
‘Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five miles any lady in the land for’—
farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what is dis- Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
tance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You would ‘Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine
be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, some- lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea.’
times flies about. You will hardly believe me— but twice in ‘Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill, who is
one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back again as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.’
with four horses.’ Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in dis-
‘The evil of the distance from Enscombe,’ said Mr. Weston, claiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to have
‘is, that Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not been able it believed that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps there
to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s last letter she was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and she was con-
complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her con- sidering in what way she had best retract, when Mr. Weston
servatory without having both his arm and his uncle’s! This, went on.
you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—but now she ‘Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you
is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only may suspect— but this is quite between ourselves. She is
two nights on the road.—So Frank writes word. Certainly, very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of
delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. her. Besides, she is out of health now; but that indeed, by
Elton. You must grant me that.’ her own account, she has always been. I would not say so

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to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in Mrs. Weston’s letters lately have been full of very little else than
Churchill’s illness.’ Mrs. Elton.’
‘If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—To He had done his duty and could return to his son.
Bath, or to Clifton?’ ‘She has taken it into her head that En- ‘When Frank left us,’ continued he, ‘it was quite uncertain
scombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is when we might see him again, which makes this day’s news
tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time station- doubly welcome. It has been completely unexpected. That
ary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to want is, I always had a strong persuasion he would be here again
change. It is a retired place. A fine place, but very retired.’ soon, I was sure something favourable would turn up—but
‘Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand nobody believed me. He and Mrs. Weston were both dread-
more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an fully desponding. ‘How could he contrive to come? And how
immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare
every thing—in the most complete retirement.— And Mrs. him again?’ and so forth—I always felt that something would
Churchill probably has not health or spirits like Selina to happen in our favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed,
enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may not have Mrs. Elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going
resources enough in herself to be qualified for a country life. untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.’
I always say a woman cannot have too many resources—and ‘Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I
I feel very thankful that I have so many myself as to be quite used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of
independent of society.’ courtship, when, because things did not go quite right, did
‘Frank was here in February for a fortnight.’ not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his feelings,
‘So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at
to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if this rate it would be May before Hymen’s saffron robe would
I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have been at to dispel those
may never have heard of there being such a creature in the gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! The carriage—
world.’ we had disappointments about the carriage;—one morning,
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed I remember, he came to me quite in despair.’
by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr.
exclaimed, Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.
‘My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine ‘You were mentioning May. May is the very month which
such a thing possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs. Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to spend in

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some warmer place than Enscombe—in short, to spend in poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to do her
London; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent injustice; but there are some traits in her character which
visits from Frank the whole spring— precisely the season of make it difficult for me to speak of her with the forbearance
the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Elton, of my con-
the longest; weather genial and pleasant, always inviting one nexion with the family, nor of the treatment I have met with;
out, and never too hot for exercise. When he was here be- and, between ourselves, the whole blame of it is to be laid
fore, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, to her. She was the instigator. Frank’s mother would never
damp, cheerless weather; there always is in February, you have been slighted as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has
know, and we could not do half that we intended. Now will pride; but his pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, in-
be the time. This will be complete enjoyment; and I do not dolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody,
know, Mrs. Elton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her
the sort of constant expectation there will be of his coming pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one less
in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood. She was
friendly to happiness than having him actually in the house. nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gen-
I think it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most tleman; but ever since her being turned into a Churchill she
spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son; has out-Churchill’d them all in high and mighty claims: but
but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally thought a in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.’
fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy. Mrs. Weston’s ‘Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I
partiality for him is very great, and, as you may suppose, have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me
most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody equal to him.’ a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a fam-
‘And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt ily in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my
that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have heard brother and sister from the airs they give themselves! Your
so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the same description of Mrs. Churchill made me think of them direct-
time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who always ly. People of the name of Tupman, very lately settled there,
judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided and encumbered with many low connexions, but giving
by others. I give you notice that as I find your son, so I shall themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing
judge of him.—I am no flatterer.’ with the old established families. A year and a half is the
Mr. Weston was musing. very utmost that they can have lived at West Hall; and how
‘I hope,’ said he presently, ‘I have not been severe upon they got their fortune nobody knows. They came from Bir-

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mingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know, much in the same spirit; all that I have to recommend being
Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.’
always say there is something direful in the sound: but noth- ‘I rather hope to satisfy you both,’ said Emma, ‘for I
ing more is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be
many things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false in-
manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my dulgence and physic.’
brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their near- ‘And if you find them troublesome, you must send them
est neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has home again.’
been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose fa- ‘That is very likely. You think so, do not you?’
ther had it before him—I believe, at least—I am almost sure ‘I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your
that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase before his father— or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your
death.’ visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and Mr. have done lately.’
Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the oppor- ‘Increase!’
tunity of walking away. ‘Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year has
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat down made a great difference in your way of life.’
with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five were left ‘Difference! No indeed I am not.’
to their own powers, and Emma doubted their getting on ‘There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged
very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little disposed for con- with company than you used to be. Witness this very time.
versation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice, which nobody had Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged
inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits with a dinner-party!— When did it happen before, or any
which would have made her prefer being silent. thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing, and you
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his broth- mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella
er. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon brought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or
began with— balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls
‘Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more to alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.’
say about the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and every ‘Yes,’ said his brother quickly, ‘it is Randalls that does it
thing is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge all.’
would be much more concise than her’s, and probably not ‘Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to

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have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible
thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the Volume III
way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.’
‘No,’ cried Mr. Knightley, ‘that need not be the conse-
quence. 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 engage-
ments 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, de-
lights 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 se-
ries 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 ei-
ther reading to himself or settling his accounts.’
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and suc-
ceeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to
talk to him.

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Chapter I family were not in town quite so soon as had been imag-
ined, 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
A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy Emma determine how he was influenced, and how she must act.
as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of They met with the utmost friendliness. There could be no
Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it was not for doubt of his great pleasure in seeing her. But she had an
herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed; it almost instant doubt of his caring for her as he had done,
was for him. Her own attachment had really subsided into a of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. She
mere nothing; it was not worth thinking of;— but if he, who watched him well. It was a clear thing he was less in love
had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of than he had been. Absence, with the conviction probably of
the two, were to be returning with the same warmth of senti- her indifference, had produced this very natural and very
ment which he had taken away, it would be very distressing. desirable effect.
If a separation of two months should not have cooled him, He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as ever,
there were dangers and evils before her:—caution for him and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit, and recur
and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to to old stories: and he was not without agitation. It was not
have her own affections entangled again, and it would be in his calmness that she read his comparative difference.
incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there
She wished she might be able to keep him from an abso- was restlessness about him. Lively as he was, it seemed a
lute declaration. That would be so very painful a conclusion liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decided her
of their present acquaintance! and yet, she could not help belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an
rather anticipating something decisive. She felt as if the hour, and hurrying away to make other calls in Highbury.
spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, ‘He had seen a group of old acquaintance in the street as he
a something to alter her present composed and tranquil passed— he had not stopped, he would not stop for more
state. than a word—but he had the vanity to think they would
It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr. be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wished
Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming to stay longer at Hartfield, he must hurry off.’ She had no
some opinion of Frank Churchill’s feelings. The Enscombe doubt as to his being less in love—but neither his agitated

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spirits, nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; gaged, and much benefit expected from the change.
and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of
her returning power, and a discreet resolution of not trust- this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the
ing himself with her long. blessing of having two months before him of such near
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the course neighbourhood to many dear friends— for the house was
of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to come—but taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote
was always prevented. His aunt could not bear to have him with the greatest confidence of being often with them, al-
leave her. Such was his own account at Randall’s. If he were most as often as he could even wish.
quite sincere, if he really tried to come, it was to be inferred Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous
that Mrs. Churchill’s removal to London had been of no prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the
service to the wilful or nervous part of her disorder. That happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two months
she was really ill was very certain; he had declared himself must bring it to the proof.
convinced of it, at Randalls. Though much might be fancy, Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was
he could not doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could have
weaker state of health than she had been half a year ago. He wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in their
did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young man?—
medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over. The
have many years of existence before her; but he could not be difference in that respect of Richmond and London was
prevailed on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her com- enough to make the whole difference of seeing him always
plaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as and seeing him never. Sixteen miles—nay, eighteen—it
ever. must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—was a serious
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her. obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the day would be
She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under con- spent in coming and returning. There was no comfort in
tinual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end, her having him in London; he might as well be at Enscombe;
nephew’s letter to Randalls communicated a change of plan. but Richmond was the very distance for easy intercourse.
They were going to remove immediately to Richmond. Mrs. Better than nearer!
Churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty
an eminent person there, and had otherwise a fancy for the by this removal,— the ball at the Crown. It had not been
place. A ready-furnished house in a favourite spot was en- forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain

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to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely to
be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after Chapter II
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 No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The
name as early a day as possible. day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of
Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few to- some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the certain-
morrows stood between the young people of Highbury and ty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner, and every
happiness. thing was safe.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year light- No second meeting had there yet been between him and
ened the evil to him. May was better for every thing than Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;—but it
February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening at would be better than a common meeting in a crowd. Mr.
Hartfield, James had due notice, and he sanguinely hoped Weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties for her
that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would arriving there as soon as possible after themselves, for the
have any thing the matter with them, while dear Emma purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and com-
were gone. fort of the rooms before any other persons came, that she
could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some qui-
et interval in the young man’s company. She was to convey
Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the
Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and
though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant
to have a delightful evening. They all walked about together,
to see that every thing was as it should be; and within a few
minutes were joined by the contents of another carriage,
which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without
great surprize. ‘So unreasonably early!’ she was going to ex-
claim; but she presently found that it was a family of old

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friends, who were coming, like herself, by particular desire, Mrs. Elton was spoken of. ‘I think she must be here soon,’
to help Mr. Weston’s judgment; and they were so very close- said he. ‘I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have
ly followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think, before she
entreated to come early with the same distinguishing ear- comes.’
nestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately;
company might soon be collected together for the purpose but coming back, said,
of preparatory inspection. ‘I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to
on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the put myself forward.’
favourite and intimate of a man who had so many inti- Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the
mates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in proprieties passed.
the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a lit- ‘But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!’ said Mr. Weston, look-
tle less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher ing about. ‘We thought you were to bring them.’
character.—General benevolence, but not general friend- The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for
ship, made a man what he ought to be.— She could fancy them now. Emma longed to know what Frank’s first opinion
such a man. The whole party walked about, and looked, and of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by the studied
praised again; and then, having nothing else to do, formed a elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness. He
sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their various was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by
modes, till other subjects were started, that, though May, a giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had
fire in the evening was still very pleasant. passed.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody
number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had talked of rain.— ‘I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,’ said
stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to offer the use of their carriage, Frank to his father: ‘Miss Bates must not be forgotten:’ and
but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Eltons. away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs. Elton de-
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a tained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so
restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was look- briskly did she begin, that the young man himself, though
ing about, he was going to the door, he was watching for the by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hear-
sound of other carriages,— impatient to begin, or afraid of ing.
being always near her. ‘A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know

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I candidly told you I should form my own opinion; and I many minutes after her being admitted into the circle at the
am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with him.— fire. As the door opened she was heard,
You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him a very ‘So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to sig-
handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I nify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane
like and approve—so truly the gentleman, without the least declares— Well!—(as soon as she was within the door) Well!
conceit or puppyism. You must know I have a vast dislike to This is brilliant indeed!—This is admirable!—Excellent-
puppies— quite a horror of them. They were never tolerated ly contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could not
at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor me had ever any have imagined it.—So well lighted up!— Jane, Jane, look!—
patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very cut- did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really
ting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with have had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know
them much better.’ her own room again. I saw her as I came in; she was stand-
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was ing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs. Stokes,’ said I— but I had not
chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could recol- time for more.’ She was now met by Mrs. Weston.— ‘Very
lect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended to, well, I thank you, ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very
and with happy smiles must hurry away. happy to hear it. So afraid you might have a headach!— see-
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. ‘I have no doubt of ing you pass by so often, and knowing how much trouble
its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coach- you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs.
man and horses are so extremely expeditious!—I believe we Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!—excellent time.
drive faster than any body.— What a pleasure it is to send Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment.
one’s carriage for a friend!— I understand you were so kind Most comfortable carriage.— Oh! and I am sure our thanks
as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary. are due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had
You may be very sure I shall always take care of them.’ most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.— But
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gen- two such offers in one day!—Never were such neighbours.
tlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to I said to my mother, ‘Upon my word, ma’am—.’ Thank you,
think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s to receive them. my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I
Her gestures and movements might be understood by any made her take her shawl—for the evenings are not warm—
one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body’s her large new shawl— Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So
words, were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, kind of her to think of my mother! Bought at Weymouth,
who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under you know—Mr. Dixon’s choice. There were three others, Jane

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says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel Camp- be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this is
bell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you charming to be standing about among such friends! And
did not wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank
afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely— and you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please,
there was a mat to step upon—I shall never forget his ex- sir, by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every thing
treme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell you so good!’
my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since; the Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and
rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of your as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself neces-
good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often talk sarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and Miss
of Mr. Frank Churchill?— Ah! here’s Miss Woodhouse.— Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—He was
Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?— Very well I thank thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not
you, quite well. This is meeting quite in fairy-land!— Such determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her
a transformation!—Must not compliment, I know (eyeing dress and look, compliments very quietly and properly tak-
Emma most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon en, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented
my word, Miss Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like herself— and it was, ‘How do you like my gown?—How do
Jane’s hair?—You are a judge.— She did it all herself. Quite you like my trimming?— How has Wright done my hair?’—
wonderful how she does her hair!— No hairdresser from with many other relative questions, all answered with
London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare— and patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, ‘Nobody can think
Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for less of dress in general than I do—but upon such an occa-
a moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—Very well, sion as this, when every body’s eyes are so much upon me,
I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?—Where’s dear Mr. and in compliment to the Westons—who I have no doubt
Richard?— Oh! there he is. Don’t disturb him. Much better are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour—I would not
employed talking to the young ladies. How do you do, Mr. wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the
Richard?—I saw you the other day as you rode through the room except mine.— So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer,
town—Mrs. Otway, I protest!— and good Mr. Otway, and I understand.—We shall see if our styles suit.—A fine young
Miss Otway and Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!— man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well.’
and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that
do you all do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Nev- Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own
er better.— Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of

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the ladies were drowned for a while, till another suspension appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance with
brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly forward.—Mr. Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming, persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.— Mr.
‘Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclu- Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill
sion?— I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you would and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma must submit to
begin to be impatient for tidings of us.’ stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always consid-
‘Jane!’—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of sur- ered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to
prize and displeasure.— ‘That is easy—but Miss Fairfax make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly
does not disapprove it, I suppose.’ the advantage, at this time, in vanity completely gratified;
‘How do you like Mrs. Elton?’ said Emma in a whisper. for though she had intended to begin with Frank Churchill,
‘Not at all.’ she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston might be his
‘You are ungrateful.’ son’s superior.— In spite of this little rub, however, Emma
‘Ungrateful!—What do you mean?’ Then changing from was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respect-
a frown to a smile—‘No, do not tell me—I do not want to able length of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she
know what you mean.— Where is my father?—When are had so many hours of unusual festivity before her.— She
we to begin dancing?’ was more disturbed by Mr. Knightley’s not dancing than
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an by any thing else.—There he was, among the standers-by,
odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was quick- where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,—not
ly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He had met classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-
with them in a little perplexity, which must be laid before players, who were pretending to feel an interest in the dance
Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton till their rubbers were made up,—so young as he looked!—
must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; He could not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps
which interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm,
distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth with fortitude. upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoul-
‘And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?’ said ders of the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw
Mr. Weston. ‘She will think Frank ought to ask her.’ every body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former was not one among the whole row of young men who could
promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his be compared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer, and
father looked his most perfect approbation of—and it then those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike

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a manner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some,
would he but take the trouble.—Whenever she caught his and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his liberty,
eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was look- and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not omit be-
ing grave. She wished he could love a ballroom better, and ing sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or speaking to
could like Frank Churchill better.— He seemed often ob- those who were close to her.— Emma saw it. She was not
serving her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom,
her dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did and had therefore leisure to look around, and by only turn-
not feel afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between ing her head a little she saw it all. When she was half-way
her and her partner. They seemed more like cheerful, easy up the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she
friends, than lovers. That Frank Churchill thought less of would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was
her than he had done, was indubitable. so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the in- just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and
cessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. she perceived that his wife, who was standing immediately
Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a de- above her, was not only listening also, but even encourag-
lightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ing him by significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle
ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very beginning Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say, ‘Do not
of the existence of this. Of very important, very record- you dance, Mr. Elton?’ to which his prompt reply was, ‘Most
able events, it was not more productive than such meetings readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.’
usually are. There was one, however, which Emma thought ‘Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than my-
something of.—The two last dances before supper were be- self. I am no dancer.’
gun, and Harriet had no partner;—the only young lady ‘If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,’ said he, ‘I shall have
sitting down;— and so equal had been hitherto the num- great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel my-
ber of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged self rather an old married man, and that my dancing days
was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon after- are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any time to
wards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering about. He would not stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.’
ask Harriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided: she ‘Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young
was sure he would not—and she was expecting him every lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing—
moment to escape into the card-room. Miss Smith.’ ‘Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not observed.—You
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of are extremely obliging— and if I were not an old married

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man.—But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston. You will so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her;—
excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly to her
your command—but my dancing days are over.’ partner,
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine ‘Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—
with what surprize and mortification she must be return- Very goodnatured, I declare.’
ing to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable, obliging, Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates
gentle Mr. Elton.— She looked round for a moment; he had might be heard from that moment, without interruption,
joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging till her being seated at table and taking up her spoon.
himself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee ‘Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is your
passed between him and his wife. tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage, though ev-
she feared her face might be as hot. ery thing has been done—One door nailed up—Quantities
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr. of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill,
Knightley leading Harriet to the set!—Never had she been oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so grati-
more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that in- fied! Excellent dancing indeed!— Yes, my dear, I ran home,
stant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet as I said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back
and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though too again, and nobody missed me.—I set off without saying a
distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as word, just as I told you. Grandmama was quite well, had a
she could catch his eye again. charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat,
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, and backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and
extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost too baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck
lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things before, in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about
and for the very complete enjoyment and very high sense of you, how you were amused, and who were your partners.
the distinction which her happy features announced. It was ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not forestall Jane; I left her dancing with
not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever, flew Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you all about it her-
farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of self to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton, I do not
smiles. know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.’ My
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there nobody you would
(Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was quite not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon

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my word, Jane on one arm, and me on the other!—Stop, and I cannot help beginning.’
stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knight-
Elton, how elegant she looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all ley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom
follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come to her and
here we are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of Mr. Elton’s
two steps. Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and Mrs. El-
there were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were ton’s looks also received the due share of censure.
two, and there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to the ‘They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,’ said he.
comfort and style—Candles everywhere.—I was telling you ‘Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?’
of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a little disappoint- He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving
ment.— The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their no answer, added, ‘She ought not to be angry with you, I
way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweet- suspect, whatever he may be.—To that surmise, you say
bread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want
Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled him to marry Harriet.’
enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grand- ‘I did,’ replied Emma, ‘and they cannot forgive me.’
mama loves better than sweetbread and asparagus— so she He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence
was rather disappointed, but we agreed we would not speak with it, and he only said,
of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear Miss ‘I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflec-
Woodhouse, who would be so very much concerned!—Well, tions.’
this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have sup- ‘Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain
posed any thing!—Such elegance and profusion!—I have spirit ever tell me I am wrong?’
seen nothing like it since— Well, where shall we sit? where ‘Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one
shall we sit? Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.’
Where I sit is of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend ‘I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in
this side?—Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill— only it seems Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you discov-
too good—but just as you please. What you direct in this ered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his
house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever rec- being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange
ollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! blunders!’
I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent, ‘And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will

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do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for
him better than he has chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith Chapter III
has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally
without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl— in-
finitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such
a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma
than I expected.’ considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollec-
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were interrupted tions of the ball, which she walked about the lawn the next
by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin morning to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that they had
dancing again. come to so good an understanding respecting the Eltons,
‘Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what and that their opinions of both husband and wife were so
are you all doing?— Come Emma, set your companions the much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in
example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!’ her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The impertinence of
‘I am ready,’ said Emma, ‘whenever I am wanted.’ the Eltons, which for a few minutes had threatened to ruin
‘Whom are you going to dance with?’ asked Mr. Knight- the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of
ley. its highest satisfactions; and she looked forward to anoth-
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘With you, if er happy result—the cure of Harriet’s infatuation.— From
you will ask me.’ Harriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before
‘Will you?’ said he, offering his hand. they quitted the ballroom, she had strong hopes. It seemed
‘Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled
you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to to see that Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had
make it at all improper.’ believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could harbour
‘Brother and sister! no, indeed.’ 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

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told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stop- had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on
ping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the middle of a broader patch of greensward by the side, a party of gipsies.
the day. She did not regret it. A child on the watch, came towards them to beg; and Miss
Having arranged all these matters, looked them through, Bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and
and put them all to rights, she was just turning to the house calling on Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared
with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two lit- a slight hedge at the top, and made the best of her way by a
tle boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron short cut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not fol-
sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered whom she had low. She had suffered very much from cramp after dancing,
never less expected to see together—Frank Churchill, with and her first attempt to mount the bank brought on such a
Harriet leaning on his arm—actually Harriet!—A moment return of it as made her absolutely powerless— and in this
sufficed to convince her that something extraordinary had state, and exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to re-
happened. Harriet looked white and frightened, and he was main.
trying to cheer her.— The iron gates and the front-door How the trampers might have behaved, had the young
were not twenty yards asunder;— they were all three soon ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such
in the hall, and Harriet immediately sinking into a chair an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harri-
fainted away. et was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and imper-
must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events tinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—More and
are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last more frightened, she immediately promised them money,
long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the and taking out her purse, gave them a shilling, and begged
whole. them not to want more, or to use her ill.—She was then able
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour board- to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away—but her
er at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball, had terror and her purse were too tempting, and she was fol-
walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond road, lowed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding
which, though apparently public enough for safety, had led more.
them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond Highbury, In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trem-
making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each bling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a most
side, it became for a considerable stretch very retired; and fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been delayed so
when the young ladies had advanced some way into it, they as to bring him to her assistance at this critical moment.

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The pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstanc-
forward, and leave his horses to meet him by another road, es had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to
a mile or two beyond Highbury— and happening to have each other?—How much more must an imaginist, like her-
borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of Miss Bates, self, be on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially
and to have forgotten to restore them, he had been obliged with such a groundwork of anticipation as her mind had
to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes: he was already made.
therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort
unseen by the whole party till almost close to them. The ter- had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place,
ror which the woman and boy had been creating in Harriet within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—
was then their own portion. He had left them completely and now it had happened to the very person, and at the very
frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by
able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield, to rescue her!—It certainly was very extraordinary!—And
before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind of each
bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place. at this period, it struck her the more. He was wishing to get
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his commu- the better of his attachment to herself, she just recovering
nication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her from her mania for Mr. Elton. It seemed as if every thing
senses and speech.— He dared not stay longer than to see united to promise the most interesting consequences. It was
her well; these several delays left him not another minute to not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly rec-
lose; and Emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to ommending each to the other.
Mrs. Goddard, and notice of there being such a set of people In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet had
in the neighbourhood to Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible, he
the grateful blessings that she could utter for her friend and had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she
herself. seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had
young woman thrown together in such a way, could hardly been given, he had expressed his indignation at the abomi-
fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and the nable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every
steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least. Could a linguist, thing was to take its natural course, however, neither im-
could a grammarian, could even a mathematician have seen pelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step, nor drop a
what she did, have witnessed their appearance together, and hint. No, she had had enough of interference. There could

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be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. It was no of little importance but to Emma and her nephews:—in her
more than a wish. Beyond it she would on no account pro- imagination it maintained its ground, and Henry and John
ceed. were still asking every day for the story of Harriet and the
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in
knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and the slightest particular from the original recital.
alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that concealment
must be impossible. Within half an hour it was known all
over Highbury. It was the very event to engage those who
talk most, the young and the low; and all the youth and ser-
vants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightful
news. The last night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. Poor
Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he sat, and, as Emma had
foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promis-
ing 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 in-
quired 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 High-
bury might have walked again in safety before their panic
began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter

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Chapter IV him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither ad-
mire 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
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when no evil.—No, let them be ever so happy together, it will not
Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel give me another moment’s pang: and to convince you that I
in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus be- have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what
gan: I ought to have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to
‘Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have some- have kept— I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).—
thing that I should like to tell you—a sort of confession to However, now I will destroy it all—and it is my particular
make—and then, you know, it will be over.’ wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel holds?’ said
speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which she, with a conscious look.
prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something ‘Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any
more than ordinary. thing?’
‘It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,’ she continued, ‘No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I
‘to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am hap- have valued very much.’
pily quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the
you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want words Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity was
to say more than is necessary—I am too much ashamed of greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked
having given way as I have done, and I dare say you under- on with impatience. Within abundance of silver paper was
stand me.’ a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which Harriet opened:
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘I hope I do.’ it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the
‘How I could so long a time be fancying myself! …’ cried cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
Harriet, warmly. ‘It seems like madness! I can see nothing ‘Now,’ said Harriet, ‘you must recollect.’
at all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care whether I ‘No, indeed I do not.’
meet him or not—except that of the two I had rather not see ‘Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could
him— and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister,

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one of the very last times we ever met in it!—It was but a plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
very few days before I had my sore throat—just before Mr. never was equal to this.’
and Mrs. John Knightley came— I think the very evening.— ‘Here,’ resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, ‘here
Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new is something still more valuable, I mean that has been more
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?— But, as valuable, because this is what did really once belong to him,
you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me which the court-plaister never did.’
to supply him; and so I took mine out and cut him a piece; Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It
but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and was the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it ‘This was really his,’ said Harriet.—‘Do not you re-
back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help member one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But one
making a treasure of it— so I put it by never to be used, and morning—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it was the
looked at it now and then as a great treat.’ Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to
‘My dearest Harriet!’ cried Emma, putting her hand be- make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about
fore her face, and jumping up, ‘you make me more ashamed spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something
of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I remember it about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down;
all now; all, except your saving this relic—I knew nothing but when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that
of that till this moment—but the cutting the finger, and my he soon cut it all away, and it would not do, so you lent him
recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none about another, and this was left upon the table as good for noth-
me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—And I had plenty all the while ing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I dared, caught it
in my pocket!—One of my senseless tricks!—I deserve to up, and never parted with it again from that moment.’
be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.—Well— ‘I do remember it,’ cried Emma; ‘I perfectly remember
(sitting down again)— go on—what else?’ it.— Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr. Knightley
‘And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s seeming re-
never suspected it, you did it so naturally.’ solved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it.—Stop;
‘And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was not he? I have an
his sake!’ said Emma, recovering from her state of shame idea he was standing just here.’
and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And ‘Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd, but
secretly she added to herself, ‘Lord bless me! when should I I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember,
ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court- much about where I am now.’—

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 ‘Well, go on.’ she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, ‘I shall never
‘Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to marry.’
say— except that I am now going to throw them both be- Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was;
hind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.’ and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should pass
‘My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found hap- unnoticed or not, replied,
piness in treasuring up these things?’ ‘Never marry!—This is a new resolution.’
‘Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it ‘It is one that I shall never change, however.’
now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. After another short hesitation, ‘I hope it does not pro-
It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remem- ceed from— I hope it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?’
brances, after he was married. I knew it was—but had not ‘Mr. Elton indeed!’ cried Harriet indignantly.—‘Oh!
resolution enough to part with them.’ no’—and Emma could just catch the words, ‘so superior to
‘But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—I Mr. Elton!’
have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court- She then took a longer time for consideration. Should
plaister might be useful.’ she proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem
‘I shall be happier to burn it,’ replied Harriet. ‘It has a dis- to suspect nothing?— Perhaps Harriet might think her cold
agreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.— There or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally silent, it
it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton.’ might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much;
‘And when,’ thought Emma, ‘will there be a beginning of and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been,
Mr. Churchill?’ such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances,
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the be- she was perfectly resolved.— She believed it would be wiser
ginning was already made, and could not but hope that the for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and
gipsy, though she had told no fortune, might be proved to know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously de-
have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after the alarm, termined how far she would proceed, on any application of
they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesign- the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judi-
edly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which cious law of her own brain laid down with speed.— She was
made the information she received more valuable. She decided, and thus spoke—
merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, ‘Well, Har- ‘Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning.
riet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marry-
so’—and thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence ing, results from an idea that the person whom you might

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prefer, would be too greatly your superior in situation to rior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles
think of you. Is not it so?’ of a very serious nature; but yet, Harriet, more wonderful
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the pre- things have taken place, there have been matches of greater
sumption to suppose— Indeed I am not so mad.—But it is a disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you
pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to think of too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your
his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the raising your thoughts to him, is a mark of good taste which
gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so proper, in I shall always know how to value.’
me especially.’ Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive
‘I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an at-
rendered you was enough to warm your heart.’ tachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would
‘Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!— The be to raise and refine her mind— and it must be saving her
very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time— when from the danger of degradation.
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. Con-
sider 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 supe-

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Chapter V 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
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance, June family, and Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look, more
opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the admirer
no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a vis- of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. When
it from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their he was again in their company, he could not help remem-
barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grand- bering what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations
mother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight,
was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, ‘Myself creating what I saw,’
fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a
longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton’s something of private liking, of private understanding even,
activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried between Frank Churchill and Jane.
into a delightful situation against her will. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to him- did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harri-
self, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, et were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning,
was only growing to dislike him more. He began to sus- they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged
pect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threat-
That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Every ened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates
thing declared it; his own attentions, his father’s hints, his and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united;
mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words, and, on reaching Hartfield gates, Emma, who knew it was
conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her fa-
But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma ther, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The
herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began Randalls party agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty
to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fair- long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to,
fax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s
of intelligence between them—he thought so at least— most obliging invitation.

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 As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course
by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse. it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer. I dream of
‘By the bye,’ said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston pres- every body at Highbury when I am away— and when I have
ently, ‘what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up his gone through my particular friends, then I begin dreaming
carriage?’ of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.’
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, ‘I did not know ‘It is odd though,’ observed his father, ‘that you should
that he ever had any such plan.’ have had such a regular connected dream about people
‘Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at
months ago.’ Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and his wife’s
‘Me! impossible!’ persuading him to it, out of care for his health— just what
‘Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a
it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs
somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was ow- through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities
ing to her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that High-
weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember bury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you
it now?’ are a great dreamer, I think?’
‘Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.’ Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her
‘Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—Then guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was
I must have dreamt it—but I was completely persuaded— beyond the reach of Mr. Weston’s hint.
Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be ‘Why, to own the truth,’ cried Miss Bates, who had been
sorry to find yourself at home.’ trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, ‘if I must
‘What is this?—What is this?’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘about speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr. Frank
Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not
Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in
had you?’ the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must acknowl-
‘No, sir,’ replied his son, laughing, ‘I seem to have had it edge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry
from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of Mrs. herself mentioned it to my mother, and the Coles knew of
Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to En- it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to
scombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—but as nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs.

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Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and looked at neither.
came to my mother in great spirits one morning because There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The
she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don’t you remember dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take
grandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? I forget his seat with the rest round the large modern circular ta-
where we had been walking to— very likely to Randalls; ble which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which
yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always par- none but Emma could have had power to place there and
ticularly fond of my mother—indeed I do not know who is persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized Pem-
not—and she had mentioned it to her in confidence; she had broke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years
no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed
beyond: and, from that day to this, I never mentioned it to in a hurry to move.
a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively ‘Miss Woodhouse,’ said Frank Churchill, after exam-
answer for my having never dropt a hint, because I know ining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat,
I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a ‘have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their box
talker, you know; I am rather a talker; and now and then I of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort
have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as
Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the winter than summer. We had great amusement with those
least thing in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again.’
Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.— Extraordinary Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the
dream, indeed!’ box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets,
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their
preceded Miss Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank two selves. They were rapidly forming words for each other,
Churchill’s face, where he thought he saw confusion sup- or for any body else who would be puzzled. The quietness of
pressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse,
hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her who had often been distressed by the more animated sort,
shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who
waited at the door to let her pass. Mr. Knightley suspect- now sat happily occupied in lamenting, with tender mel-
ed in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her ancholy, over the departure of the ‘poor little boys,’ or in
eye— he seemed watching her intently—in vain, however, fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him,
if it were so— Jane passed between them into the hall, and how beautifully Emma had written it.

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 Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance towards Jane,
gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to ‘I will give it to her—shall I?’—and as clearly heard Emma
it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them—and opposing it with eager laughing warmth. ‘No, no, you must
Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his not; you shall not, indeed.’
object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent ob- It was done however. This gallant young man, who
servation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself
pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the without complaisance, directly handed over the word to
others, and buried from sight, she should have looked on Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility
the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed; entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s excessive curios-
and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out ity to know what this word might be, made him seize every
none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She was sitting possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was
by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was not long before he saw it to be Dixon. Jane Fairfax’s per-
blunder; and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was ception seemed to accompany his; her comprehension was
a blush on Jane’s cheek which gave it a meaning not other- certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superior
wise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream; intelligence, of those five letters so arranged. She was ev-
but how it could all be, was beyond his comprehension. idently displeased; looked up, and seeing herself watched,
How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and
been so lain asleep! He feared there must be some decided saying only, ‘I did not know that proper names were al-
involvement. Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed lowed,’ pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit,
to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that
for gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to con- could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had
ceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill’s part. made the attack, and turned towards her aunt.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him; ‘Aye, very true, my dear,’ cried the latter, though Jane had
with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blind- not spoken a word—‘I was just going to say the same thing.
ed companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is closing in,
and given to her with a look sly and demure. He saw that and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are
Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly entertain- too obliging. We really must wish you good night.’
ing, though it was something which she judged it proper to Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her
appear to censure; for she said, ‘Nonsense! for shame!’ He aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and want-

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ing to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she mind. Interference— fruitless interference. Emma’s confu-
could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw an- sion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to declare her
other collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to
resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was after- risk any thing that might be involved in an unwelcome in-
wards looking for her shawl—Frank Churchill was looking terference, rather than her welfare; to encounter any thing,
also—it was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion; rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.
and how they parted, Mr. Knightley could not tell. ‘My dear Emma,’ said he at last, with earnest kindness,
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts ‘do you think you perfectly understand the degree of ac-
full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles came quaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been
to assist his observations, he must—yes, he certainly must, speaking of?’
as a friend— an anxious friend—give Emma some hint, ask ‘Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh!
her some question. He could not see her in a situation of yes, perfectly.— Why do you make a doubt of it?’
such danger, without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. ‘Have you never at any time had reason to think that he
‘Pray, Emma,’ said he, ‘may I ask in what lay the great admired her, or that she admired him?’
amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you ‘Never, never!’ she cried with a most open eagerness—
and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know ‘Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an
how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into your
distressing to the other.’ head?’
Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure ‘I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attach-
to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions ment between them— certain expressive looks, which I did
were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of hav- not believe meant to be public.’
ing ever imparted them. ‘Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find
‘Oh!’ she cried in evident embarrassment, ‘it all meant that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—
nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.’ but it will not do— very sorry to check you in your first
‘The joke,’ he replied gravely, ‘seemed confined to you essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration be-
and Mr. Churchill.’ tween them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circum-
She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak. stances—feelings rather of a totally different nature— it
He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his is impossible exactly to explain:—there is a good deal of

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nonsense in it—but the part which is capable of being com-
municated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any Chapter VI
attachment or admiration for one another, as any two be-
ings 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.’ After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from
She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to
satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay endure the mortification of hearing that they could not pos-
spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, want- sibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties
ing to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily
described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstance interchange of news, they must be again restricted to the
which highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet other topics with which for a while the Sucklings’ coming
hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill,
too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritat- whose health seemed every day to supply a different report,
ed into an absolute fever, by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse’s and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was
tender habits required almost every evening throughout to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the
the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked arrival of a child, as that of all her neighbours was by the
home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. 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 gen-
erally known: it had even given the idea of another. Emma
had never been to Box Hill; she wished to see what every

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body found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston large a party. A large party secures its own amusement. And
had agreed to chuse some fine morning and drive thither. she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave
Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted her out.’
to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it
elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and prepara- in private.
tion, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade of It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine; and
the Eltons and the Sucklings. Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and set-
This was so very well understood between them, that tle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a
Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little dis- lame carriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty.
pleasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the
proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured
her, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s re-
that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to sources were inadequate to such an attack.
be, if she had no objection. Now, as her objection was noth- ‘Is not this most vexations, Knightley?’ she cried.—‘And
ing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. such weather for exploring!—These delays and disappoint-
Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth ments are quite odious. What are we to do?—The year will
bringing forward again:—it could not be done without a re- wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time
proof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring par-
she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrange- ty from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.’
ment which she would have done a great deal to avoid; an ‘You had better explore to Donwell,’ replied Mr. Knight-
arrangement which would probably expose her even to the ley. ‘That may be done without horses. Come, and eat my
degradation of being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every strawberries. They are ripening fast.’
feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outward If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was obliged
submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight;
reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s and the ‘Oh! I should like it of all things,’ was not plainer
temper. in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its straw-
‘I am glad you approve of what I have done,’ said he very berry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no
comfortably. ‘But I thought you would. Such schemes as plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough
these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere.

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She promised him again and again to come—much often- Jane with me— Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you.
er than he doubted—and was extremely gratified by such a I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family.
proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she Don’t scruple. I know you are attached to them.’
chose to consider it. ‘You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I shall
‘You may depend upon me,’ said she. ‘I certainly will call on Miss Bates in my way home.’
come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow me to ‘That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as
bring Jane Fairfax?’ you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley;
‘I cannot name a day,’ said he, ‘till I have spoken to some quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet, and bring
others whom I would wish to meet you.’ one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here,—prob-
‘Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carte-blanche.—I ably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more
am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring simple, you see. And Jane will have such another. There is to
friends with me.’ be no form or parade—a sort of gipsy party. We are to walk
‘I hope you will bring Elton,’ said he: ‘but I will not trou- about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves,
ble you to give any other invitations.’ and sit under trees;—and whatever else you may like to pro-
‘Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you vide, it is to be all out of doors—a table spread in the shade,
need not be afraid of delegating power to me. I am no young you know. Every thing as natural and simple as possible. Is
lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be not that your idea?’
safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will in- ‘Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will be
vite your guests.’ to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and
‘No,’—he calmly replied,—‘there is but one married the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants
woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within
guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is—‘ doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the gar-
‘—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,’ interrupted Mrs. Elton, rath- den, there shall be cold meat in the house.’
er mortified. ‘Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out. And,
‘No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you
manage such matters myself.’ with our opinion?— Pray be sincere, Knightley. If you wish
‘Ah! you are an odd creature!’ she cried, satisfied to have me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect anything—‘
no one preferred to herself.—‘You are a humourist, and may ‘I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.’
say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I shall bring ‘Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my house-

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keeper is extremely clever.’ He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were to
‘I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clev- upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had
er, and would spurn any body’s assistance.’ not been at Donwell for two years. ‘Some very fine morn-
‘I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all to ing, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well; and he
come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my caro could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walked
sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchas- about the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp
ing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of now, in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old
necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many resources, it house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet
is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—and Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of his neighbours.—He
very long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and could not see any objection at all to his, and Emma’s, and
in winter there is dirt.’ Harriet’s going there some very fine morning. He thought it
‘You will not find either, between Donwell and High- very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them— very kind
bury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—He was not
dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can fond of dining out.’
borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing to be as much Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready
to your taste as possible.’ concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well received,
‘That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the
good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner, scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.—Emma
I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure
a thorough humourist.— Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am from it; and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank
fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of this over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and
scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me.’ gratitude which could have been dispensed with.— Mr.
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to
the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as well see him; and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing,
as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any and spare no arguments to induce him to come.
of them sitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that
make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration;
pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at and at last Donwell was settled for one day, and Box Hill for
Donwell, be tempted away to his misery. the next,—the weather appearing exactly right.

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 Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer, fortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—It was just what
Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with it ought to be, and it looked what it was—and Emma felt an
one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and increasing respect for it, as the residence of a family of such
in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, espe- true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.—
cially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was Some faults of temper John Knightley had; but Isabella had
happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them nei-
of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come ther men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush.
and sit down, and not to heat themselves.— Mrs. Weston, These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and in-
who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, dulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did,
and sit all the time with him, remained, when all the oth- and collect round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party
ers were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and were assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was ex-
sympathiser. pected every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her
as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, ac-
glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh cepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries,
and correct her memory with more particular observation, could now be thought or spoken of.—‘The best fruit in Eng-
more exact understanding of a house and grounds which land— every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These
must ever be so interesting to her and all her family. the finest beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her one’s self—the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning
alliance with the present and future proprietor could fair- decidedly the best time—never tired— every sort good—
ly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison— the others
the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situa- hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—
tion, low and sheltered— its ample gardens stretching down white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
to meadows washed by a stream, of which the Abbey, with London— abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cul-
all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight—and its tivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners thinking
abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither exactly different—no general rule— gardeners never to be
fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—The house was put out of their way—delicious fruit— only too rich to be
larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good eaten much of—inferior to cherries— currants more re-
deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many com- freshing—only objection to gathering strawberries the

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stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no she could bear.
longer— must go and sit in the shade.’ It was hot; and after walking some time over the gardens
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interrupted in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together,
only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in her solicitude they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade
after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come—and she of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretching beyond
was a little uneasy.— She had some fears of his horse. the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now Emma finish of the pleasure grounds.— It led to nothing; nothing
was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pil-
were talking of.— A situation, a most desirable situation, lars, which seemed intended, in their erection, to give the
was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that appearance of an approach to the house, which never had
morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of
it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity and splendour it such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the
fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, view which closed it extremely pretty.—The considerable
an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple slope, at nearly the foot of which the Abbey stood, gradu-
Grove. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, ally acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half
lines, ranks, every thing—and Mrs. Elton was wild to have a mile distant was a bank of considerable abruptness and
the offer closed with immediately.—On her side, all was grandeur, well clothed with wood;— and at the bottom of
warmth, energy, and triumph—and she positively refused this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the Abbey
to take her friend’s negative, though Miss Fairfax continued Mill Farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a
to assure her that she would not at present engage in any close and handsome curve around it.
thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heard It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. Eng-
to urge before.— Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being autho- lish verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a
rised to write an acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How sun bright, without being oppressive.
Jane could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.—She In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others
did look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with assembled; and towards this view she immediately perceived
a decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.— Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quiet-
‘Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew them ly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It was an
the gardens— all the gardens?—She wished to see the whole odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There had been
extent.’—The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than a time when he would have scorned her as a companion,

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and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill
in pleasant conversation. There had been a time also when that he was prevented coming.— Emma looked at Harriet
Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so fa- while the point was under consideration; she behaved very
vourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not. well, and betrayed no emotion.
It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosper- The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out
ity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old Ab-
blossom, and light column of smoke ascending.—She joined bey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which was
them at the wall, and found them more engaged in talking to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate, have the
than in looking around. He was giving Harriet information pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—Mr. Wood-
as to modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile house, who had already taken his little round in the highest
which seemed to say, ‘These are my own concerns. I have a part of the gardens, where no damps from the river were
right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his daughter
introducing Robert Martin.’—She did not suspect him. It resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be
was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased to persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety
think of Harriet.—They took a few turns together along the which her spirits seemed to need.
walk.—The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Wood-
the pleasantest part of the day. house’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family col-
and eat;— and they were all seated and busy, and still Frank lection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old
Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and looked in friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had
vain. His father would not own himself uneasy, and laughed perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly
at her fears; but she could not be cured of wishing that he well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing them all to
would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself him, and now he would shew them all to Emma;—fortunate
as to coming, with more than common certainty. ‘His aunt in having no other resemblance to a child, than in a total
was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and
to them.’—Mrs. Churchill’s state, however, as many were methodical.—Before this second looking over was begun,
ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few
might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable depen- moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot
dence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, of the house—and was hardly there, when Jane Fairfax ap-

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peared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a look Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied
of escape.— Little expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kind-
soon, there was a start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the ness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way,
very person she was in quest of. and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.’
‘Will you be so kind,’ said she, ‘when I am missed, as to Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all;
say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—My and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the
aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal
absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am deter- of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her parting
mined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to any words, ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being some-
body. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are times alone!’—seemed to burst from an overcharged heart,
gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. Till they all and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be
come in I shall not be missed; and when they do, will you practised by her, even towards some of those who loved her
have the goodness to say that I am gone?’ best.
‘Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk ‘Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!’ said Emma, as she
to Highbury alone?’ turned back into the hall again. ‘I do pity you. And the more
‘Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall
home in twenty minutes.’ like you.’
‘But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they
Let my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the car- had only accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place, Ven-
riage. It can be round in five minutes.’ ice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not
‘Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think of him—
rather walk.— And for me to be afraid of walking alone!—I, but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at
who may so soon have to guard others!’ ease. The black mare was blameless; they were right who had
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very feelingly named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained
replied, ‘That can be no reason for your being exposed to by a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure,
danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would which had lasted some hours—and he had quite given up
be danger.—You are fatigued already.’ every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known
‘I am,’—she answered—‘I am fatigued; but it is not the how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his
sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss hurry, he must be, he believed he should not have come at

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all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thing He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable
like it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed meal, and came back all the better—grown quite cool—and,
him like heat—he could bear any degree of cold, etc., but with good manners, like himself—able to draw a chair close
heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest pos- to them, take an interest in their employment; and regret,
sible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was not in
fire, looking very deplorable. his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them; and, at
‘You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,’ said Emma. last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were
‘As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could looking over views in Swisserland.
very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my ‘As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,’ said he.
coming! You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole ‘I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places.
party breaking up. I met one as I came—Madness in such You will have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—
weather!—absolute madness!’ or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do something to
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that expose myself.’
Frank Churchill’s state might be best defined by the ex- ‘That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You
pressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people were will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will never
always cross when they were hot. Such might be his consti- allow you to leave England.’
tution; and as she knew that eating and drinking were often ‘They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may be
the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation of
his taking some refreshment; he would find abundance of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong per-
every thing in the dining-room—and she humanely point- suasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I ought
ed out the door. to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I am
‘No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes
only make him hotter.’ In two minutes, however, he relented may fancy—I am sick of England— and would leave it to-
in his own favour; and muttering something about spruce- morrow, if I could.’
beer, walked off. Emma returned all her attention to her ‘You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you
father, saying in secret— invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to
‘I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should stay?’
not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morn- ‘I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite mis-
ing. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.’ taken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or

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indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material. I do not fax’s disappearance being explained. That it was time for
consider myself at all a fortunate person.’ every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short
‘You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they parted.
came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do Frank Churchill’s little inclination to exclude himself in-
very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught of creased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with the ‘Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.’
rest of us.’ She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a sum-
‘No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best mons from Richmond was to take him back before the
cure.’ following evening.
‘We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join us.
It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a young
man so much in want of a change. You will stay, and go
with us?’
‘No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the eve-
ning.’
‘But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morn-
ing.’
‘No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be
cross.’
‘Then pray stay at Richmond.’
‘But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to
think of you all there without me.’
‘These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself.
Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no
more.’
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were
soon collected. With some there was great joy at the sight of
Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but there
was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fair-

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Chapter VII At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never
seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing
worth hearing— looked without seeing—admired with-
out intelligence—listened without knowing what she said.
While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great
and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, mak-
Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hart- ing her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that
field and the Vicarage, and every body was in good time. could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agree-
Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece, able in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and Emma,
with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and
remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting but easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the
to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were travelled admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the
in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but
admiration on first arriving; but in the general amount of which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though
the day there was deficiency. There was a languor, a want in the judgment of most people looking on it must have
of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation
They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked could very well describe. ‘Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss
together; Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; Woodhouse flirted together excessively.’ They were laying
and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And themselves open to that very phrase—and to having it sent
Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise bet- off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by an-
ter. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never other. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any
materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than
unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; she had expected. She laughed because she was disappoint-
but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, ed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought
there seemed a principle of separation, between the other them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness,
parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold colla- extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart.
tion, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove. She still intended him for her friend.

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 ‘How much I am obliged to you,’ said he, ‘for telling me voice)— nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too
to come to-day!— If it had not been for you, I should cer- much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven
tainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite silent people.’
determined to go away again.’ ‘I say nothing of which I am ashamed,’ replied he, with
‘Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, lively impudence. ‘I saw you first in February. Let every
except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell
a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble. to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I saw
You begged hard to be commanded to come.’ you first in February.’ And then whispering— ‘Our com-
‘Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame panions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse
me.’ them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and
‘It is hotter to-day.’ gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wher-
‘Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.’ ever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what
‘You are comfortable because you are under command.’ you are all thinking of?’
‘Your command?—Yes.’ Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss
‘Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self- Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of
command. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was
yesterday, and run away from your own management; but the most distinct.
to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always ‘Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own what we are all thinking of?’
command rather than mine.’ ‘Oh! no, no’—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she
‘It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command could— ‘Upon no account in the world. It is the very last
without a motive. You order me, whether you speak or not. thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear any
And you can be always with me. You are always with me.’ thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say
‘Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual influ- quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing at Mr.
ence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not be afraid
much out of humour before.’ of knowing.’
‘Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I ‘It is a sort of thing,’ cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, ‘which
had seen you first in February.’ I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into.
‘Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering her Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the party— I never

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was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—mar- ner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it
ried women—‘ burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he mur- that it could pain her.
mured, in reply, ‘Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turn-
‘Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—quite ing to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I
unheard of— but some ladies say any thing. Better pass it off must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have
as a joke. Every body knows what is due to you.’ said such a thing to an old friend.’
‘It will not do,’ whispered Frank to Emma; ‘they are most ‘I like your plan,’ cried Mr. Weston. ‘Agreed, agreed. I
of them affronted. I will attack them with more address. La- will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a co-
dies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to nundrum reckon?’
say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you ‘Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,’ answered his son;—‘but
may all be thinking of, and only requires something very we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who leads the
entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are way.’
seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am ‘No, no,’ said Emma, ‘it will not reckon low. A co-
very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each nundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next
of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, origi- neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.’
nal or repeated—or two things moderately clever— or three ‘I doubt its being very clever myself,’ said Mr. Weston. ‘It
things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two letters
at them all.’ of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?’
‘Oh! very well,’ exclaimed Miss Bates, ‘then I need not ‘What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do
be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do not know.’
for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things ‘Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am certain,
as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking round will never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—Em-ma.—
with the most good-humoured dependence on every body’s Do you understand?’
assent)—Do not you all think I shall?’ Understanding and gratification came together. It
Emma could not resist. might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found
‘Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me— a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank
but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.’ and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the rest of the party
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her man- equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knight-

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ley gravely said, walked off. ‘Happy couple!’ said Frank Churchill, as soon
‘This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and as they were out of hearing:—‘How well they suit one
Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he must have another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an ac-
knocked up every body else. Perfection should not have quaintance formed only in a public place!—They only knew
come quite so soon.’ each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!—
‘Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,’ said Mrs. for as to any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that
Elton; ‘I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there
sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their
own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who own homes, among their own set, just as they always are,
it came from. An abominable puppy!— You know who I that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all
mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of things are guess and luck— and will generally be ill-luck. How many
very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and
but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is explor- rued it all the rest of his life!’
ing about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except
excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at among her own confederates, spoke now.
every body’s service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a ‘Such things do occur, undoubtedly.’—She was stopped
great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be al- by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen.
lowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. ‘You were speaking,’ said he, gravely. She recovered her
Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, voice.
Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say— not one ‘I was only going to observe, that though such unfortu-
of us. nate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and
‘Yes, yes, pray pass me,’ added her husband, with a sort of women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty
sneering consciousness; ‘I have nothing to say that can en- and imprudent attachment may arise— but there is general-
tertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old ly time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood
married man— quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Au- to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters,
gusta?’ (whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance,)
‘With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an in-
on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.’ convenience, an oppression for ever.’
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in sub-

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mission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only
‘Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch
that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my wife almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery
for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse a wife and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly
for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on by you. about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
You provide for the family, you know, (with a smile at his quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful
father). Find some body for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking
her, educate her.’ out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful
‘And make her like myself.’ sight; and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to de-
‘By all means, if you can.’ part, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage
‘Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive
a charming wife.’ home which was to close the very questionable enjoyments
‘She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of
nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed
when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember.’ into again.
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commis- While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Knightley
sion to touch every favourite feeling. Would not Harriet be by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were
the very creature described? Hazle eyes excepted, two years near, and then said,
more might make her all that he wished. He might even ‘Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been
have Harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, per-
Referring the education to her seemed to imply it. haps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong,
‘Now, ma’am,’ said Jane to her aunt, ‘shall we join Mrs. without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to
Elton?’ Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a
‘If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite woman of her character, age, and situation?— Emma, I had
ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just not thought it possible.’
as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no, that’s Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh
somebody else. That’s one of the ladies in the Irish car party, it off.
not at all like her.— Well, I declare—‘ ‘Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody could
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not

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understand me.’ satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful
‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do
has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she me greater justice than you can do now.’
talked of it— with what candour and generosity. I wish you While they talked, they were advancing towards the car-
could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being riage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had
able to pay her such attentions, as she was for ever receiving handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which
from yourself and your father, when her society must be so had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They
irksome.’ were combined only of anger against herself, mortification,
‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better creature and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on
in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome—
is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.’ then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making
‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge; and, were she no acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she
prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional preva- looked out with voice and hand eager to shew a difference;
lence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses
of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and
its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half
of manner. Were she your equal in situation— but, Emma, way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. She was
consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she vexed beyond what could have been expressed—almost be-
has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live yond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated,
to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was
secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there
whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have
grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have
have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
moment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of
too—and before others, many of whom (certainly some,) gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.—This is Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she
not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from pleasant seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so depressed.
to me; but I must, I will,—I will tell you truths while I can; Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Har-

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riet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very
willing to be silent; and Emma felt the tears running down Chapter VIII
her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any
trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were.

The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in Emma’s

thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered by the
rest of the party, she could not tell. They, in their different
homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it
with pleasure; but in her view it was a morning more com-
pletely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction
at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection, than
any she had ever passed. A whole evening of back-gammon
with her father, was felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real plea-
sure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the
twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as
might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding es-
teem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any
severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not with-
out a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, ‘How
could you be so unfeeling to your father?— I must, I will
tell you truths while I can.’ Miss Bates should never again—
no, never! If attention, in future, could do away the past,
she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss,
her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps, more in thought
than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it should be so no more.
In the warmth of true contrition, she would call upon her
the very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on
her side, of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse.

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 She was just as determined when the morrow came, and chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will
went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not un- be here presently.’
likely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s
way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were paying fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates
her visit. She had no objection. She would not be ashamed soon came—‘Very happy and obliged’—but Emma’s con-
of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and truly hers. science told her that there was not the same cheerful
Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very
him not. friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead
‘The ladies were all at home.’ She had never rejoiced at the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed im-
the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor mediate.
walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but ‘Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose
in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subse- you have heard— and are come to give us joy. This does not
quent ridicule. seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of mov- or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, af-
ing and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was ter having had her so long, and she has a dreadful headach
to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awk- just now, writing all the morning:— such long letters, you
ward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and know, to be written to Colonel Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon.
then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘you will blind yourself’— for tears were
both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a dis- in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot
tinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door wonder. It is a great change; and though she is amazingly
had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, ‘Well, my fortunate—such a situation, I suppose, as no young wom-
dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am an before ever met with on first going out—do not think
sure you are ill enough.’ us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such surprising good
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul!
if she did not quite understand what was going on. if you were to see what a headache she has. When one is in
‘I am afraid Jane is not very well,’ said she, ‘but I do not great pain, you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as
know; they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter will it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, no-
be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. body would think how delighted and happy she is to have
I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—Have you a secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming

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to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room— I the circumstances which she collected from Miss Bates to
want her to lie down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I shall be now actually determined on, might be as much for Miss
say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but, however, she is Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. ‘It must be a
not; she is walking about the room. But, now that she has severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be de-
written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. She will layed till Colonel Campbell’s return.’
be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, ‘So very kind! ‘ replied Miss Bates. ‘But you are always
but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at kind.’
the door—I was quite ashamed— but somehow there was There was no bearing such an ‘always;’ and to break
a little bustle—for it so happened that we had not heard through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct
the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know inquiry of—
any body was coming. ‘It is only Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘depend ‘Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?’
upon it. Nobody else would come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most supe-
‘it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be rior—to have the charge of her three little girls—delightful
now.’ But then Patty came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said children. Impossible that any situation could be more re-
I, ‘it is Miss Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’— plete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling’s
‘I can see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and would go own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs. Smallridge is
away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—and intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—
extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go, my lives only four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will be only
dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid down four miles from Maple Grove.’
upon the bed.’’ ‘Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had Miss Fairfax owes—‘
been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of ‘Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true
her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former un- friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let Jane
generous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the say, ‘No;’ for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the day be-
remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of fore yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when
the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very natu- Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accept-
rally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady friend, ing the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactly as
when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing
with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that till Colonel Campbell’s return, and nothing should induce

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her to enter into any engagement at present—and so she always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremely
told Mrs. Elton over and over again—and I am sure I had obliged to the kind friends who included me in it.’
no more idea that she would change her mind!—but that ‘Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it,
good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw far- had been making up her mind the whole day?’
ther than I did. It is not every body that would have stood ‘I dare say she had.’
out in such a kind way as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s ‘Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome
answer; but she positively declared she would not write any to her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will
such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait— have every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the
and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that character and manners of the family.’
Jane should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least ‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is
idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. Ex-
upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge’s sit- cept the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such another
uation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.—I nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all Mrs.
did not know a word of it till it was all settled.’ Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most delightful
‘You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?’ woman!—A style of living almost equal to Maple Grove—
‘Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was set- and as to the children, except the little Sucklings and little
tled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about with Mr. Bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere.
Knightley. ‘You must all spend your evening with us,’ said Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness!— It will
she—‘I positively must have you all come.’’ be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—And her sala-
‘Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?’ ry!— I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss
‘No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first; Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would
and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton hardly believe that so much could be given to a young per-
declared she would not let him off, he did not;—but my son like Jane.’
mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very agreeable ‘Ah! madam,’ cried Emma, ‘if other children are at all
evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Wood- like what I remember to have been myself, I should think
house, one must always find agreeable, though every body five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard named
seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party. Even plea- as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.’
sure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of ‘You are so noble in your ideas!’
them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall ‘And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?’

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 ‘Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr.
Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened be-
poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try to fore tea. It was after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.’
put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma’am, do not let Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how
us think about it any more.’ perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without
‘Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has en- particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she proceeded
gaged herself before their return?’ to give them all, it was of no consequence.
‘Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the sub-
a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declin- ject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge,
ing. I was so astonished when she first told me what she and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was, that a
had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the
same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was be- return of the party from Box Hill— which messenger, how-
fore tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because we ever, had been no more than was expected; and that Mr.
were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea, because Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon
I remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect, now I have the whole, a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only
it; something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next
was called out of the room before tea, old John Abdy’s son morning early; but that Mr. Frank Churchill having re-
wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I have a great re- solved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his
gard for him; he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off im-
years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden, and very mediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood
poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints— I must go out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driv-
and see him to-day; and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets ing very steady.
out at all. And poor John’s son came to talk to Mr. Elton There was nothing in all this either to astonish or inter-
about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself, est, and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united with
you know, being head man at the Crown, ostler, and every the subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast
thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the world, and
some help; and so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing, the other
what John ostler had been telling him, and then it came out nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s

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destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,
till roused by Miss Bates’s saying, Chapter IX
‘Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. What
is to become of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane was talk-
ing of it just now.— ‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You and I must
part. You will have no business here.—Let it stay, however,’ Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were
said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel Campbell comes not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those
back. I shall talk about it to him; he will settle for me; he who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived
will help me out of all my difficulties.’— And to this day, I during her absence, and were sitting with her father.—Mr.
do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly
daughter’s.’ graver than usual, said,
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and ‘I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no
the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair con- time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I
jectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself am going to London, to spend a few days with John and Isa-
to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repeti- bella. Have you any thing to send or say, besides the ‘love,’
tion of every thing that she could venture to say of the good which nobody carries?’
wishes which she really felt, took leave. ‘Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?’
‘Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little
time.’
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked unlike
himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that
they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if mean-
ing to go, but not going— her father began his inquiries.
‘Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And how
did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?—I
dare say they must have been very much obliged to you
for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss
Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so
attentive to them!’

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 Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and situation with Mr. Knightley.— Neither would she regret
with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke much, she that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew
looked at Mr. Knightley.— It seemed as if there were an in- how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have
stantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received happened at a better time—and to have had longer notice
the truth from her’s, and all that had passed of good in her of it, would have been pleasanter.—They parted thorough
feelings were at once caught and honoured.— He looked at friends, however; she could not be deceived as to the mean-
her with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified— and ing of his countenance, and his unfinished gallantry;—it
in another moment still more so, by a little movement of was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his
more than common friendliness on his part.—He took her good opinion.—He had been sitting with them half an hour,
hand;— whether she had not herself made the first motion, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier!
she could not say— she might, perhaps, have rather offered In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the
it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and
the point of carrying it to his lips— when, from some fancy going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she knew
or other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a would be all very bad; Emma communicated her news of
scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justi-
done, she could not perceive.—He would have judged better, fied; it supplied a very useful check,— interested, without
she thought, if he had not stopped.—The intention, however, disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fair-
was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in fax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully,
general so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpect-
she thought nothing became him more.— It was with him, ed blow.
of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.— She could not but ‘I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so
recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such per- comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and
fect amity.—He left them immediately afterwards— gone in agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what
a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her
which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first ob-
seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. ject, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with me.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new lady what
but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in
would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax’s one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been

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her home so long.’ Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, ‘Ah!
The following day brought news from Richmond to poor woman, who would have thought it!’ and resolved,
throw every thing else into the background. An express ar- that his mourning should be as handsome as possible; and
rived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill! his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hems
Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How
back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirty it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of
hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The
from any thing foreboded by her general state, had carried character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband—her
her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion—
no more. and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw
a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment
departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a rea- to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr.
sonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody;
Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by
she has nothing to do but to die; and when she stoops to his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the
be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clear- nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her good-
er of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least will in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its being
twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate already formed.
allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with
never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event ac- great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter
quitted her of all the fancifulness, and all the selfishness of hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to observe
imaginary complaints. such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrained
‘Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering from any allusion that might endanger its maintenance.
a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s death with mu-
continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a tual forbearance.
great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr. Churchill Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, com-
do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be dreadful in- municating all that was immediately important of their
deed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.’— Even Mr. state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be

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

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therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss
Bates’s, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrow-
her— but it would not do;—Miss Bates came to the carriage root was returned, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates,
door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in but ‘dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being sent
thinking an airing might be of the greatest service—and ev- back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover, she
ery thing that message could do was tried— but all in vain. insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any
Miss Bates was obliged to return without success; Jane was thing.’
quite unpersuadable; the mere proposal of going out seemed When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had
to make her worse.—Emma wished she could have seen her, been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance
and tried her own powers; but, almost before she could hint from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which
the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised she had, under the plea of being unequal to any exercise, so
her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. ‘Indeed, peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she
the truth was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any could have no doubt—putting every thing together— that
body—any body at all— Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was
denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs. sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which
Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would re- seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation
ally see nobody.’ of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of pow-
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons, the ers; and it mortified her that she was given so little credit
Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force themselves for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend:
anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference her- but she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions
self— she submitted, therefore, and only questioned Miss were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could
Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and diet, which she Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assist-
longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates ing Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he
was very unhappy, and very communicative; Jane would would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to re-
hardly eat any thing:— Mr. Perry recommended nourish- prove.
ing food; but every thing they could command (and never
had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper di-
rectly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot

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Chapter X take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the
house together and on their way at a quick pace for Ran-
dalls.
‘Now,’—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the
sweep gates,— ‘now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s de- happened.’
cease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who ‘No, no,’—he gravely replied.—‘Don’t ask me. I promised
‘could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better
speak with her.’— He met her at the parlour-door, and hard- than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out
ly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, too soon.’
sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father, ‘Break it to me,’ cried Emma, standing still with terror.—
‘Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?— ‘Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—Something has
Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I
see you.’ charge you tell me this moment what it is.’
‘Is she unwell?’ ‘No, indeed you are mistaken.’—
‘No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would have ‘Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how many
ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which
alone, and that you know—(nodding towards her father)— of them is it?— I charge you by all that is sacred, not to at-
Humph!—Can you come?’ tempt concealment.’
‘Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to ‘Upon my word, Emma.’—
refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the mat- ‘Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say upon
ter?— Is she really not ill?’ your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them?
‘Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You will Good Heavens!—What can be to be broke to me, that does
know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But not relate to one of that family?’
hush, hush!’ ‘Upon my honour,’ said he very seriously, ‘it does not. It
To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for is not in the smallest degree connected with any human be-
Emma. Something really important seemed announced by ing of the name of Knightley.’
his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would ‘I was wrong,’ he continued, ‘in talking of its being broke

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to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—‘Well,
does not concern you— it concerns only myself,—that is, my dear,’ said he, as they entered the room—‘I have brought
we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma, there is no her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you
occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say that it is not a together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you
disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.— want me.’— And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower
If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls.’ tone, before he quitted the room,—‘I have been as good as
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little my word. She has not the least idea.’
effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely em- Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so
ployed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the much perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and
probability of its being some money concern—something the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,
just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circum- ‘What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleas-
stances of the family,—something which the late event at ant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know directly
Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete sus-
Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—and poor Frank pense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue
cut off!— This, though very undesirable, would be no mat- longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, what-
ter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating ever it may be.’
curiosity. ‘Have you indeed no idea?’ said Mrs. Weston in a trem-
‘Who is that gentleman on horseback?’ said she, as they bling voice. ‘Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot you form
proceeded— speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping a guess as to what you are to hear?’
his secret, than with any other view. ‘So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do
‘I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—it is guess.’
not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way ‘You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you
to Windsor by this time.’ directly;’ (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against
‘Has your son been with you, then?’ looking up.) ‘He has been here this very morning, on a
‘Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never mind.’ most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,—to
much more guarded and demure, announce an attachment—‘
‘Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself,
we did.’ and then of Harriet.

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 ‘More than an attachment, indeed,’ resumed Mrs. Weston; me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some
‘an engagement— a positive engagement.—What will you part of his conduct we cannot excuse.’
say, Emma—what will any body say, when it is known that Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, ‘I will not
Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;—nay, that pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the relief
they have been long engaged!’ in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck, attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.’
exclaimed, Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s
‘Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You do countenance was as steady as her words.
not mean it?’ ‘That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast,
‘You may well be amazed,’ returned Mrs. Weston, still of my present perfect indifference,’ she continued, ‘I will far-
averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma ther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our
might have time to recover— ‘You may well be amazed. But acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much
it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and
them ever since October—formed at Weymouth, and kept a how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately,
secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but them- however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for
selves—neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.— It at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You
is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth.’
it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.— Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she
I thought I knew him.’ could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was di- done her more good than any thing else in the world could
vided between two ideas—her own former conversations do.
with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;—and for ‘Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,’
some time she could only exclaim, and require confirma- said she. ‘On this point we have been wretched. It was our
tion, repeated confirmation. darling wish that you might be attached to each other—and
‘Well,’ said she at last, trying to recover herself; ‘this is a we were persuaded that it was so.— Imagine what we have
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, be- been feeling on your account.’
fore I can at all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her all ‘I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a mat-
the winter— before either of them came to Highbury?’ ter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not
‘Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has hurt acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him

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greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and
affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very dis- littleness, which a man should display in every transaction
engaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he of his life.’
certainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with ‘Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though
persevering attention, as he certainly did—while he really he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him long
belonged to another?—How could he tell what mischief he enough to answer for his having many, very many, good
might be doing?— How could he tell that he might not be qualities; and—‘
making me in love with him?— very wrong, very wrong in- ‘Good God!’ cried Emma, not attending to her.—‘Mrs.
deed.’ Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as gov-
‘From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather erness! What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? To
imagine—‘ suffer her to engage herself— to suffer her even to think of
‘And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure such a measure!’
with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were ‘He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can
offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not
it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither com- communicated to him—or at least not communicated in a
prehend nor respect.’ way to carry conviction.— Till yesterday, I know he said he
‘There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not
he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much know how, but by some letter or message— and it was the
explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers,
a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even which determined him to come forward at once, own it all
of the time he could stay— but that there had been misun- to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short,
derstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunder- been carrying on so long.’
standings might very possibly arise from the impropriety Emma began to listen better.
of his conduct.’ ‘I am to hear from him soon,’ continued Mrs. Weston.
‘Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a censure. ‘He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he
Much, much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk him, I can- spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many par-
not say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a ticulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore,
man should be!— None of that upright integrity, that strict for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make

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many things intelligible and excusable which now are not appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever
to be understood. Don’t let us be severe, don’t let us be in seen him before.—In addition to all the rest, there had been
a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had
him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one mate- no previous suspicion of— and there was every appearance
rial point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, of his having been feeling a great deal.’
and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered ‘And do you really believe the affair to have been car-
a great deal under such a system of secresy and conceal- rying on with such perfect secresy?—The Campbells, the
ment.’ Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?’
‘His sufferings,’ replied Emma dryly, ‘do not appear to Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a lit-
have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill tle blush.
take it?’ ‘None; not one. He positively said that it had been known
‘Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with to no being in the world but their two selves.’
scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week ‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I suppose we shall gradually grow
have done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I
I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding.
possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest in the What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—
family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly espionage, and treachery?— To come among us with
opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in
it is, when undue influence does not survive the grave!— He secret to judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole winter
gave his consent with very little persuasion.’ and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an
‘Ah!’ thought Emma, ‘he would have done as much for equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the
Harriet.’ midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing
‘This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were
light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s, never meant for both to hear.—They must take the conse-
I fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was in quence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not
such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just perfectly agreeable!’
now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could ‘I am quite easy on that head,’ replied Mrs. Weston. ‘I am
stay with us but a quarter of an hour.— He was very much very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other,
agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him which both might not have heard.’

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 ‘You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to my ‘A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my
ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my cu-
the lady.’ riosity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really
‘True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opin- frightened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at
ion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence,
spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I congratulate
have been safe.’ you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of hav-
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance ing one of the most lovely and accomplished young women
from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave in England for your daughter.’
him a look which invited him in; and, while he was com- A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced
ing round, added, ‘Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its
to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice
and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and
the best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a man-
said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. ner to prove, that he now only wanted time and persuasion
Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions
a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, suggested only what could palliate imprudence, or smooth
that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadi- objections; and by the time they had talked it all over to-
ness of character and good judgment as I have always given gether, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in
her credit for— and still am disposed to give her credit for, their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly rec-
in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of onciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that
right. And how much may be said in her situation for even Frank could possibly have done.
that error!’
‘Much, indeed!’ cried Emma feelingly. ‘If a woman can
ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situa-
tion like Jane Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost say, that
‘the world is not their’s, nor the world’s law.’’
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling
countenance, exclaiming,

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Chapter XI Common sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that
she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there
were five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for
her.—‘But, with common sense,’ she added, ‘I am afraid I
have had little to do.’
‘Harriet, poor Harriet!’—Those were the words; in them She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not
lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get rid of, have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have
and which constituted the real misery of the business to her. been dreadful.— As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least
Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by herself—very ill in relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her ac-
many ways,—but it was not so much his behaviour as her count. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no
own, which made her so angry with him. It was the scrape longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose
which he had drawn her into on Harriet’s account, that gave ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equal-
the deepest hue to his offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a sec- ly under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil were
ond time the dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and prosper-
Knightley had spoken prophetically, when he once said, ous.— Emma could now imagine why her own attentions
‘Emma, you have been no friend to Harriet Smith.’—She had been slighted. This discovery laid many smaller matters
was afraid she had done her nothing but disservice.—It was open. No doubt it had been from jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes
true that she had not to charge herself, in this instance as in she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could
the former, with being the sole and original author of the offer of assistance or regard be repulsed. An airing in the
mischief; with having suggested such feelings as might oth- Hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowroot
erwise never have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet from the Hartfield storeroom must have been poison. She
had acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank understood it all; and as far as her mind could disengage it-
Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; self from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she
but she felt completely guilty of having encouraged what she acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither eleva-
might have repressed. She might have prevented the indul- tion nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was
gence and increase of such sentiments. Her influence would such an engrossing charge! There was little sympathy to be
have been enough. And now she was very conscious that she spared for any body else. Emma was sadly fearful that this
ought to have prevented them.—She felt that she had been second disappointment would be more severe than the first.
risking her friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. Considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought;

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and judging by its apparently stronger effect on Harriet’s told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I should
mind, producing reserve and self-command, it would.— not think of mentioning it to any body but you, but he said
She must communicate the painful truth, however, and as you knew it.’
soon as possible. An injunction of secresy had been among ‘What did Mr. Weston tell you?’—said Emma, still per-
Mr. Weston’s parting words. ‘For the present, the whole af- plexed.
fair was to be completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made ‘Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr.
a point of it, as a token of respect to the wife he had so very Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have been
recently lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than privately engaged to one another this long while. How very
due decorum.’— Emma had promised; but still Harriet odd!’
must be excepted. It was her superior duty. It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so ex-
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it tremely odd, that Emma did not know how to understand
almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same dis- it. Her character appeared absolutely changed. She seemed
tressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which to propose shewing no agitation, or disappointment, or pe-
Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intel- culiar concern in the discovery. Emma looked at her, quite
ligence, which had been so anxiously announced to her, unable to speak.
she was now to be anxiously announcing to another. Her ‘Had you any idea,’ cried Harriet, ‘of his being in love
heart beat quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and voice; so, with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she
she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when she was ap- spoke) who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody
proaching Randalls. Could the event of the disclosure bear else—‘
an equal resemblance!— But of that, unfortunately, there ‘Upon my word,’ said Emma, ‘I begin to doubt my having
could be no chance. any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, wheth-
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse!’ cried Harriet, coming eagerly er I imagined him attached to another woman at the very
into the room— ‘is not this the oddest news that ever was?’ time that I was—tacitly, if not openly— encouraging you
‘What news do you mean?’ replied Emma, unable to to give way to your own feelings?—I never had the slightest
guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed have suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank Churchill’s
received any hint. having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You may be very
‘About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so sure that if I had, I should have cautioned you accordingly.’
strange? Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me, ‘Me!’ cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. ‘Why
for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now. He should you caution me?—You do not think I care about Mr.

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Frank Churchill.’ should have considered it at first too great a presumption
‘I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the sub- almost, to dare to think of him. At first, if you had not told
ject,’ replied Emma, smiling; ‘but you do not mean to deny me that more wonderful things had happened; that there
that there was a time—and not very distant either—when had been matches of greater disparity (those were your very
you gave me reason to understand that you did care about words);— I should not have dared to give way to—I should
him?’ not have thought it possible—But if you, who had been al-
‘Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how could ways acquainted with him—‘
you so mistake me?’ turning away distressed. ‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—‘Let
‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—‘What us understand each other now, without the possibility of
do you mean?— Good Heaven! what do you mean?—Mis- farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?’
take you!—Am I to suppose then?—‘ ‘To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any body
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was lost; else— and so I thought you knew. When we talked about
and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet should him, it was as clear as possible.’
answer. ‘Not quite,’ returned Emma, with forced calmness, ‘for
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a differ-
face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing; ent person. I could almost assert that you had named Mr.
and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank Churchill
as Emma’s. had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was
‘I should not have thought it possible,’ she began, ‘that spoken of.’
you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!’
to name him— but considering how infinitely superior he is ‘My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of
to every body else, I should not have thought it possible that what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not wonder
I could be supposed to mean any other person. Mr. Frank at your attachment; that considering the service he had ren-
Churchill, indeed! I do not know who would ever look at dered you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it,
him in the company of the other. I hope I have a better taste expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that ser-
than to think of Mr. Frank Churchill, who is like nobody vice, and mentioning even what your sensations had been
by his side. And that you should have been so mistaken, in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impres-
is amazing!—I am sure, but for believing that you entirely sion of it is strong on my memory.’
approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment, I ‘Oh, dear,’ cried Harriet, ‘now I recollect what you mean;

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but I was thinking of something very different at the time. Woodhouse, you will not set yourself against it, and try to
It was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank Churchill that I put difficulties in the way. But you are too good for that, I
meant. No! (with some elevation) I was thinking of a much am sure.’
more precious circumstance— of Mr. Knightley’s coming Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma
and asking me to dance, when Mr. Elton would not stand turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily
up with me; and when there was no other partner in the said,
room. That was the kind action; that was the noble benevo- ‘Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your af-
lence and generosity; that was the service which made me fection?’
begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon ‘Yes,’ replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—‘I must
earth.’ say that I have.’
‘Good God!’ cried Emma, ‘this has been a most unfortu- Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat si-
nate— most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?’ lently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes. A
‘You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had un- few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with
derstood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off than her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to suspicion,
I should have been, if the other had been the person; and made rapid progress. She touched— she admitted—she ac-
now—it is possible—‘ knowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse
She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak. that Harriet should be in love with Mr. Knightley, than
‘I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,’ she resumed, ‘that with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil so dreadfully in-
you should feel a great difference between the two, as to me creased by Harriet’s having some hope of a return? It darted
or as to any body. You must think one five hundred mil- through her, with the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley
lion times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss must marry no one but herself!
Woodhouse, that supposing—that if— strange as it may ap- Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before
pear—. But you know they were your own words, that more her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness
wonderful things had happened, matches of greater dis- which had never blessed her before. How improperly had she
parity had taken place than between Mr. Frank Churchill been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how indelicate,
and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as how irrational, how unfeeling had been her conduct! What
this, may have occurred before— and if I should be so for- blindness, what madness, had led her on! It struck her with
tunate, beyond expression, as to— if Mr. Knightley should dreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name
really—if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss in the world. Some portion of respect for herself, however,

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in spite of all these demerits— some concern for her own with great outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Method-
appearance, and a strong sense of justice by Harriet—(there ical, or well arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be
would be no need of compassion to the girl who believed expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all
herself loved by Mr. Knightley—but justice required that the feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to
she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave sink her spirit— especially with the corroborating circum-
Emma the resolution to sit and endure farther with calm- stances, which her own memory brought in favour of Mr.
ness, with even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.
indeed, it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his behav-
should be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to iour ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma knew
forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily that he had, on that occasion, found her much superior to
formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the his expectation. From that evening, or at least from the time
person, whose counsels had never led her right.— Rousing of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of him, Har-
from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she riet had begun to be sensible of his talking to her much more
turned to Harriet again, and, in a more inviting accent, re- than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quite
newed the conversation; for as to the subject which had first a different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and
introduced it, the wonderful story of Jane Fairfax, that was sweetness!—Latterly she had been more and more aware of
quite sunk and lost.— Neither of them thought but of Mr. it. When they had been all walking together, he had so often
Knightley and themselves. come and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!—
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie, He seemed to want to be acquainted with her. Emma knew
was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encour- it to have been very much the case. She had often observed
aging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as Miss the change, to almost the same extent.— Harriet repeat-
Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the history ed expressions of approbation and praise from him— and
of her hopes with great, though trembling delight.—Emma’s Emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what
tremblings as she asked, and as she listened, were better she had known of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for
concealed than Harriet’s, but they were not less. Her voice being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest,
was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation generous, feelings.— She knew that he saw such recommen-
that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening dations in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than
evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s memory, many little
must create.— She listened with much inward suffering, but particulars of the notice she had received from him, a look,

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a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a compliment did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because ‘Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as
unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances that might swell you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be
to half an hour’s relation, and contained multiplied proofs alluding to Mr. Martin— he might have Mr. Martin’s inter-
to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her est in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.
who now heard them; but the two latest occurrences to be ‘Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr.
mentioned, the two of strongest promise to Harriet, were Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr. Mar-
not without some degree of witness from Emma herself.— tin, or to be suspected of it.’
The first, was his walking with her apart from the others, When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to
in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walk- her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not good
ing some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains ground for hope.
(as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to him- ‘I never should have presumed to think of it at first,’ said
self—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular she, ‘but for you. You told me to observe him carefully, and
way than he had ever done before, in a very particular way let his behaviour be the rule of mine—and so I have. But
indeed!—(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He now I seem to feel that I may deserve him; and that if he
seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful.’
engaged.— But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse) appeared The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many
likely to join them, he changed the subject, and began talk- bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on Em-
ing about farming:— The second, was his having sat talking ma’s side, to enable her to say on reply,
with her nearly half an hour before Emma came back from ‘Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knight-
her visit, the very last morning of his being at Hartfield— ley is the last man in the world, who would intentionally
though, when he first came in, he had said that he could give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more than he
not stay five minutes—and his having told her, during their really does.’
conversation, that though he must go to London, it was very Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a sentence
much against his inclination that he left home at all, which so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from raptures
was much more (as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged and fondness, which at that moment would have been
to her. The superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s footsteps. He
which this one article marked, gave her severe pain. was coming through the hall. Harriet was too much agitat-
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she ed to encounter him. ‘She could not compose herself— Mr.

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Woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;’—with the two—compared them, as they had always stood in her
most ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming known to
passed off through another door—and the moment she was her— and as they must at any time have been compared by
gone, this was the spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings: her, had it— oh! had it, by any blessed felicity, occurred to
‘Oh God! that I had never seen her!’ her, to institute the comparison.—She saw that there never
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly had been a time when she did not consider Mr. Knightley
enough for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the as infinitely the superior, or when his regard for her had
confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few not been infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuad-
hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and ev- ing herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had
ery surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—How been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own
to understand it all! How to understand the deceptions she heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for
had been thus practising on herself, and living under!—The Frank Churchill at all!
blunders, the blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
still, she walked about, she tried her own room, she tried This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question
the shrubbery—in every place, every posture, she perceived of inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in
that she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed reaching it.— She was most sorrowfully indignant; ashamed
on by others in a most mortifying degree; that she had been of every sensation but the one revealed to her—her affection
imposing on herself in a degree yet more mortifying; that for Mr. Knightley.— Every other part of her mind was dis-
she was wretched, and should probably find this day but the gusting.
beginning of wretchedness. With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, secret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance
was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure proposed to arrange every body’s destiny. She was proved
moment which her father’s claims on her allowed, and ev- to have been universally mistaken; and she had not quite
ery moment of involuntary absence of mind. done nothing—for she had done mischief. She had brought
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as every evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much feared, on Mr.
feeling declared him now to be? When had his influence, Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all connexions to
such influence begun?— When had he succeeded to that take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given
place in her affection, which Frank Churchill had once, for it a beginning; for his attachment, she must believe to be
a short period, occupied?—She looked back; she compared produced only by a consciousness of Harriet’s;—and even

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were this not the case, he would never have known Harriet to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could
at all but for her folly. dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actual-
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to ly assured of it!— But Harriet was less humble, had fewer
distance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of scruples than formerly.— Her inferiority, whether of mind
Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, or situation, seemed little felt.— She had seemed more sen-
threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, sible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her, than
presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or she now seemed of Mr. Knightley’s.— Alas! was not that
thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an ele- her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give Harriet
vation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who but herself
to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opin- had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,
ion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would and that her claims were great to a high worldly establish-
prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his ment?— If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it
brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.—Could it was her doing too.
be?—No; it was impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from
impossible.—Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-
rate abilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was
it new for one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of
a girl who would seek him?—Was it new for any thing in
this world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for
chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the
human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she left
her where she ought, and where he had told her she ought!—
Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could express,
prevented her marrying the unexceptionable young man
who would have made her happy and respectable in the line
of life to which she ought to belong— all would have been
safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption

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

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es for it were.—She should see them henceforward with the gone through his share of this essential attention most
closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto mis- handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to
understood even those she was watching, she did not know join her in an airing, was now returned with much more to
how to admit that she could be blinded here.— He was ex- say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter
pected back every day. The power of observation would be of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all the encum-
soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts brance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
were in one course. In the meanwhile, she resolved against A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of it
seeing Harriet.— It would do neither of them good, it would while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay the
do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first place
resolved not to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed merely
and yet had no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremo-
To talk would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, there- nious call till a little time had passed, and Mr. Churchill
fore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at could be reconciled to the engagement’s becoming known;
present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her con- as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could
viction, that all farther confidential discussion of one topic not be paid without leading to reports:— but Mr. Weston
had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were had thought differently; he was extremely anxious to shew
allowed to pass before they met again, except in the com- his approbation to Miss Fairfax and her family, and did not
pany of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—they conceive that any suspicion could be excited by it; or if it
might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversa- were, that it would be of any consequence; for ‘such things,’
tion of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and approved, and he observed, ‘always got about.’ Emma smiled, and felt that
was grateful. Mr. Weston had very good reason for saying so. They had
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to gone, in short—and very great had been the evident distress
tear Emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which and confusion of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak
had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twenty- a word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply
four hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her she was suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way home, satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to herself, to daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had
relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview. been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They were
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterest-

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ed in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much disposed to blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said she, ‘has
of every body, and so little of themselves, that every kindly been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought.
feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s recent illness But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it
had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to invite her to an is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can
airing; she had drawn back and declined at first, but, on be- be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense
ing pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken,
Mrs. Weston had, by gentle encouragement, overcome so and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience
much of her embarrassment, as to bring her to converse tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine, madam,’ she con-
on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly un- tinued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection
gracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought
expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you
herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may ap-
but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good pear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to
deal of the present and of the future state of the engage- Colonel Campbell.’’
ment. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation ‘Poor girl!’ said Emma again. ‘She loves him then exces-
must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within sively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only,
her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection
much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. must have overpowered her judgment.’
‘On the misery of what she had suffered, during the con- ‘Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to
cealment of so many months,’ continued Mrs. Weston, ‘she him.’
was energetic. This was one of her expressions. ‘I will not ‘I am afraid,’ returned Emma, sighing, ‘that I must often
say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not have contributed to make her unhappy.’
had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never ‘On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But
known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’— and the quiver- she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when
ing lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us
at my heart.’ hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma. ‘She thinks herself wrong, then, involved herself in,’ she said, ‘was that of making her un-
for having consented to a private engagement?’ reasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had
‘Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her cap-

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tious and irritable to a degree that must have been— that had to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon gone to Brunswick
been—hard for him to bear. ‘I did not make the allowances,’ Square or to Donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen; and
said she, ‘which I ought to have done, for his temper and when Mrs. Weston ended with, ‘We have not yet had the let-
spirits— his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, that playful- ter we are so anxious for, you know, but I hope it will soon
ness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, come,’ she was obliged to pause before she answered, and at
would, I am sure, have been as constantly bewitching to me, last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all rec-
as they were at first.’ She then began to speak of you, and of ollect what letter it was which they were so anxious for.
the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; ‘Are you well, my Emma?’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting
and with a blush which shewed me how it was all connected, question.
desired me, whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I ‘Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to
could not thank you too much—for every wish and every give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.’
endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with
never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.’ more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her
‘If I did not know her to be happy now,’ said Emma, esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice to-
seriously, ‘which, in spite of every little drawback from wards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought
her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envi-
these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an ac- ous feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the
count drawn up of the evil and the good I have done Miss cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s known wishes, in
Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be more paying that attention to Miss Fairfax, which was every way
lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind to bring her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her
me these interesting particulars. They shew her to the great- part towards intimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend
est advantage. I am sure she is very good— I hope she will there instead of in Harriet Smith; she must, in all proba-
be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be on his side, bility, have been spared from every pain which pressed on
for I think the merit will be all on hers.’ her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equal-
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs. ly marking one as an associate for her, to be received with
Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every respect; gratitude; and the other—what was she?—Supposing even
and, what was more, she loved him very much, and her de- that they had never become intimate friends; that she had
fence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of never been admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this
reason, and at least equal affection— but she had too much important matter— which was most probable—still, in

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knowing her as she ought, and as she might, she must have she had then drawn of the privations of the approach-
been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an im- ing winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted
proper attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebod-
so foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so ings she feared would experience no similar contradiction.
unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared The prospect before her now, was threatening to a degree
had been made a subject of material distress to the delica- that could not be entirely dispelled— that might not be even
cy of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank partially brightened. If all took place that might take place
Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the for- among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must be compar-
mer, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded that atively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the
she must herself have been the worst. She must have been a spirits only of ruined happiness.
perpetual enemy. They never could have been all three to- The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there even
gether, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s peace in a dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time
thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it had been would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and, prob-
the agony of a mind that would bear no more. ably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank Churchill
The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, would return among them no more; and Miss Fairfax, it
at Hartfield. The weather added what it could of gloom. A was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to belong to
cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July appeared but in Highbury. They would be married, and settled either at or
the trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and near Enscombe. All that were good would be withdrawn;
the length of the day, which only made such cruel sights the and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were to be added,
longer visible. what would remain of cheerful or of rational society within
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer coming there for
only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless at- his evening comfort!— No longer walking in at all hours,
tention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which had as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—How
never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of their was it to be endured? And if he were to be lost to them for
first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs. Weston’s Harriet’s sake; if he were to be thought of hereafter, as find-
wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in then, soon ing in Harriet’s society all that he wanted; if Harriet were
after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy. Alas! such to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife
delightful proofs of Hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of to whom he looked for all the best blessings of existence;
visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture which what could be increasing Emma’s wretchedness but the re-

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flection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all
her own work? Chapter XIII
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able
to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from walk-
ing about the room for a few seconds—and the only source
whence any thing like consolation or composure could be The weather continued much the same all the following
drawn, was in the resolution of her own better conduct, and morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melan-
the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be choly, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in the afternoon it
the following and every future winter of her life to the past, cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; the clouds
it would yet find her more rational, more acquainted with were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again.
herself, and leave her less to regret when it were gone. With all the eagerness which such a transition gives, Emma
resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. Never had
the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil,
warm, and brilliant after a storm, been more attractive to
her. She longed for the serenity they might gradually intro-
duce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in soon after dinner, with
a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time ill hur-
rying into the shrubbery.—There, with spirits freshened,
and thoughts a little relieved, she had taken a few turns,
when she saw Mr. Knightley passing through the garden
door, and coming towards her.—It was the first intimation
of his being returned from London. She had been thinking
of him the moment before, as unquestionably sixteen miles
distant.—There was time only for the quickest arrangement
of mind. She must be collected and calm. In half a minute
they were together. The ‘How d’ye do’s’ were quiet and con-
strained on each side. She asked after their mutual friends;
they were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that
morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant

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to walk with her, she found. ‘He had just looked into the this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief ac-
dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred be- count of what had happened.’
ing out of doors.’—She thought he neither looked nor spoke Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a
cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggested by little more composure,
her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating ‘You probably have been less surprized than any of us,
his plans to his brother, and was pained by the manner in for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that
which they had been received. you once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had attended
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to
often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face have been doomed to blindness.’
than it suited her to give. And this belief produced another For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was un-
dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attach- suspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she
ment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his
to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensi-
to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could bility, speaking low,
not bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She ‘Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—
considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began— Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your father’s
‘You have some news to hear, now you are come back, sake—I know you will not allow yourself—.’ Her arm was
that will rather surprize you.’ pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued
‘Have I?’ said he quietly, and looking at her; ‘of what na- accent, ‘The feelings of the warmest friendship—Indigna-
ture?’ tion—Abominable scoundrel!’— And in a louder, steadier
‘Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.’ tone, he concluded with, ‘He will soon be gone. They will
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a bet-
say no more, he replied, ter fate.’
‘If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover
heard that already.’ from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consid-
‘How is it possible?’ cried Emma, turning her glowing eration, replied,
cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her ‘You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must
that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard’s in his way. set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of compassion.
‘I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in

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a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very fool- however.
ishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay ‘I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was
me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other rea- tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear
son to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.’ pleased.— An old story, probably—a common case—and
‘Emma!’ cried he, looking eagerly at her, ‘are you, in- no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before;
deed?’— but checking himself—‘No, no, I understand and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets
you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assist-
much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be ed the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was
very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and,
of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever so
were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was
your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—
felt— I could only be certain that there was a preference— for some time, indeed— I have had no idea of their meaning
and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.—He any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that
is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on me,
with that sweet young woman?— Jane, Jane, you will be a but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to
miserable creature.’ him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behav-
‘Mr. Knightley,’ said Emma, trying to be lively, but really iour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind
confused— ‘I am in a very extraordinary situation. I can- to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his ob-
not let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since ject to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be
my manners gave such an impression, I have as much rea- more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was not
son to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was
all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might somehow or other safe from him.’
be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the re- She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to
verse.— But I never have.’ say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was si-
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, lent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At last,
but he would not. She supposed she must say more before and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to ‘I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—I
be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on, can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My

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acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And even all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for
if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt is
well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I have no mo- in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His
tive for wishing him ill—and for her sake, whose happiness friends are eager to promote his happiness.— He had used
will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—
certainly wish him well.’ He is a fortunate man indeed!’
‘I have no doubt of their being happy together,’ said ‘You speak as if you envied him.’
Emma; ‘I believe them to be very mutually and very sin- ‘And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the ob-
cerely attached.’ ject of my envy.’
‘He is a most fortunate man!’ returned Mr. Knightley, Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half
with energy. ‘So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a pe- a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert
riod when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses ill. At the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak
three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What years of something totally different—the children in Brunswick
of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr.
him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the disin- Knightley startled her, by saying,
terested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for her ‘You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are
disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,— equality of determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but
situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the hab- I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not
its and manners that are important; equality in every point ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.’
but one— and that one, since the purity of her heart is not ‘Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,’ she eagerly cried.
to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will ‘Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.’
be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A man ‘Thank you,’ said he, in an accent of deep mortification,
would always wish to give a woman a better home than the and not another syllable followed.
one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing
is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of to confide in her— perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it
mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of for- would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or
tune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or,
young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, can- by representing to him his own independence, relieve him
not even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and from that state of indecision, which must be more intoler-

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able than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had ‘I cannot make speeches, Emma:’ he soon resumed; and
reached the house. in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness
‘You are going in, I suppose?’ said he. as was tolerably convincing.—‘If I loved you less, I might
‘No,’—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—
manner in which he still spoke—‘I should like to take an- You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you,
other turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.’ And, after proceeding and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other wom-
a few steps, she added— ‘I stopped you ungraciously, just an in England would have borne it.— Bear with the truths
now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—But I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have
if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little
ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contem- to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indif-
plation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will ferent lover.— But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you
hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think.’ understand my feelings— and will return them if you can.
‘As a friend!’—repeated Mr. Knightley.—‘Emma, that I At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.’
fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with
I hesitate?— I have gone too far already for concealment.— all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able—and
Emma, I accept your offer— Extraordinary as it may seem, I yet without losing a word— to catch and comprehend the
accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet’s hopes had
have I no chance of ever succeeding?’ been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing;
the expression of his eyes overpowered her. that she was every thing herself; that what she had been say-
‘My dearest Emma,’ said he, ‘for dearest you will always ing relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language
be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dear- of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts,
est, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received
be said.’— She could really say nothing.—‘You are silent,’ he as discouragement from herself.—And not only was there
cried, with great animation; ‘absolutely silent! at present I time for these convictions, with all their glow of attendant
ask no more.’ happiness; there was time also to rejoice that Harriet’s se-
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of cret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not,
this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happi- and should not.—It was all the service she could now render
est dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling. her poor friend; for as to any of that heroism of sentiment

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which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer not, it may not be very material.— Mr. Knightley could not
his affection from herself to Harriet, as infinitely the most impute to Emma a more relenting heart than she possessed,
worthy of the two— or even the more simple sublimity of or a heart more disposed to accept of his.
resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouch- He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own in-
safing any motive, because he could not marry them both, fluence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea
Emma had it not. She felt for Harriet, with pain and with of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore
contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no selfish view, no view
all that could be probable or reasonable, entered her brain. at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening,
She had led her friend astray, and it would be a reproach to soothe or to counsel her.—The rest had been the work of
to her for ever; but her judgment was as strong as her feel- the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard, on his
ings, and as strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating feelings. The delightful assurance of her total indifference
any such alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. towards Frank Churchill, of her having a heart completely
Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke disengaged from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in
then, on being so entreated.— What did she say?—Just time, he might gain her affection himself;—but it had been
what she ought, of course. A lady always does.— She said no present hope—he had only, in the momentary conquest
enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
him to say more himself. He had despaired at one period; he not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes
had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as which gradually opened were so much the more enchant-
for the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refus- ing.— The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed
ing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat to create, if he could, was already his!—Within half an hour,
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renew- he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind,
ing the conversation which she had just put an end to, might to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no
be a little extraordinary!—She felt its inconsistency; but Mr. other name.
Knightley was so obliging as to put up with it, and seek no Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given
farther explanation. to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy,
human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-standing
not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank
this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous

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of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sen-
timent having probably enlightened him as to the other. Chapter XIV
It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him
from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on
going away. He would save himself from witnessing again
such permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to What totally different feelings did Emma take back
learn to be indifferent.— But he had gone to a wrong place. into the house from what she had brought out!—she
There was too much domestic happiness in his brother’s had then been only daring to hope for a little respite of
house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness,
too much like Emma—differing only in those striking infe- and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be
riorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before greater when the flutter should have passed away.
him, for much to have been done, even had his time been They sat down to tea—the same party round the same
longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after table— how often it had been collected!—and how often
day—till this very morning’s post had conveyed the histo- had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and ob-
ry of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness which must be served the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—But
felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never be- never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and
lieved Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was it was with difficulty that she could summon enough of her
there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, or even the
that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through attentive daughter.
the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was plotting
this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cor-
her faults, bore the discovery. dially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping might not have
He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill taken cold from his ride.—Could he have seen the heart, he
was a villain.— He heard her declare that she had never would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the
loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not desperate.— most distant imagination of the impending evil, without
She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they the slightest perception of any thing extraordinary in the
returned into the house; and if he could have thought of looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfort-
Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very ably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry,
good sort of fellow. and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspi-

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cious of what they could have told him in return. it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Bruns-
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s wick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and
fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a a few weeks spent in London must give her some amuse-
little tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the ment.— She did not think it in Harriet’s nature to escape
sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the
found one or two such very serious points to consider, as shops, and the children.— At any rate, it would be a proof of
made her feel, that even her happiness must have some al- attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thing
loy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone without was due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil
feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and how to day, when they must all be together again.
guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the question. She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an em-
With respect to her father, it was a question soon answered. ployment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that
She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley would ask; but a Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to breakfast, did
very short parley with her own heart produced the most sol- not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwards
emn resolution of never quitting her father.—She even wept to go over the same ground again with him, literally and
over the idea of it, as a sin of thought. While he lived, it figuratively, was quite necessary to reinstate her in a proper
must be only an engagement; but she flattered herself, that share of the happiness of the evening before.
if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it might be- He had not left her long, by no means long enough for
come an increase of comfort to him.— How to do her best her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any body
by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;— how to spare else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—a very
her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any pos- thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and depre-
sible atonement; how to appear least her enemy?— On these cated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in perfect
subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great— and charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no explanations,
her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter she wanted only to have her thoughts to herself— and as
reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surround- for understanding any thing he wrote, she was sure she was
ed it.— She could only resolve at last, that she would still incapable of it.—It must be waded through, however. She
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need opened the packet; it was too surely so;—a note from Mrs.
be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable Weston to herself, ushered in the letter from Frank to Mrs.
to have her removed just now for a time from Highbury, Weston.
and—indulging in one scheme more— nearly resolve, that ‘I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in forward-

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ing to you the enclosed. I know what thorough justice you first arrived at Randalls; you must consider me as having a
will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—I secret which was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact.
think we shall never materially disagree about the writer My right to place myself in a situation requiring such con-
again; but I will not delay you by a long preface.—We are cealment, is another question. I shall not discuss it here. For
quite well.— This letter has been the cure of all the little my temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a
nervousness I have been feeling lately.—I did not quite like brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above,
your looks on Tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my difficulties
and though you will never own being affected by weather, in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to
I think every body feels a north-east wind.— I felt for your require definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail,
dear father very much in the storm of Tuesday afternoon before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce the most up-
and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing last right female mind in the creation to stoop in charity to a
night, by Mr. Perry, that it had not made him ill. secret engagement.— Had she refused, I should have gone
‘Yours ever, mad.—But you will be ready to say, what was your hope in
‘A. W.’ doing this?—What did you look forward to?— To any thing,
[To Mrs. Weston.] every thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects,
WINDSOR-JULY. sudden bursts, perseverance and weariness, health and sick-
MY DEAR MADAM, ness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first
‘If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and
expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read with correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have the
candour and indulgence.— You are all goodness, and I be- honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son, and
lieve there will be need of even all your goodness to allow the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for good,
for some parts of my past conduct.— But I have been for- which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever equal the
given by one who had still more to resent. My courage rises value of.—See me, then, under these circumstances, arriv-
while I write. It is very difficult for the prosperous to be ing on my first visit to Randalls;—and here I am conscious
humble. I have already met with such success in two appli- of wrong, for that visit might have been sooner paid. You
cations for pardon, that I may be in danger of thinking will look back and see that I did not come till Miss Fairfax
myself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends was in Highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you
who have had any ground of offence.—You must all endeav- will forgive me instantly; but I must work on my father’s
our to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I compassion, by reminding him, that so long as I absented

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myself from his house, so long I lost the blessing of knowing cannot say;—when I called to take leave of her, I remember
you. My behaviour, during the very happy fortnight which I that I was within a moment of confessing the truth, and I
spent with you, did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehen- then fancied she was not without suspicion; but I have no
sion, excepting on one point. And now I come to the doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some de-
principal, the only important part of my conduct while be- gree.— She may not have surmised the whole, but her
longing to you, which excites my own anxiety, or requires quickness must have penetrated a part. I cannot doubt it.
very solicitous explanation. With the greatest respect, and You will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its
the warmest friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my present restraints, that it did not take her wholly by sur-
father perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest prize. She frequently gave me hints of it. I remember her
humiliation.— A few words which dropped from him yes- telling me at the ball, that I owed Mrs. Elton gratitude for
terday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge her attentions to Miss Fairfax.— I hope this history of my
myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indi- conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father
cated, I believe, more than it ought.— In order to assist a as great extenuation of what you saw amiss. While you con-
concealment so essential to me, I was led on to make more sidered me as having sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I
than an allowable use of the sort of intimacy into which we could deserve nothing from either. Acquit me here, and
were immediately thrown.—I cannot deny that Miss Wood- procure for me, when it is allowable, the acquittal and good
house was my ostensible object—but I am sure you will wishes of that said Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with
believe the declaration, that had I not been convinced of her so much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply
indifference, I would not have been induced by any selfish and as happily in love as myself.— Whatever strange things
views to go on.— Amiable and delightful as Miss Wood- I said or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to.
house is, she never gave me the idea of a young woman My heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my
likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from body thither as often as might be, and with the least suspi-
any tendency to being attached to me, was as much my con- cion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all to the
viction as my wish.—She received my attentions with an right account.— Of the pianoforte so much talked of, I feel
easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was absolute-
suited me. We seemed to understand each other. From our ly unknown to Miss F—, who would never have allowed me
relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were to send it, had any choice been given her.— The delicacy of
felt to be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to her mind throughout the whole engagement, my dear mad-
understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I am, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. You will

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soon, I earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.— No felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and re-
description can describe her. She must tell you herself what finement.— But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she
she is— yet not by word, for never was there a human crea- had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear madam,
ture who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose
I began this letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I myself.—I have been walking over the country, and am now,
have heard from her.— She gives a good account of her own I hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter what it
health; but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I ought to be.—It is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for
want to have your opinion of her looks. I know you will me. I behaved shamefully. And here I can admit, that my
soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it manners to Miss W., in being unpleasant to Miss F., were
is paid already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am highly blameable. She disapproved them, which ought to
impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few have been enough.—My plea of concealing the truth she did
minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad not think sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unrea-
a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane either from sonably so: I thought her, on a thousand occasions,
happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and fa- unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even
vour I have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judg-
uncle’s generosity, I am mad with joy: but when I recollect ment, and subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed
all the uneasiness I occasioned her, and how little I deserve proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I
to be forgiven, I am mad with anger. If I could but see her have ever known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember the
again!—But I must not propose it yet. My uncle has been morning spent at Donwell?—There every little dissatisfac-
too good for me to encroach.—I must still add to this long tion that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I
letter. You have not heard all that you ought to hear. I could met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with
not give any connected detail yesterday; but the sudden- her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to al-
ness, and, in one light, the unseasonableness with which the low me, which I then thought most unreasonable. Now,
affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of however, I see nothing in it but a very natural and consistent
the 26th ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to degree of discretion. While I, to blind the world to our en-
me the happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on gagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable
such early measures, but from the very particular circum- particularity to another woman, was she to be consenting
stances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself the next to a proposal which might have made every previ-
have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have ous caution useless?—Had we been met walking together

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between Donwell and Highbury, the truth must have been in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vul-
suspected.— I was mad enough, however, to resent.—I garity of needless repetition, and all the insolence of
doubted her affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box imaginary superiority. Have patience with me, I shall soon
Hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such have done.— She closed with this offer, resolving to break
shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devo- with me entirely, and wrote the next day to tell me that we
tion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for any never were to meet again.— She felt the engagement to be a
woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.—
form of words perfectly intelligible to me.— In short, my This letter reached me on the very morning of my poor
dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side, abomi- aunt’s death. I answered it within an hour; but from the
nable on mine; and I returned the same evening to confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business fall-
Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the next ing on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all
morning, merely because I would be as angry with her as the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writ-
possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to mean to ing-desk; and I, trusting that I had written enough, though
be reconciled in time; but I was the injured person, injured but a few lines, to satisfy her, remained without any
by her coldness, and I went away determined that she should uneasiness.—I was rather disappointed that I did not hear
make the first advances.—I shall always congratulate myself from her again speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was
that you were not of the Box Hill party. Had you witnessed too busy, and—may I add?— too cheerful in my views to be
my behaviour there, I can hardly suppose you would ever captious.—We removed to Windsor; and two days after-
have thought well of me again. Its effect upon her appears in wards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all
the immediate resolution it produced: as soon as she found returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post,
I was really gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest
that officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treat- reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point
ment of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desir-
and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance able to both to have every subordinate arrangement
which has been so richly extended towards myself; but, oth- concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe
erwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it which conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could not
that woman has known.— ‘Jane,’ indeed!—You will observe directly command hers, so as to send them to Highbury
that I have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that within a week, I would forward them after that period to her
name, even to you. Think, then, what I must have endured at—: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge’s, near

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Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not
knew all about it, and instantly saw what she had been do- conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all
ing. It was perfectly accordant with that resolution of the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for
character which I knew her to possess; and the secrecy she the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.—If you
had maintained, as to any such design in her former letter, think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of
was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. For the world your opinion.—Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune.
would not she have seemed to threaten me.—Imagine the I hope she is right.—In one respect, my good fortune is un-
shock; imagine how, till I had actually detected my own doubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,
blunder, I raved at the blunders of the post.— What was to Your obliged and affectionate Son,
be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my uncle. F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.
Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to
again.— I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late
event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than
I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying;
and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he
wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state
as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different sort.—
Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in
opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at
stake?—No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw
how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan,
sick looks.—I reached Highbury at the time of day when,
from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was cer-
tain of a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not
disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in
the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable,
very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done;
we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no
moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again.

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Chapter XV But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the eve-
ning, and she must return it by him.
‘I would rather be talking to you,’ he replied; ‘but as it
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.’
He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say,
This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She ‘Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s let-
was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the ters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would
contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. not have been taken with such indifference.’
As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and
every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost then, with a smile, observed, ‘Humph! a fine complimen-
every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the sub- tary opening: But it is his way. One man’s style must not be
ject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her the rule of another’s. We will not be severe.’
former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction ‘It will be natural for me,’ he added shortly afterwards,
which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. ‘to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel
She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but
though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, if you dislike it—‘
yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed—and he ‘Not at all. I should wish it.’
had suffered, and was very sorry—and he was so grateful to Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alac-
Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and rity.
she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; ‘He trifles here,’ said he, ‘as to the temptation. He knows
and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—Bad.—He
hands with him as heartily as ever. ought not to have formed the engagement.—‘His father’s
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knight- disposition:’— he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr.
ley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright
Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated; especially to and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every
one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—Very
his conduct. true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here.’
‘I shall be very glad to look it over,’ said he; ‘but it seems ‘And I have not forgotten,’ said Emma, ‘how sure you
long. I will take it home with me at night.’ were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass

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it over very handsomely— but you were perfectly right.’ indeed!—I cannot comprehend a man’s wishing to give a
‘I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—but woman any proof of affection which he knows she would
yet, I think— had you not been in the case—I should still rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have
have distrusted him.’ prevented the instrument’s coming if she could.’
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to After this, he made some progress without any pause.
read the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a Frank Churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully
smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; ‘I perfectly agree with you, sir,’—was then his remark.
concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, ‘You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer
thus— line.’ And having gone through what immediately followed
‘Very bad—though it might have been worse.—Playing of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act
a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense of right, he made
for his acquittal.— No judge of his own manners by you.— a fuller pause to say, ‘This is very bad.—He had induced her
Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme diffi-
little besides his own convenience.— Fancying you to have culty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object
fathomed his secret. Natural enough!— his own mind full to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.—She must
of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.—Mystery; have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the
Finesse—how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, correspondence, than he could. He should have respected
does not every thing serve to prove more and more the even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers
beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and re-
other?’ member that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a
Harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere ex- state of punishment.’
planation of. Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill
‘You had better go on,’ said she. party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, ‘the piano- been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little
forte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, at-
too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it tentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting
might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the

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fear of giving pain—no remembrance of Box Hill seemed Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss Woodhouse calls me
to exist. the child of good fortune.’—Those were Miss Woodhouse’s
‘There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good words, were they?— And a fine ending—and there is the
friends, the Eltons,’ was his next observation.—‘His feelings letter. The child of good fortune! That was your name for
are natural.— What! actually resolve to break with him him, was it?’
entirely!—She felt the engagement to be a source of repen- ‘You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I
tance and misery to each— she dissolved it.—What a view am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the
this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he must be a better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with
most extraordinary—‘ you.’
‘Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he suf- ‘Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
fers.’ inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much
‘I hope he does,’ replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and re- of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he
suming the letter. ‘‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean? deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached
What is all this?’ to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the
‘She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge’s advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to
children— a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a neighbour of believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And
bears the disappointment?’ now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another
‘Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot
read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left
soon have done. What a letter the man writes!’ you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work
‘I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards on one subject.’
him.’ The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected, gentle-
‘Well, there is feeling here.—He does seem to have suf- manlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to the
fered in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her to
of his being fond of her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’ marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father.
I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. ‘While her dear
reconciliation.—He is a very liberal thanker, with his thou- father lived, any change of condition must be impossible
sands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I deserve.’ for her. She could never quit him.’ Part only of this answer,

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however, was admitted. The impossibility of her quitting he had been walking away from William Larkins the whole
her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as herself; but the morning, to have his thoughts to himself.
inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. ‘Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,’ cried Emma.
He had been thinking it over most deeply, most intently; ‘I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his
he had at first hoped to induce Mr. Woodhouse to remove consent before you ask mine.’
with her to Donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty near-
his knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse would not suffer him to ly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of
deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion, finding it a very good scheme.
that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many,
comfort, perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazard- points of view in which she was now beginning to consider
ed. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense of injury to
it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen her nephew Henry, whose rights as heir-expectant had for-
on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would merly been so tenaciously regarded. Think she must of the
not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he should possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only
be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father’s happi- gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it, and found
ness in other words his life—required Hartfield to continue amusement in detecting the real cause of that violent dis-
her home, it should be his likewise. like of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the ami-
had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the able solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continu-
not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it ing at Hartfield— the more she contemplated it, the more
evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sac- pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own ad-
rificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; vantages to increase, their mutual good to outweigh every
that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of drawback. Such a companion for herself in the periods of
his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. anxiety and cheerlessness before her!— Such a partner in
She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it all those duties and cares to which time must be giving in-
more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could crease of melancholy!
alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject. He had given She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet; but
it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration; every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance

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the sufferings of her friend, who must now be even excluded
from Hartfield. The delightful family party which Emma Chapter XVI
was securing for herself, poor Harriet must, in mere chari-
table caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a
loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future ab-
sence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as de-
a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than oth- sirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was
erwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they been
cruel necessity that was to be placing her in such a state of obliged to meet!
unmerited punishment. Harriet expressed herself very much as might be sup-
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten, posed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage;
that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to happen and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment,
very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing nothing a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the
to assist the cure;— not like Mr. Elton. Mr. Knightley, al- desirableness of their being separate.— It might be only her
ways so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate for every body, own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could
would never deserve to be less worshipped than now; and it have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
really was too much to hope even of Harriet, that she could She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation;
be in love with more than three men in one year. and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for ask-
ing it, without resorting to invention.—There was a tooth
amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished some time,
to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was delighted
to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommenda-
tion to her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr.
Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her
care.—When it was thus settled on her sister’s side, Emma
proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.—
Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she
was to be conveyed in Mr. Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was
all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in

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Brunswick Square. every other motive of goodwill. It would be a secret satisfac-
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s visits; tion; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospect would
now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to
unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of something any thing Jane might communicate.
most painful, which had haunted her when remembering She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the
how disappointed a heart was near her, how much might door, but had not been into the house since the morning
at that moment, and at a little distance, be enduring by the after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as
feelings which she had led astray herself. had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in Lon- sufferings had been unsuspected.— The fear of being still
don, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being
sensations; but she could not think of her in London with- at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.— She
out objects of curiosity and employment, which must be heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as
averting the past, and carrying her out of herself. poor Miss Bates had before made so happily intelligible.—
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed directly No; she heard nothing but the instant reply of, ‘Beg her to
to the place in her mind which Harriet had occupied. There walk up;’—and a moment afterwards she was met on the
was a communication before her, one which she only could stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly forward, as if no oth-
be competent to make— the confession of her engagement er reception of her were felt sufficient.— Emma had never
to her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was con-
present.—She had resolved to defer the disclosure till Mrs. sciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing
Weston were safe and well. No additional agitation should which her countenance or manner could ever have want-
be thrown at this period among those she loved— and the ed.— She came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a
evil should not act on herself by anticipation before the ap- low, but very feeling tone,
pointed time.—A fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of ‘This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is im-
mind, to crown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, possible for me to express—I hope you will believe—Excuse
should be hers. me for being so entirely without words.’
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no
employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the
Miss Fairfax.— She ought to go—and she was longing to see sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient to
her; the resemblance of their present situations increasing compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory sensa-

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tions into a very, very earnest shake of the hand. ‘You know all other things give place.’
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates was
out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity. Emma Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read——mum! a
could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she was in a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t I? But I
humour to have patience with every body; and as Mrs. Elton want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—My representa-
met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped the rencontre tion, you see, has quite appeased her.’
would do them no harm. And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s at Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in hap- ‘I mentioned no names, you will observe.—Oh! no; cau-
py spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and tious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.’
fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeat-
other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the ed on every possible occasion. When they had all talked a
expression of her face; and while paying her own compli- little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs. Weston, she
ments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the good found herself abruptly addressed with,
old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade ‘Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little
of mystery fold up a letter which she had apparently been friend here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think her
reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return it into the purple cure does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a side-glance
and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods, of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry has restored
‘We can finish this some other time, you know. You and her in a wonderful short time!— Oh! if you had seen her, as
I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have heard I did, when she was at the worst!’— And when Mrs. Bates
all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to you that was saying something to Emma, whispered farther, ‘We do
Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended. You see not say a word of any assistance that Perry might have; not a
how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You word of a certain young physician from Windsor.—Oh! no;
would have doated on her, had you gone.—But not a word Perry shall have all the credit.’
more. Let us be discreet— quite on our good behaviour.— ‘I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Wood-
Hush!—You remember those lines— I forget the poem at house,’ she shortly afterwards began, ‘since the party to Box
this moment: Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was some-
thing wanting. Things did not seem—that is, there seemed
‘For when a lady’s in the case, a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it appeared to

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me at least, but I might be mistaken. However, I think it an- ton?— That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen
swered so far as to tempt one to go again. What say you both do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s time is so en-
to our collecting the same party, and exploring to Box Hill gaged.’
again, while the fine weather lasts?— It must be the same ‘Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged
party, you know, quite the same party, not one exception.’ from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s com-
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could not ing to him, on some pretence or other.—The magistrates,
help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his
herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of what might opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him.—
be said, and impatience to say every thing. ‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say, ‘rather you than I.— I
‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all do not know what would become of my crayons and my in-
kindness.—It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite strument, if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough as
understand—dearest Jane’s prospects— that is, I do not it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable
mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.— How is Mr. degree.—I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight.—
Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.— Such However, he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose
a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes, indeed.— to wait on you all.’ And putting up her hand to screen her
Charming young man!—that is—so very friendly; I mean words from Emma—‘A congratulatory visit, you know.—
good Mr. Perry!— such attention to Jane!’—And from her Oh! yes, quite indispensable.’
great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards Miss Bates looked about her, so happily!—
Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had ‘He promised to come to me as soon as he could disen-
been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vic- gage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley are shut
arage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.— After up together in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is Knightley’s
a few whispers, indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. right hand.’
Elton, speaking louder, said, Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only
‘Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been said, ‘Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will have
so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to a hot walk.’
apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord ‘Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting.
and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his re- Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is apt to speak
spects to you.’ only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and Knightley have
‘What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. El- every thing their own way.’

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 ‘Have not you mistaken the day?’ said Emma. ‘I am with some of her sparkling vivacity.
almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till to- ‘Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here, to be
morrow.—Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe
spoke of it as for Saturday.’ to come!— But you knew what a dutiful creature you had to
‘Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,’ was the abrupt deal with. You knew I should not stir till my lord and master
answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on appeared.— Here have I been sitting this hour, giving these
Mrs. Elton’s side.— ‘I do believe,’ she continued, ‘this is the young ladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who
most troublesome parish that ever was. We never heard of can say, you know, how soon it may be wanted?’
such things at Maple Grove.’ Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed
‘Your parish there was small,’ said Jane. thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be paid;
‘Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never heard but his subsequent object was to lament over himself for the
the subject talked of.’ heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for nothing.
‘But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which ‘When I got to Donwell,’ said he, ‘Knightley could not be
I have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I sent
sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than him this morning, and the message he returned, that he
five-and-twenty children.’ should certainly be at home till one.’
‘Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a think- ‘Donwell!’ cried his wife.—‘My dear Mr. E., you have not
ing brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come from
and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My live- the meeting at the Crown.’
liness and your solidity would produce perfection.—Not ‘No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to
that I presume to insinuate, however, that some people may see Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a dreadful
not think you perfection already.—But hush!— not a word, broiling morning!— I went over the fields too—(speaking
if you please.’ in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to worse. And then not to find him at home! I assure you I am
give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss Woodhouse, not at all pleased. And no apology left, no message for me.
as the latter plainly saw. The wish of distinguishing her, as The housekeeper declared she knew nothing of my being
far as civility permitted, was very evident, though it could expected.— Very extraordinary!—And nobody knew at all
not often proceed beyond a look. which way he was gone. Perhaps to Hartfield, perhaps to the
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him Abbey Mill, perhaps into his woods.— Miss Woodhouse,

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this is not like our friend Knightley!—Can you explain it?’ there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very ex- deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards Wil-
traordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say liam Larkins.
for him. She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax de-
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indig- termined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even
nity as a wife ought to do,) ‘I cannot imagine how he could downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immedi-
do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! The very ately made use of, to say,
last person whom one should expect to be forgotten!—My ‘It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the possibility.
dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure Had you not been surrounded by other friends, I might have
he must.—Not even Knightley could be so very eccentric;— been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask questions, to
and his servants forgot it. Depend upon it, that was the speak more openly than might have been strictly correct.—I
case: and very likely to happen with the Donwell servants, feel that I should certainly have been impertinent.’
who are all, I have often observed, extremely awkward and ‘Oh!’ cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which
remiss.—I am sure I would not have such a creature as his Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all
Harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration. And as the elegance of all her usual composure—‘there would have
for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds her very cheap indeed.—She been no danger. The danger would have been of my wea-
promised Wright a receipt, and never sent it.’ rying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
‘I met William Larkins,’ continued Mr. Elton, ‘as I got expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speak-
near the house, and he told me I should not find his master ing more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have
at home, but I did not believe him.—William seemed rather of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly con-
out of humour. He did not know what was come to his mas- soling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good
ter lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of opinion is most worth preserving, are not disgusted to such
him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it re- a degree as to—I have not time for half that I could wish to
ally is of very great importance that I should see Knightley say. I long to make apologies, excuses, to urge something for
to-day; and it becomes a matter, therefore, of very serious myself. I feel it so very due. But, unfortunately—in short, if
inconvenience that I should have had this hot walk to no your compassion does not stand my friend—‘
purpose.’ ‘Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,’ cried Emma
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home di- warmly, and taking her hand. ‘You owe me no apologies;
rectly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for and every body to whom you might be supposed to owe

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them, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—‘
‘You are very kind, but I know what my manners were to Chapter XVII
you.— So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to act.—
It was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have disgusted
you.’
‘Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her safety;
on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased
whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings will to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little
lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts from girl. She had been decided in wishing for a Miss Weston. She
Windsor?’ would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making
‘Very.’ a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella’s sons; but
‘And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to lose she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father
you— just as I begin to know you.’ and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston,
‘Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of as he grew older— and even Mr. Weston might be grow-
yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’ ing older ten years hence—to have his fireside enlivened by
‘Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,’ replied the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of
Emma, smiling—‘but, excuse me, it must be thought of.’ a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston— no
The smile was returned as Jane answered, one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it
‘You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There ‘She has had the advantage, you know, of practising
must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but when on me,’ she continued—‘like La Baronne d’Almane on La
they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more to wait Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and
for.’ Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide edu-
‘Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to be cated on a more perfect plan.’
assured of.— Oh! if you knew how much I love every thing ‘That is,’ replied Mr. Knightley, ‘she will indulge her even
that is decided and open!— Good-bye, good-bye.’ more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge
her at all. It will be the only difference.’
‘Poor child!’ cried Emma; ‘at that rate, what will become

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of her?’ with one of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am going
‘Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss Taylor’s
disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows leave’—something which, you knew, I did not approve. In
older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, such cases my interference was giving you two bad feelings
my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to instead of one.’
you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe ‘What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you should
on them?’ hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.’
Emma laughed, and replied: ‘But I had the assistance of ‘‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr. Knightley;’
all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound.—And yet
people. I doubt whether my own sense would have correct- it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do
ed me without it.’ not know what.’
‘Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understand- ‘I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my ami-
ing:— Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done able fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it
well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never
It was very natural for you to say, what right has he to lec- did it again.’
ture me?— and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that ‘And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?’
it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did ‘Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr.
you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant
an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will
about you so much without doating on you, faults and all; promise,’ she added presently, laughing and blushing—‘I
and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do
with you ever since you were thirteen at least.’ not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the
‘I am sure you were of use to me,’ cried Emma. ‘I was building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.’
very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I would Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to
own at the time. I am very sure you did me good. And if one important service which his better sense would have
poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be the great- rendered her, to the advice which would have saved her from
est humanity in you to do as much for her as you have done the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacy
for me, except falling in love with her when she is thirteen.’ with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a subject.—She
‘How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, could not enter on it.— Harriet was very seldom mentioned

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between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was un-
her not being thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to mentioned.
attribute it to delicacy, and a suspicion, from some appear- ‘John enters like a brother into my happiness,’ continued
ances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware Mr. Knightley, ‘but he is no complimenter; and though I
herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection
certainly should have corresponded more, and that her in- for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other
telligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly young woman might think him rather cool in her praise.
did, on Isabella’s letters. He might observe that it was so. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.’
The pain of being obliged to practise concealment towards ‘He writes like a sensible man,’ replied Emma, when she
him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made Har- had read the letter. ‘I honour his sincerity. It is very plain
riet unhappy. that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as on my side, but that he is not without hope of my grow-
could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her ing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me
out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construc-
was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had tion, I should not have believed him.’
been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different from ‘My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—‘
what she had known her before.— Isabella, to be sure, was ‘He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the
no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to two,’ interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—‘much
playing with the children, it would not have escaped her. less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without
Emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried ceremony or reserve on the subject.’
on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely ‘Emma, my dear Emma—‘
to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were ‘Oh!’ she cried with more thorough gaiety, ‘if you fancy
to come down in August, and she was invited to remain till your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear
they could bring her back. father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon
‘John does not even mention your friend,’ said Mr. it, he will be much farther from doing you justice. He will
Knightley. ‘Here is his answer, if you like to see it.’ think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of
It was the answer to the communication of his intended the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink
marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.— His tender compas-
an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, sion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.’

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 ‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I wish your father might be half as eas- a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—She
ily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that was forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must
equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, by a
one part of John’s letter— did you notice it?—where he says, melancholy tone herself. She must not appear to think it a
that my information did not take him wholly by surprize, misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command, she
that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a
the kind.’ few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could
‘If I understand your brother, he only means so far as be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with
your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness
me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that.’ of all— she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which
‘Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of
far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next to his
not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversa- daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
tion that could prepare him at this time for my marrying Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him,
any more than at another.— But it was so, I suppose. I dare and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was re-
say there was a difference when I was staying with them the minded, more than once, of having always said she would
other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so never marry, and assured that it would be a great deal better
much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys say- for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella, and poor
ing, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’’ Miss Taylor.—But it would not do. Emma hung about him
The time was coming when the news must spread far- affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that
ther, and other persons’ reception of it tried. As soon he must not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose
as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr. marriages taking them from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a
Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her gentle melancholy change: but she was not going from Hartfield;
reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first she should be always there; she was introducing no change
to announce it at home, and then at Randalls.— But how to in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and
break it to her father at last!—She had bound herself to do she was very sure that he would be a great deal the hap-
it, in such an hour of Mr. Knightley’s absence, or when it pier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were
came to the point her heart would have failed her, and she once got used to the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knight-
must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come at such ley very much?— He would not deny that he did, she was

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sure.—Whom did he ever want to consult on business but first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only increase
Mr. Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to
write his letters, who so glad to assist him?— Who so cheer- the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as
ful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he like to to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was
have him always on the spot?—Yes. That was all very true. in every respect so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a
Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should be connexion, and in one respect, one point of the highest im-
glad to see him every day;—but they did see him every day portance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that
as it was.—Why could not they go on as they had done? now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached her-
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the self to any other creature, and that she had herself been the
worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and continual stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished
repetition must do the rest.— To Emma’s entreaties and as- it long ago.—How very few of those men in a rank of life
surances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s, whose fond praise of to address Emma would have renounced their own home
her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Knightley could know and
soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.— bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrange-
They had all the assistance which Isabella could give, by ment desirable!— The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
letters of the strongest approbation; and Mrs. Weston was Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans and
ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma. How
most serviceable light—first, as a settled, and, secondly, as a to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a
good one— well aware of the nearly equal importance of the continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr. Weston
two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was than by herself—but even he had never been able to finish
agreed upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he the subject better than by saying—‘Those matters will take
was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his care of themselves; the young people will find a way.’ But
happiness; and having some feelings himself which almost here there was nothing to be shifted off in a wild specula-
admitted it, he began to think that some time or other— in tion on the future. It was all right, all open, all equal. No
another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a union of the
the marriage did take place. highest promise of felicity in itself, and without one real, ra-
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings tional difficulty to oppose or delay it.
in all that she said to him in favour of the event.—She had Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in
been extremely surprized, never more so, than when Emma such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women

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in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,
perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its first upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, ex-
set of caps. cept in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprize
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little
and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped ‘the young
minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quick- lady’s pride would now be contented;’ and supposed ‘she had
ness of mind.— He saw the advantages of the match, and always meant to catch Knightley if she could;’ and, on the
rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife; but the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, ‘Rather
wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an he than I!’— But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed
hour he was not far from believing that he had always fore- indeed.—‘Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for
seen it. him.—She was extremely concerned; for, though very ec-
‘It is to be a secret, I conclude,’ said he. ‘These matters centric, he had a thousand good qualities.— How could he
are always a secret, till it is found out that every body knows be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in love— not in
them. Only let me be told when I may speak out.—I wonder the least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all
whether Jane has any suspicion.’ pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that
himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she would be all over now.— Poor fellow!—No more exploring
like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and parties to Donwell made for her. Oh! no; there would be a
Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every thing.—Ex-
Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards. It was tremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she
no more than the principals were prepared for; they had had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan,
calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near
how soon it would be over Highbury; and were thinking of Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate
themselves, as the evening wonder in many a family circle, before the end of the first quarter.
with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might
think him, and others might think her, the most in luck.
One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell,
and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys; and another

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Chapter XVIII ‘Have you heard from her yourself this morning?’ cried
he. ‘You have, I believe, and know the whole.’
‘No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.’
‘You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it is.
Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.’
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the par- Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being
ty from London would be arriving. It was an alarming prepared— and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, ‘No, this is im-
change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as what possible!’ but her lips were closed.
must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when Mr. ‘It is so, indeed,’ continued Mr. Knightley; ‘I have it from
Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts were put by. Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour ago.’
After the first chat of pleasure he was silent; and then, in a She was still looking at him with the most speaking
graver tone, began with, amazement.
‘I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.’ ‘You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our
‘Good or bad?’ said she, quickly, looking up in his face. opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you
‘I do not know which it ought to be called.’ may be sure, will make one or the other of us think differ-
‘Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance. You ently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much on the
are trying not to smile.’ subject.’
‘I am afraid,’ said he, composing his features, ‘I am very ‘You mistake me, you quite mistake me,’ she replied,
much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when exerting herself. ‘It is not that such a circumstance would
you hear it.’ now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems an
‘Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any impossibility!—You cannot mean to say, that Harriet Smith
thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that he has
amuse me too.’ even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean, that he
‘There is one subject,’ he replied, ‘I hope but one, on intends it.’
which we do not think alike.’ He paused a moment, again ‘I mean that he has done it,’ answered Mr. Knightley,
smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Does nothing oc- with smiling but determined decision, ‘and been accepted.’
cur to you?— Do not you recollect?—Harriet Smith.’ ‘Good God!’ she cried.—‘Well!’—Then having recourse
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face,
something, though she knew not what. and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight and en-

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tertainment which she knew she must be expressing, she at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knight-
added, ‘Well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible ley and little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and
to me. How, where, when?—Let me know it all. I never was Henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to
more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy, I assure make Miss Smith rather uneasy.’
you.—How—how has it been possible?’ He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate
‘It is a very simple story. He went to town on business reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most un-
three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some papers reasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a moment,
which I was wanting to send to John.—He delivered these or he would think her mad. Her silence disturbed him; and
papers to John, at his chambers, and was asked by him to after observing her a little while, he added,
join their party the same evening to Astley’s. They were go- ‘Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would
ing to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you
be our brother and sister, Henry, John—and Miss Smith. more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil—but
My friend Robert could not resist. They called for him in you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I will
their way; were all extremely amused; and my brother asked answer for your thinking better and better of him as you
him to dine with them the next day—which he did—and in know him more. His good sense and good principles would
the course of that visit (as I understand) he found an oppor- delight you.—As far as the man is concerned, you could
tunity of speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in society I
in vain.—She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal I assure
as he is deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William Larkins; but I
was with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.’
report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now
own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and when. brought herself not to smile too broadly—she did—cheer-
Your friend Harriet will make a much longer history when fully answering,
you see her.— She will give you all the minute particulars, ‘You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match.
which only woman’s language can make interesting.—In I think Harriet is doing extremely well. Her connexions
our communications we deal only in the great.—However, may be worse than his. In respectability of character, there
I must say, that Robert Martin’s heart seemed for him, and can be no doubt that they are. I have been silent from sur-
to me, very overflowing; and that he did mention, without prize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot imagine how
its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their box suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unprepared I

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was!—for I had reason to believe her very lately more deter- plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you understand
mined against him, much more, than she was before.’ the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet now are?’
‘You ought to know your friend best,’ replied Mr. Knight- ‘I am quite sure,’ he replied, speaking very distinctly,
ley; ‘but I should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted ‘that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was
girl, not likely to be very, very determined against any young no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I
man who told her he loved her.’ think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, ‘Upon opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but
my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.—But, Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of
Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutely her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit
and downright accepted him. I could suppose she might in to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that
time—but can she already?— Did not you misunderstand I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavour to see her in
him?—You were both talking of other things; of business, the course of this day.’
shows of cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the ‘I am perfectly satisfied,’ replied Emma, with the bright-
confusion of so many subjects, mistake him?—It was not est smiles, ‘and most sincerely wish them happy.’
Harriet’s hand that he was certain of—it was the dimen- ‘You are materially changed since we talked on this sub-
sions of some famous ox.’ ject before.’
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr. ‘I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.’
Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so strong ‘And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to
to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the recollection of all grant you all Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some
that had so recently passed on Harriet’s side, so fresh the pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom
sound of those words, spoken with such emphasis, ‘No, I I have always had reason to believe as much in love with
hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,’ that she her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked
was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some mea- to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Some-
sure, premature. It could not be otherwise. times, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me
‘Do you dare say this?’ cried Mr. Knightley. ‘Do you dare of pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was never the case;
to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know what a but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her be-
man is talking of?— What do you deserve?’ ing an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very
‘Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I never seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the
put up with any other; and, therefore, you must give me a affections and utility of domestic life.— Much of this, I have

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no doubt, she may thank you for.’ Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every
‘Me!’ cried Emma, shaking her head.—‘Ah! poor Har- thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to
riet!’ know Robert Martin.
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt fe-
little more praise than she deserved. licities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the en- from Mr. Knightley would soon be over. The disguise,
trance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practise, might
alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that
made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in danc- full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most
ing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved ready to welcome as a duty.
about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with
could be fit for nothing rational. her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving
gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to
drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate ex- Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be disap-
cuse for disappearing. pointed.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensa- They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-
tions may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus room:— but hardly had they been told of the baby, and
removed in the prospect of Harriet’s welfare, she was really Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which he
in danger of becoming too happy for security.—What had asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of
she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, two figures passing near the window.
whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior ‘It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘I was
to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing him
might teach her humility and circumspection in future. arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Fair-
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and fax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—They are
in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, coming in, I hope.’
sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was
such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of extremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of con-
five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet! fusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each

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side. They met readily and smiling, but with a conscious- ‘The shame,’ he answered, ‘is all mine, or ought to be.
ness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late.
sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the Early, I know, you had none.’
circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now in- ‘I never had the smallest, I assure you.’
dulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Churchill ‘That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—
once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its and I wish I had— it would have been better. But though I
proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston joined the par- was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong
ty, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no things, and such as did me no service.— It would have been
longer a want of subject or animation— or of courage and a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secre-
opportunity for Frank Churchill to draw near her and say, cy and told you every thing.’
‘I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind ‘It is not now worth a regret,’ said Emma.
forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope ‘I have some hope,’ resumed he, ‘of my uncle’s being
time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be intro-
not retract what you then said.’ duced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall
‘No, indeed,’ cried Emma, most happy to begin, ‘not in meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we
the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a dis-
you—and to give you joy in person.’ tance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?— Till this
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some morning, we have not once met since the day of reconcilia-
time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and hap- tion. Do not you pity me?’
piness. Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden
‘Is not she looking well?’ said he, turning his eyes to- accession of gay thought, he cried,
wards Jane. ‘Better than she ever used to do?—You see how ‘Ah! by the bye,’ then sinking his voice, and looking de-
my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her.’ mure for the moment—‘I hope Mr. Knightley is well?’ He
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing paused.—She coloured and laughed.—‘I know you saw my
eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Camp- letter, and think you may remember my wish in your fa-
bells, he named the name of Dixon.—Emma blushed, and vour. Let me return your congratulations.— I assure you
forbade its being pronounced in her hearing. that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and
‘I can never think of it,’ she cried, ‘without extreme satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot presume to
shame.’ praise.’

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 Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in He bowed.
the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his ‘If not in our dispositions,’ she presently added, with a
own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words look of true sensibility, ‘there is a likeness in our destiny; the
were, destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so
‘Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such much superior to our own.’
delicacy!— and yet without being actually fair.—One can- ‘True, true,’ he answered, warmly. ‘No, not true on your
not call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She
her dark eye-lashes and hair— a most distinguishing com- is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every
plexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.— Just colour enough gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes,
for beauty.’ as she is looking up at my father.— You will be glad to hear
‘I have always admired her complexion,’ replied Emma, (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle
archly; ‘but do not I remember the time when you found means to give her all my aunt’s jewels. They are to be new
fault with her for being so pale?— When we first began to set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head.
talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?’ Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?’
‘Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I ‘Very beautiful, indeed,’ replied Emma; and she spoke so
dare—‘ kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma ‘How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in
could not help saying, such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this meet-
‘I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that ing for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield,
time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I had you failed to come.’
am sure you had.— I am sure it was a consolation to you.’ The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston
‘Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the
I was the most miserable wretch!’ evening before, from the infant’s appearing not quite well.
‘Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and
sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry.
that you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the readier Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston had been
to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the
have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. child had been perfectly well again. This was her history;
I think there is a little likeness between us.’ and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Woodhouse, who

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commended her very much for thinking of sending for Per- to me!— They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can
ry, and only regretted that she had not done it. ‘She should court them!’
always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertain-
degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not ingly; but Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the
be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally
pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as
the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really regarding
probably have been better if Perry had seen it.’ him as she did with friendship, she had never been more
Frank Churchill caught the name. sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of character.
‘Perry!’ said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch The happiness of this most happy day, received its comple-
Miss Fairfax’s eye. ‘My friend Mr. Perry! What are they tion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this
saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?— comparison produced.
And how does he travel now?—Has he set up his carriage?’
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while
she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s counte-
nance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to
seem deaf.
‘Such an extraordinary dream of mine!’ he cried. ‘I can
never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears
us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her
vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at
this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent
me the report, is passing under her eye— that the whole
blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing
else, though pretending to listen to the others?’
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and
the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and
said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
‘How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing

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Chapter XIX and that his continuing to love her had been irresistible.—
Beyond this, it must ever be unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day was
giving her fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s par-
entage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Har- tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable main-
riet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be tenance which had ever been hers, and decent enough to
really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and real- have always wished for concealment.—Such was the blood of
ly able to accept another man from unbiased inclination, gentility which Emma had formerly been so ready to vouch
it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence for!— It was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, as the blood
of any such uncertainty. A very few days brought the party of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been
from London, and she had no sooner an opportunity of be- preparing for Mr. Knightley—or for the Churchills—or
ing one hour alone with Harriet, than she became perfectly even for Mr. Elton!— The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached
satisfied—unaccountable as it was!— that Robert Martin by nobility or wealth, would have been a stain indeed.
had thoroughly supplanted Mr. Knightley, and was now No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young
forming all her views of happiness. man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was
at first: but having once owned that she had been presump- now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in
tuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain and him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid
confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leave her fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s
without a care for the past, and with the fullest exultation happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him, and
in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s approbation, in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of
Emma had instantly removed every fear of that nature, by security, stability, and improvement. She would be placed
meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.— in the midst of those who loved her, and who had better
Harriet was most happy to give every particular of the sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied
evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the next day; she could enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led into temp-
dwell on it all with the utmost delight. But what did such tation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable
particulars explain?— The fact was, as Emma could now ac- and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest crea-
knowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin; ture in the world, to have created so steady and persevering

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an affection in such a man;—or, if not quite the luckiest, to Woodhouse to be induced to consent?—he, who had never
yield only to herself. yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements When first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable,
with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was that they were almost hopeless.—A second allusion, indeed,
not to be regretted.— The intimacy between her and Emma gave less pain.— He began to think it was to be, and that he
must sink; their friendship must change into a calmer sort could not prevent it— a very promising step of the mind on
of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must its way to resignation. Still, however, he was not happy. Nay,
be, seemed already beginning, and in the most gradual, nat- he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s courage
ural manner. failed. She could not bear to see him suffering, to know him
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet fancying himself neglected; and though her understanding
to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knight-
with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even leys, that when once the event were over, his distress would
connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could be soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.
impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by any
Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the al- sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or any won-
tar might next fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet derful change of his nervous system, but by the operation of
Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the first the same system in another way.— Mrs. Weston’s poultry-
to be married. house was robbed one night of all her turkeys— evidently
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry-yards in the neigh-
restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the bourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was housebreaking to
Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for
they were only waiting for November. the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would have been
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as under wretched alarm every night of his life. The strength,
they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had de- resolution, and presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys,
termined that their marriage ought to be concluded while commanded his fullest dependence. While either of them
John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow them protected him and his, Hartfield was safe.— But Mr. John
the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside, which was Knightley must be in London again by the end of the first
the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other friend, were week in November.
agreed in approving it. But Mr. Woodhouse—how was Mr. The result of this distress was, that, with a much more

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voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever pre-
sumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix her
wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a month
from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin, to join
the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings, where
the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and Mrs. Elton,
from the particulars detailed by her husband, thought it all
extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.—‘Very little
white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!—
Selina would stare when she heard of it.’—But, in spite of
these deficiencies, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the
predictions of the small band of true friends who witnessed
the ceremony, were fully answered in the perfect happiness
of the union.
FINIS

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