living room furniture west yorkshire

emma by jane austen.volume ii. chapter xi. it may be possible to do without dancing entirely.instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, withoutbeing at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body ormind;—but when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid motion have once been,though slightly, felt—it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more.frank churchill had danced once at highbury, and longed to dance again; and the last half-hourof an evening which mr. woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at randalls, waspassed by the two young people in schemes

on the subject. frank’s was the first idea;and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties,and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance. but still she had inclinationenough for shewing people again how delightfully mr. frank churchill and miss woodhouse danced—fordoing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with jane fairfax—and evenfor simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity—to assist himfirst in pacing out the room they were in to see what it could be made to hold—andthen in taking the dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of discovering, in spiteof all that mr. weston could say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little thelargest.

his first proposition and request, that thedance begun at mr. cole’s should be finished there—that the same party should be collected,and the same musician engaged, met with the readiest acquiescence. mr. weston enteredinto the idea with thorough enjoyment, and mrs. weston most willingly undertook to playas long as they could wish to dance; and the interesting employment had followed, of reckoningup exactly who there would be, and portioning out the indispensable division of space toevery couple. “you and miss smith, and miss fairfax, willbe three, and the two miss coxes five,” had been repeated many times over. “andthere will be the two gilberts, young cox, my father, and myself, besides mr. knightley.yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure.

you and miss smith, and miss fairfax, willbe three, and the two miss coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of room.”but soon it came to be on one side, “but will there be good room for five couple?—ireally do not think there will.” on another,“and after all, five couple are not enough to make it worth while to stand up. five coupleare nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. it will not do to invite five couple.it can be allowable only as the thought of the moment.”somebody said that miss gilbert was expected at her brother’s, and must be invited withthe rest. somebody else believed mrs. gilbert would have danced the other evening, if shehad been asked. a word was put in for a second

young cox; and at last, mr. weston namingone family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who couldnot be left out, it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, anda very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of.the doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. “might not they use both rooms,and dance across the passage?” it seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not so goodbut that many of them wanted a better. emma said it would be awkward; mrs. weston wasin distress about the supper; and mr. woodhouse opposed it earnestly, on the score of health.it made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.“oh! no,” said he; “it would be the

extreme of imprudence. i could not bear itfor emma!—emma is not strong. she would catch a dreadful cold. so would poor littleharriet. so you would all. mrs. weston, you would be quite laid up; do not let them talkof such a wild thing. pray do not let them talk of it. that young man (speaking lower)is very thoughtless. do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing.he has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately.he does not think of the draught. i do not mean to set you against him, but indeed heis not quite the thing!” mrs. weston was sorry for such a charge. sheknew the importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do it away. every doorwas now closed, the passage plan given up,

and the first scheme of dancing only in theroom they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will on frank churchill’s part,that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient forfive couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite enough for ten.“we were too magnificent,” said he. “we allowed unnecessary room. ten couple may standhere very well.” emma demurred. “it would be a crowd—asad crowd; and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in?”“very true,” he gravely replied; “it was very bad.” but still he went on measuring,and still he ended with, “i think there will be very tolerable roomfor ten couple.”

“no, no,” said she, “you are quite unreasonable.it would be dreadful to be standing so close! nothing can be farther from pleasure thanto be dancing in a crowd—and a crowd in a little room!”“there is no denying it,” he replied. “i agree with you exactly. a crowd in alittle room—miss woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. exquisite,quite exquisite!—still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to givethe matter up. it would be a disappointment to my father—and altogether—i do not knowthat—i am rather of opinion that ten couple might stand here very well.”emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he wouldrather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing

with her; but she took the compliment, andforgave the rest. had she intended ever to marry him, it might have been worth whileto pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference, and the characterof his temper; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough.before the middle of the next day, he was at hartfield; and he entered the room withsuch an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. it soon appeared that he cameto announce an improvement. “well, miss woodhouse,” he almost immediatelybegan, “your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened away, i hope, bythe terrors of my father’s little rooms. i bring a new proposal on the subject:—athought of my father’s, which waits only

your approbation to be acted upon. may i hopefor the honour of your hand for the two first dances of this little projected ball, to begiven, not at randalls, but at the crown inn?” “the crown!”“yes; if you and mr. woodhouse see no objection, and i trust you cannot, my father hopes hisfriends will be so kind as to visit him there. better accommodations, he can promise them,and not a less grateful welcome than at randalls. it is his own idea. mrs. weston sees no objectionto it, provided you are satisfied. this is what we all feel. oh! you were perfectly right!ten couple, in either of the randalls rooms, would have been insufferable!—dreadful!—ifelt how right you were the whole time, but was too anxious for securing any thing tolike to yield. is not it a good exchange?—you

consent—i hope you consent?”“it appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if mr. and mrs. weston do not.i think it admirable; and, as far as i can answer for myself, shall be most happy—itseems the only improvement that could be. papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement?”she was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended; and then,being quite new, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable.“no; he thought it very far from an improvement—a very bad plan—much worse than the other.a room at an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired, or fit to be inhabited.if they must dance, they had better dance at randalls. he had never been in the roomat the crown in his life—did not know the

people who kept it by sight.—oh! no—avery bad plan. they would catch worse colds at the crown than anywhere.”“i was going to observe, sir,” said frank churchill, “that one of the great recommendationsof this change would be the very little danger of any body’s catching cold—so much lessdanger at the crown than at randalls! mr. perry might have reason to regret the alteration,but nobody else could.” “sir,” said mr. woodhouse, rather warmly,“you are very much mistaken if you suppose mr. perry to be that sort of character. mr.perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. but i do not understand how the roomat the crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.”“from the very circumstance of its being

larger, sir. we shall have no occasion toopen the windows at all—not once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit ofopening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which (as you well know, sir)does the mischief.” “open the windows!—but surely, mr. churchill,nobody would think of opening the windows at randalls. nobody could be so imprudent!i never heard of such a thing. dancing with open windows!—i am sure, neither your fathernor mrs. weston (poor miss taylor that was) would suffer it.”“ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window-curtain,and throw up a sash, without its being suspected. i have often known it done myself.”“have you indeed, sir?—bless me! i never

could have supposed it. but i live out ofthe world, and am often astonished at what i hear. however, this does make a difference;and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over—but these sort of things require a good deal ofconsideration. one cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. if mr. and mrs. weston will beso obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be done.”“but, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—”“oh!” interrupted emma, “there will be plenty of time for talking every thingover. there is no hurry at all. if it can be contrived to be at the crown, papa, itwill be very convenient for the horses. they will be so near their own stable.”“so they will, my dear. that is a great

thing. not that james ever complains; butit is right to spare our horses when we can. if i could be sure of the rooms being thoroughlyaired—but is mrs. stokes to be trusted? i doubt it. i do not know her, even by sight.”“i can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because it will be under mrs. weston’scare. mrs. weston undertakes to direct the whole.”“there, papa!—now you must be satisfied—our own dear mrs. weston, who is carefulness itself.do not you remember what mr. perry said, so many years ago, when i had the measles? ‘ifmiss taylor undertakes to wrap miss emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ how oftenhave i heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!”“aye, very true. mr. perry did say so. i

shall never forget it. poor little emma! youwere very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for perry’sgreat attention. he came four times a day for a week. he said, from the first, it wasa very good sort—which was our great comfort; but the measles are a dreadful complaint.i hope whenever poor isabella’s little ones have the measles, she will send for perry.”“my father and mrs. weston are at the crown at this moment,” said frank churchill, “examiningthe capabilities of the house. i left them there and came on to hartfield, impatientfor your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your adviceon the spot. i was desired to say so from both. it would be the greatest pleasure tothem, if you could allow me to attend you

there. they can do nothing satisfactorilywithout you.” emma was most happy to be called to such acouncil; and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two youngpeople set off together without delay for the crown. there were mr. and mrs. weston;delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their differentway; she, in some little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.“emma,” said she, “this paper is worse than i expected. look! in places you see itis dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing i couldhave imagined.” “my dear, you are too particular,” saidher husband. “what does all that signify?

you will see nothing of it by candlelight.it will be as clean as randalls by candlelight. we never see any thing of it on our club-nights.”the ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, “men never know when things are dirtyor not;” and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself, “women will have theirlittle nonsenses and needless cares.” one perplexity, however, arose, which thegentlemen did not disdain. it regarded a supper-room. at the time of the ballroom’s being built,suppers had not been in question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only addition.what was to be done? this card-room would be wanted as a card-room now; or, if cardswere conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small forany comfortable supper? another room of much

better size might be secured for the purpose;but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone throughto get at it. this made a difficulty. mrs. weston was afraid of draughts for the youngpeople in that passage; and neither emma nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospectof being miserably crowded at supper. mrs. weston proposed having no regular supper;merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion.a private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon therights of men and women; and mrs. weston must not speak of it again. she then took anotherline of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,“i do not think it is so very small. we

shall not be many, you know.”and mr. weston at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was callingout, “you talk a great deal of the length ofthis passage, my dear. it is a mere nothing after all; and not the least draught fromthe stairs.” “i wish,” said mrs. weston, “one couldknow which arrangement our guests in general would like best. to do what would be mostgenerally pleasing must be our object—if one could but tell what that would be.”“yes, very true,” cried frank, “very true. you want your neighbours’ opinions.i do not wonder at you. if one could ascertain what the chief of them—the coles, for instance.they are not far off. shall i call upon them?

or miss bates? she is still nearer.—andi do not know whether miss bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of therest of the people as any body. i think we do want a larger council. suppose i go andinvite miss bates to join us?” “well—if you please,” said mrs. westonrather hesitating, “if you think she will be of any use.”“you will get nothing to the purpose from miss bates,” said emma. “she will be alldelight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. she will not even listen to yourquestions. i see no advantage in consulting miss bates.”“but she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! i am very fond of hearing miss bates talk.and i need not bring the whole family, you

know.”here mr. weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.“aye, do, frank.—go and fetch miss bates, and let us end the matter at once. she willenjoy the scheme, i am sure; and i do not know a properer person for shewing us howto do away difficulties. fetch miss bates. we are growing a little too nice. she is astanding lesson of how to be happy. but fetch them both. invite them both.”“both sir! can the old lady?”... “the old lady! no, the young lady, to besure. i shall think you a great blockhead, frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece.”“oh! i beg your pardon, sir. i did not immediately recollect. undoubtedly if you wish it, i willendeavour to persuade them both.” and away

he ran.long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—mrs.weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again,and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before—indeed very trifling;and here ended the difficulties of decision. all the rest, in speculation at least, wasperfectly smooth. all the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, teaand supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any timebetween mrs. weston and mrs. stokes.—every body invited, was certainly to come; frankhad already written to enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, whichcould not possibly be refused. and a delightful

dance it was to be.most cordially, when miss bates arrived, did she agree that it must. as a counsellor shewas not wanted; but as an approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome. herapprobation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please; and foranother half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, somesuggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. the party did notbreak up without emma’s being positively secured for the two first dances by the heroof the evening, nor without her overhearing mr. weston whisper to his wife, “he hasasked her, my dear. that’s right. i knew he would!”

chapter xii one thing only was wanting to make the prospectof the ball completely satisfactory to emma—its being fixed for a day within the granted termof frank churchill’s stay in surry; for, in spite of mr. weston’s confidence, shecould not think it so very impossible that the churchills might not allow their nephewto remain a day beyond his fortnight. but this was not judged feasible. the preparationsmust 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—atthe 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 stayinglonger evidently did not please; but it was not opposed. all was safe and prosperous;and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, emma, being now certainof her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation mr. knightley’s provoking indifference aboutit. either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed withouthis being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined againstits exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. to her voluntarycommunications emma could get no more approving reply, than,“very well. if the westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a fewhours of noisy entertainment, i have nothing

to say against it, but that they shall notchuse pleasures for me.—oh! yes, i must be there; i could not refuse; and i will keepas much awake as i can; but i would rather be at home, looking over william larkins’sweek’s account; much rather, i confess.—pleasure in seeing dancing!—not i, indeed—i neverlook at it—i do not know who does.—fine dancing, i believe, like virtue, must be itsown reward. those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different.”this emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite angry. it was not in complimentto jane fairfax however that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not guided by herfeelings in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinarydegree. it made her animated—open hearted—she

voluntarily said;—“oh! miss woodhouse, i hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. what a disappointmentit would be! i do look forward to it, i own, with very great pleasure.”it was not to oblige jane fairfax therefore that he would have preferred the society ofwilliam larkins. no!—she was more and more convinced that mrs. weston was quite mistakenin that surmise. there was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment onhis side—but no love. alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrellingwith mr. knightley. two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the over-throwof every thing. a letter arrived from mr. churchill to urge his nephew’s instant return.mrs. churchill was unwell—far too unwell

to do without him; she had been in a verysuffering state (so said her husband) when writing to her nephew two days before, thoughfrom her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself,she had not mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him toset off for enscombe without delay. the substance of this letter was forwardedto emma, in a note from mrs. weston, instantly. as to his going, it was inevitable. he mustbe gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessenhis repugnance. he knew her illnesses; they never occurred but for her own convenience.mrs. weston added, “that he could only allow himself time to hurry to highbury, after breakfast,and take leave of the few friends there whom

he could suppose to feel any interest in him;and that he might be expected at hartfield very soon.”this wretched note was the finale of emma’s breakfast. when once it had been read, therewas no doing any thing, but lament and exclaim. the loss of the ball—the loss of the youngman—and all that the young man might be feeling!—it was too wretched!—such a delightfulevening as it would have been!—every body so happy! and she and her partner the happiest!—“isaid it would be so,” was the only consolation. her father’s feelings were quite distinct.he thought principally of mrs. churchill’s illness, and wanted to know how she was treated;and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear emma disappointed; but they would allbe safer at home.

emma was ready for her visitor some time beforehe appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look andtotal want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. he felt the going away almosttoo much to speak of it. his dejection was most evident. he sat really lost in thoughtfor the first few minutes; and when rousing himself, it was only to say,“of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.”“but you will come again,” said emma. “this will not be your only visit to randalls.”“ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when i may be able to return!—i shalltry for it with a zeal!—it will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if myuncle and aunt go to town this spring—but

i am afraid—they did not stir last spring—iam afraid it is a custom gone for ever.” “our poor ball must be quite given up.”“ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why not seize the pleasure at once?—howoften is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!—you told us it wouldbe so.—oh! miss woodhouse, why are you always so right?”“indeed, i am very sorry to be right in this instance. i would much rather have beenmerry than wise.” “if i can come again, we are still to haveour ball. my father depends on it. do not forget your engagement.”emma looked graciously. “such a fortnight as it has been!” hecontinued; “every day more precious and

more delightful than the day before!—everyday making me less fit to bear any other place. happy those, who can remain at highbury!”“as you do us such ample justice now,” said emma, laughing, “i will venture toask, whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first? do not we rather surpass your expectations?i am sure we do. i am sure you did not much expect to like us. you would not have beenso long in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of highbury.”he laughed rather consciously; and though denying the sentiment, emma was convincedthat it had been so. “and you must be off this very morning?”“yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back together, and i must be off immediately.i am almost afraid that every moment will

bring him.”“not five minutes to spare even for your friends miss fairfax and miss bates? how unlucky!miss bates’s powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours.”“yes—i have called there; passing the door, i thought it better. it was a rightthing to do. i went in for three minutes, and was detained by miss bates’s being absent.she was out; and i felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. she is a woman thatone may, that one must laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. it was betterto pay my visit, then”— he hesitated, got up, walked to a window.“in short,” said he, “perhaps, miss woodhouse—i think you can hardly be quitewithout suspicion”—

he looked at her, as if wanting to read herthoughts. she hardly knew what to say. it seemed like the forerunner of something absolutelyserious, which she did not wish. forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of puttingit by, she calmly said, “you are quite in the right; it was mostnatural to pay your visit, then”— he was silent. she believed he was lookingat her; probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to understand the manner.she heard him sigh. it was natural for him to feel that he had cause to sigh. he couldnot believe her to be encouraging him. a few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again;and in a more determined manner said, “it was something to feel that all the restof my time might be given to hartfield. my

regard for hartfield is most warm”—he stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed.—he was more in love with herthan emma had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended, if his father had notmade his appearance? mr. woodhouse soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him composed.a very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. mr. weston, always alertwhen business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable,as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, “it was time to go;” and the young man,though he might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.“i shall hear about you all,” said he; “that is my chief consolation. i shall hearof every thing that is going on among you.

i have engaged mrs. weston to correspond withme. she has been so kind as to promise it. oh! the blessing of a female correspondent,when one is really interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. in her letters ishall be at dear highbury again.” a very friendly shake of the hand, a veryearnest “good-bye,” closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out frank churchill.short had been the notice—short their meeting; he was gone; and emma felt so sorry to part,and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence as to begin to beafraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much.it was a sad change. they had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. certainlyhis being at randalls had given great spirit

to the last two weeks—indescribable spirit;the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance ofhis attentions, his liveliness, his manners! it had been a very happy fortnight, and forlornmust be the sinking from it into the common course of hartfield days. to complete everyother recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. what strength, or whatconstancy of affection he might be subject to, was another point; but at present shecould not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself;and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little inlove with him, in spite of every previous determination against it.“i certainly must,” said she. “this

sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity,this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every thing’s beingdull and insipid about the house!— i must be in love; i should be the oddest creaturein the world if i were not—for a few weeks at least. well! evil to some is always goodto others. i shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for frank churchill;but mr. knightley will be happy. he may spend the evening with his dear william larkinsnow if he likes.” mr. knightley, however, shewed no triumphanthappiness. he could not say that he was sorry on his own account; his very cheerful lookwould have contradicted him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was sorryfor the disappointment of the others, and

with considerable kindness added,“you, emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck; youare very much out of luck!” it was some days before she saw jane fairfax,to judge of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they did meet, her composurewas odious. she had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree,which made her aunt declare, that had the ball taken place, she did not think jane couldhave attended it; and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to thelanguor of ill-health. chapter xiii emma continued to entertain no doubt of herbeing in love. her ideas only varied as to

the how much. at first, she thought it wasa good deal; and afterwards, but little. she had great pleasure in hearing frank churchilltalked of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing mr. and mrs. weston; shewas very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might knowhow he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his comingto randalls again this spring. but, on the other hand, she could not admit herself tobe unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual;she was still busy and cheerful; and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to havefaults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working,forming a thousand amusing schemes for the

progress and close of their attachment, fancyinginteresting dialogues, and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginarydeclaration on his side was that she refused him. their affection was always to subsideinto friendship. every thing tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still theywere to part. when she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not bevery much in love; for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit herfather, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a strugglethan she could foresee in her own feelings. “i do not find myself making any use ofthe word sacrifice,” said she.—“in not one of all my clever replies, my delicatenegatives, is there any allusion to making

a sacrifice. i do suspect that he is not reallynecessary to my happiness. so much the better. i certainly will not persuade myself to feelmore than i do. i am quite enough in love. i should be sorry to be more.”upon the whole, she was equally contented with her view of his feelings.“he is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing denotes it—very much in love indeed!—andwhen he comes again, if his affection continue, i must be on my guard not to encourage it.—itwould be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. not thati imagine he can think i have been encouraging him hitherto. no, if he had believed me atall to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. could he have thought himselfencouraged, his looks and language at parting

would have been different.—still, however,i must be on my guard. this is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is;but i do not know that i expect it will; i do not look upon him to be quite the sortof man—i do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy.—his feelings arewarm, but i can imagine them rather changeable.—every consideration of the subject, in short, makesme thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved.—i shall do very well againafter a little while—and then, it will be a good thing over; for they say every bodyis in love once in their lives, and i shall have been let off easily.”when his letter to mrs. weston arrived, emma had the perusal of it; and she read it witha degree of pleasure and admiration which

made her at first shake her head over herown sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. it was a long, well-writtenletter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection,gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing every thing exteriorand local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. no suspicious flourishesnow of apology or concern; it was the language of real feeling towards mrs. weston; and thetransition from highbury to enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of thefirst blessings of social life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it was felt,and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety.—the charmof her own name was not wanting. miss woodhouse

appeared more than once, and never withouta something of pleasing connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembranceof what she had said; and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned asit was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influenceand acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. compressed into the verylowest vacant corner were these words—“i had not a spare moment on tuesday, as youknow, for miss woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. pray make my excuses and adieus toher.” this, emma could not doubt, was all for herself. harriet was remembered only frombeing her friend. his information and prospects as to enscombe were neither worse nor betterthan had been anticipated; mrs. churchill

was recovering, and he dared not yet, evenin his own imagination, fix a time for coming to randalls again.gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments,she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to mrs. weston, that it had not added anylasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do withouther. her intentions were unchanged. her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by theaddition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. his recollection of harriet,and the words which clothed it, the “beautiful little friend,” suggested to her the ideaof harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. was it impossible?—no.—harriet undoubtedlywas greatly his inferior in understanding;

but he had been very much struck with theloveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities ofcircumstance and connexion were in her favour.—for harriet, it would be advantageous and delightfulindeed. “i must not dwell upon it,” said she.—“imust not think of it. i know the danger of indulging such speculations. but strangerthings have happened; and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it willbe the means of confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship which i canalready look forward to with pleasure.” it was well to have a comfort in store onharriet’s behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom; for evilin that quarter was at hand. as frank churchill’s

arrival had succeeded mr. elton’s engagementin the conversation of highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first,so now upon frank churchill’s disappearance, mr. elton’s concerns were assuming the mostirresistible form.—his wedding-day was named. he would soon be among them again; mr. eltonand his bride. there was hardly time to talk over the first letter from enscombe before“mr. elton and his bride” was in every body’s mouth, and frank churchill was forgotten.emma grew sick at the sound. she had had three weeks of happy exemption from mr. elton; andharriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. withmr. weston’s ball in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility toother things; but it was now too evident that

she had not attained such a state of composureas could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.poor harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothingsand attentions of every kind that emma could give. emma felt that she could not do toomuch for her, that harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience; butit was heavy work to be for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreedto, without being able to make their opinions the same. harriet listened submissively, andsaid “it was very true—it was just as miss woodhouse described—it was not worthwhile to think about them—and she would not think about them any longer” but nochange of subject could avail, and the next

half-hour saw her as anxious and restlessabout the eltons as before. at last emma attacked her on another ground.“your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about mr. elton’s marrying,harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me. you could not give me a greater reprooffor the mistake i fell into. it was all my doing, i know. i have not forgotten it, iassure you.—deceived myself, i did very miserably deceive you—and it will be a painfulreflection to me for ever. do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it.”harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. emma continued,“i have not said, exert yourself harriet for my sake; think less, talk less of mr.elton for my sake; because for your own sake

rather, i would wish it to be done, for thesake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a considerationof what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others,to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. these are the motives whichi have been pressing on you. they are very important—and sorry i am that you cannotfeel them sufficiently to act upon them. my being saved from pain is a very secondaryconsideration. i want you to save yourself from greater pain. perhaps i may sometimeshave felt that harriet would not forget what was due—or rather what would be kind byme.” this appeal to her affections did more thanall the rest. the idea of wanting gratitude

and consideration for miss woodhouse, whomshe really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of griefwas comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and supporther in it very tolerably. “you, who have been the best friend i everhad in my life—want gratitude to you!—nobody is equal to you!—i care for nobody as ido for you!—oh! miss woodhouse, how ungrateful i have been!”such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing that look and manner could do,made emma feel that she had never loved harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highlybefore. “there is no charm equal to tenderness ofheart,” said she afterwards to herself.

“there is nothing to be compared to it.warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness ofhead in the world, for attraction, i am sure it will. it is tenderness of heart which makesmy dear father so generally beloved—which gives isabella all her popularity.—i haveit not—but i know how to prize and respect it.—harriet is my superior in all the charmand all the felicity it gives. dear harriet!—i would not change you for the clearest-headed,longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. oh! the coldness of a jane fairfax!—harrietis worth a hundred such—and for a wife—a sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable.i mention no names; but happy the man who changes emma for harriet!”

chapter xiv mrs. elton was first seen at church: but thoughdevotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, andit must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether shewere very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all.emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolveon not being the last to pay her respects; and she made a point of harriet’s goingwith her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible.she could not enter the house again, could not be in the same room to which she had withsuch vain artifice retreated three months

ago, to lace up her boot, without recollecting.a thousand vexatious thoughts would recur. compliments, charades, and horrible blunders;and it was not to be supposed that poor harriet should not be recollecting too; but she behavedvery well, and was only rather pale and silent. the visit was of course short; and there wasso much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that emma would not allow herselfentirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaningterms of being “elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.”she did not really like her. she would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspectedthat there was no elegance;—ease, but not elegance.— she was almost sure that fora young woman, a stranger, a bride, there

was too much ease. her person was rather good;her face not unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor manner, were elegant.emma thought at least it would turn out so. as for mr. elton, his manners did not appear—butno, she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself about his manners. it wasan awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be allgrace to acquit himself well through it. the woman was better off; she might have the assistanceof fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had only his own good sense todepend on; and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor mr. elton was in being in thesame room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry,and the woman whom he had been expected to

marry, she must allow him to have the rightto look as little wise, and to be as much affectedly, and as little really easy as couldbe. “well, miss woodhouse,” said harriet,when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin; “well,miss woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,) what do you think of her?—is not she very charming?”there was a little hesitation in emma’s answer.“oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.”“i think her beautiful, quite beautiful.” “very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkablyelegant gown.” “i am not at all surprized that he shouldhave fallen in love.”

“oh! no—there is nothing to surprize oneat all.—a pretty fortune; and she came in his way.”“i dare say,” returned harriet, sighing again, “i dare say she was very much attachedto him.” “perhaps she might; but it is not everyman’s fate to marry the woman who loves him best. miss hawkins perhaps wanted a home,and thought this the best offer she was likely to have.”“yes,” said harriet earnestly, “and well she might, nobody could ever have a better.well, i wish them happy with all my heart. and now, miss woodhouse, i do not think ishall mind seeing them again. he is just as superior as ever;—but being married, youknow, it is quite a different thing. no, indeed,

miss woodhouse, you need not be afraid; ican sit and admire him now without any great misery. to know that he has not thrown himselfaway, is such a comfort!—she does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves.happy creature! he called her ‘augusta.’ how delightful!”when the visit was returned, emma made up her mind. she could then see more and judgebetter. from harriet’s happening not to be at hartfield, and her father’s beingpresent to engage mr. elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady’s conversation toherself, and could composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite convincedher that mrs. elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinkingmuch of her own importance; that she meant

to shine and be very superior, but with mannerswhich had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were drawnfrom one set of people, and one style of living; that if not foolish she was ignorant, andthat her society would certainly do mr. elton no good.harriet would have been a better match. if not wise or refined herself, she would haveconnected him with those who were; but miss hawkins, it might be fairly supposed fromher easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. the rich brother-in-law near bristolwas the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him.the very first subject after being seated was maple grove, “my brother mr. suckling’sseat;”—a comparison of hartfield to maple

grove. the grounds of hartfield were small,but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well-built. mrs. elton seemed most favourablyimpressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. “verylike maple grove indeed!—she was quite struck by the likeness!—that room was the veryshape and size of the morning-room at maple grove; her sister’s favourite room.”—mr.elton was appealed to.—“was not it astonishingly like?—she could really almost fancy herselfat maple grove.” “and the staircase—you know, as i camein, i observed how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same part of thehouse. i really could not help exclaiming! i assure you, miss woodhouse, it is very delightfulto me, to be reminded of a place i am so extremely

partial to as maple grove. i have spent somany happy months there! (with a little sigh of sentiment). a charming place, undoubtedly.every body who sees it is struck by its beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. wheneveryou are transplanted, like me, miss woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful itis to meet with any thing at all like what one has left behind. i always say this isquite one of the evils of matrimony.” emma made as slight a reply as she could;but it was fully sufficient for mrs. elton, who only wanted to be talking herself.“so extremely like maple grove! and it is not merely the house—the grounds, i assureyou, as far as i could observe, are strikingly like. the laurels at maple grove are in thesame profusion as here, and stand very much

in the same way—just across the lawn; andi had a glimpse of a fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactlyin mind! my brother and sister will be enchanted with this place. people who have extensivegrounds themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same style.”emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. she had a great idea that people who had extensivegrounds themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of any body else; but itwas not worth while to attack an error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,“when you have seen more of this country, i am afraid you will think you have overratedhartfield. surry is full of beauties.” “oh! yes, i am quite aware of that. it isthe garden of england, you know. surry is

the garden of england.”“yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. many counties, i believe,are called the garden of england, as well as surry.”“no, i fancy not,” replied mrs. elton, with a most satisfied smile. “i never heardany county but surry called so.” emma was silenced.“my brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or summer at farthest,”continued mrs. elton; “and that will be our time for exploring. while they are withus, we shall explore a great deal, i dare say. they will have their barouche-landau,of course, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of ourcarriage, we should be able to explore the

different beauties extremely well. they wouldhardly come in their chaise, i think, at that season of the year. indeed, when the timedraws on, i shall decidedly recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be sovery much preferable. when people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know,miss woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible; and mr. sucklingis extremely fond of exploring. we explored to king’s-weston twice last summer, in thatway, most delightfully, just after their first having the barouche-landau. you have manyparties of that kind here, i suppose, miss woodhouse, every summer?”“no; not immediately here. we are rather out of distance of the very striking beautieswhich attract the sort of parties you speak

of; and we are a very quiet set of people,i believe; more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure.”“ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. nobody can be more devotedto home than i am. i was quite a proverb for it at maple grove. many a time has selinasaid, when she has been going to bristol, ‘i really cannot get this girl to move fromthe house. i absolutely must go in by myself, though i hate being stuck up in the barouche-landauwithout a companion; but augusta, i believe, with her own good-will, would never stir beyondthe park paling.’ many a time has she said so; and yet i am no advocate for entire seclusion.i think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it isa very bad thing; and that it is much more

advisable to mix in the world in a properdegree, without living in it either too much or too little. i perfectly understand yoursituation, however, miss woodhouse—(looking towards mr. woodhouse), your father’s stateof health must be a great drawback. why does not he try bath?—indeed he should. let merecommend bath to you. i assure you i have no doubt of its doing mr. woodhouse good.”“my father tried it more than once, formerly; but without receiving any benefit; and mr.perry, whose name, i dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at allmore likely to be useful now.” “ah! that’s a great pity; for i assureyou, miss woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite wonderful the relief they give.in my bath life, i have seen such instances

of it! and it is so cheerful a place, thatit could not fail of being of use to mr. woodhouse’s spirits, which, i understand, are sometimesmuch depressed. and as to its recommendations to you, i fancy i need not take much painsto dwell on them. the advantages of bath to the young are pretty generally understood.it would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life; and i couldimmediately secure you some of the best society in the place. a line from me would bring youa little host of acquaintance; and my particular friend, mrs. partridge, the lady i have alwaysresided with when in bath, would be most happy to shew you any attentions, and would be thevery person for you to go into public with.” it was as much as emma could bear, withoutbeing impolite. the idea of her being indebted

to mrs. elton for what was called an introduction—ofher going into public under the auspices of a friend of mrs. elton’s—probably somevulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live!—thedignity of miss woodhouse, of hartfield, was sunk indeed!she restrained herself, however, from any of the reproofs she could have given, andonly thanked mrs. elton coolly; “but their going to bath was quite out of the question;and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father.”and then, to prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly.“i do not ask whether you are musical, mrs. elton. upon these occasions, a lady’s charactergenerally precedes her; and highbury has long

known that you are a superior performer.”“oh! no, indeed; i must protest against any such idea. a superior performer!—veryfar from it, i assure you. consider from how partial a quarter your information came. iam doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—and my friends say i am not entirelydevoid of taste; but as to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is mediocreto the last degree. you, miss woodhouse, i well know, play delightfully. i assure youit has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musicalsociety i am got into. i absolutely cannot do without music. it is a necessary of lifeto me; and having always been used to a very musical society, both at maple grove and inbath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice.

i honestly said as much to mr. e. when hewas speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it shouldbe disagreeable; and the inferiority of the house too—knowing what i had been accustomedto—of course he was not wholly without apprehension. when he was speaking of it in that way, ihonestly said that the world i could give up—parties, balls, plays—for i had nofear of retirement. blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessaryto me. i could do very well without it. to those who had no resources it was a differentthing; but my resources made me quite independent. and as to smaller-sized rooms than i had beenused to, i really could not give it a thought. i hoped i was perfectly equal to any sacrificeof that description. certainly i had been

accustomed to every luxury at maple grove;but i did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spaciousapartments. ‘but,’ said i, ‘to be quite honest, i do not think i can live withoutsomething of a musical society. i condition for nothing else; but without music, lifewould be a blank to me.’” “we cannot suppose,” said emma, smiling,“that mr. elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical societyin highbury; and i hope you will not find he has outstepped the truth more than maybe pardoned, in consideration of the motive.” “no, indeed, i have no doubts at all onthat head. i am delighted to find myself in such a circle. i hope we shall have many sweetlittle concerts together. i think, miss woodhouse,

you and i must establish a musical club, andhave regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. will not it be a good plan? if weexert ourselves, i think we shall not be long in want of allies. something of that naturewould be particularly desirable for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice; formarried women, you know—there is a sad story against them, in general. they are but tooapt to give up music.” “but you, who are so extremely fond of it—therecan be no danger, surely?” “i should hope not; but really when i lookaround among my acquaintance, i tremble. selina has entirely given up music—never touchesthe instrument—though she played sweetly. and the same may be said of mrs. jeffereys—clarapartridge, that was—and of the two milmans,

now mrs. bird and mrs. james cooper; and ofmore than i can enumerate. upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. i used tobe quite angry with selina; but really i begin now to comprehend that a married woman hasmany things to call her attention. i believe i was half an hour this morning shut up withmy housekeeper.” “but every thing of that kind,” said emma,“will soon be in so regular a train—” “well,” said mrs. elton, laughing, “weshall see.” emma, finding her so determined upon neglectingher music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s pause, mrs. elton chose anothersubject. “we have been calling at randalls,” saidshe, “and found them both at home; and very

pleasant people they seem to be. i like themextremely. mr. weston seems an excellent creature—quite a first-rate favourite with me already, iassure you. and she appears so truly good—there is something so motherly and kind-heartedabout her, that it wins upon one directly. she was your governess, i think?”emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but mrs. elton hardly waited for the affirmativebefore she went on. “having understood as much, i was ratherastonished to find her so very lady-like! but she is really quite the gentlewoman.”“mrs. weston’s manners,” said emma, “were always particularly good. their propriety,simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman.”“and who do you think came in while we were

there?”emma was quite at a loss. the tone implied some old acquaintance—and how could shepossibly guess? “knightley!” continued mrs. elton; “knightleyhimself!—was not it lucky?—for, not being within when he called the other day, i hadnever seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of mr. e.‘s, i had agreat curiosity. ‘my friend knightley’ had been so often mentioned, that i was reallyimpatient to see him; and i must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need notbe ashamed of his friend. knightley is quite the gentleman. i like him very much. decidedly,i think, a very gentleman-like man.” happily, it was now time to be gone. theywere off; and emma could breathe.

“insufferable woman!” was her immediateexclamation. “worse than i had supposed. absolutely insufferable! knightley!—i couldnot have believed it. knightley!—never seen him in her life before, and call him knightley!—anddiscover that he is a gentleman! a little upstart, vulgar being, with her mr. e., andher caro sposo, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbredfinery. actually to discover that mr. knightley is a gentleman! i doubt whether he will returnthe compliment, and discover her to be a lady. i could not have believed it! and to proposethat she and i should unite to form a musical club! one would fancy we were bosom friends!and mrs. weston!—astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman!worse and worse. i never met with her equal.

much beyond my hopes. harriet is disgracedby any comparison. oh! what would frank churchill say to her, if he were here? how angry andhow diverted he would be! ah! there i am—thinking of him directly. always the first person tobe thought of! how i catch myself out! frank churchill comes as regularly into my mind!”—all this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself,after the bustle of the eltons’ departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerablycapable of attending. “well, my dear,” he deliberately began,“considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; andi dare say she was very much pleased with you. she speaks a little too quick. a littlequickness of voice there is which rather hurts

the ear. but i believe i am nice; i do notlike strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor miss taylor. however, she seemsa very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife.though i think he had better not have married. i made the best excuses i could for not havingbeen able to wait on him and mrs. elton on this happy occasion; i said that i hoped ishould in the course of the summer. but i ought to have gone before. not to wait upona bride is very remiss. ah! it shews what a sad invalid i am! but i do not like thecorner into vicarage lane.” “i dare say your apologies were accepted,sir. mr. elton knows you.” “yes: but a young lady—a bride—i oughtto 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 beso anxious to pay your respects to a bride? it ought to be no recommendation to you. itis encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them.”“no, my dear, i never encouraged any body to marry, but i would always wish to pay everyproper attention to a lady—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. moreis avowedly due to her. a bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, letthe others be who they may.” “well, papa, if this is not encouragementto marry, i do not know what is. and i should never have expected you to be lending yoursanction to such vanity-baits for poor young

ladies.”“my dear, you do not understand me. this is a matter of mere common politeness andgood-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry.”emma had done. her father was growing nervous, and could not understand her. her mind returnedto mrs. elton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. chapter xv emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery,to retract her ill opinion of mrs. elton. her observation had been pretty correct. suchas mrs. elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever theymet again,—self-important, presuming, familiar,

ignorant, and ill-bred. she had a little beautyand a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming withsuperior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceivedmiss hawkins to have held such a place in society as mrs. elton’s consequence onlycould surpass. there was no reason to suppose mr. elton thoughtat all differently from his wife. he seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. he hadthe air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to highbury, as not evenmiss woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed tocommend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of miss bates’s good-will, or takingit for granted that the bride must be as clever

and as agreeable as she professed herself,were very well satisfied; so that mrs. elton’s praise passed from one mouth to another asit ought to do, unimpeded by miss woodhouse, who readily continued her first contributionand talked with a good grace of her being “very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.”in one respect mrs. elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. her feelingsaltered towards emma.—offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposalsof intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold anddistant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarilyincreasing emma’s dislike. her manners, too—and mr. elton’s, were unpleasant towardsharriet. they were sneering and negligent.

emma hoped it must rapidly work harriet’scure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.—itwas not to be doubted that poor harriet’s attachment had been an offering to conjugalunreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable toher and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also. she was, of course,the object of their joint dislike.—when they had nothing else to say, it must be alwayseasy to begin abusing miss woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in opendisrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of harriet.mrs. elton took a great fancy to jane fairfax; and from the first. not merely when a stateof warfare with one young lady might be supposed

to recommend the other, but from the veryfirst; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration—butwithout solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriendher.—before emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting,she heard all mrs. elton’s knight-errantry on the subject.—“jane fairfax is absolutely charming, miss woodhouse.—i quite rave about jane fairfax.—asweet, interesting creature. so mild and ladylike—and with such talents!—i assure you i thinkshe has very extraordinary talents. i do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well.i know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. oh! she is absolutely charming!you will laugh at my warmth—but, upon my

word, i talk of nothing but jane fairfax.—andher situation is so calculated to affect one!—miss woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavourto do something for her. we must bring her forward. such talent as hers must not be sufferedto remain unknown.—i dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet,‘full many a flower is born to blush unseen, ‘and waste its fragrance on the desert air.’we must not allow them to be verified in sweet jane fairfax.”“i cannot think there is any danger of it,” was emma’s calm answer—“and when youare better acquainted with miss fairfax’s situation and understand what her home hasbeen, with colonel and mrs. campbell, i have no idea that you will suppose her talentscan be unknown.”

“oh! but dear miss woodhouse, she is nowin such retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.—whatever advantages she may have enjoyedwith the campbells are so palpably at an end! and i think she feels it. i am sure she does.she is very timid and silent. one can see that she feels the want of encouragement.i like her the better for it. i must confess it is a recommendation to me. i am a greatadvocate for timidity—and i am sure one does not often meet with it.—but in thosewho are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. oh! i assure you, jane fairfax is a very delightfulcharacter, and interests me more than i can express.”“you appear to feel a great deal—but i am not aware how you or any of miss fairfax’sacquaintance here, any of those who have known

her longer than yourself, can shew her anyother attention than”— “my dear miss woodhouse, a vast deal maybe done by those who dare to act. you and i need not be afraid. if we set the example,many will follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. we have carriagesto fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which could not make the additionof jane fairfax, at any time, the least inconvenient.—i should be extremely displeased if wright wereto send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked more than jane fairfaxto partake of it. i have no idea of that sort of thing. it is not likely that i should,considering what i have been used to. my greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quitethe other way, in doing too much, and being

too careless of expense. maple grove willprobably be my model more than it ought to be—for we do not at all affect to equalmy brother, mr. suckling, in income.—however, my resolution is taken as to noticing janefairfax.—i shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her whereveri can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly onthe watch for an eligible situation. my acquaintance is so very extensive, that i have little doubtof hearing of something to suit her shortly.—i shall introduce her, of course, very particularlyto my brother and sister when they come to us. i am sure they will like her extremely;and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off,for there really is nothing in the manners

of either but what is highly conciliating.—ishall have her very often indeed while they are with me, and i dare say we shall sometimesfind a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties.”“poor jane fairfax!”—thought emma.—“you have not deserved this. you may have donewrong with regard to mr. dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can have merited!—thekindness and protection of mrs. elton!—‘jane fairfax and jane fairfax.’ heavens! letme not suppose that she dares go about, emma woodhouse-ing me!—but upon my honour, thereseems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!”emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any so exclusively addressed to herself—sodisgustingly decorated with a “dear miss

woodhouse.” the change on mrs. elton’sside soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace—neither forced to be the veryparticular friend of mrs. elton, nor, under mrs. elton’s guidance, the very active patronessof jane fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way, in knowing what was felt,what was meditated, what was done. she looked on with some amusement.—missbates’s gratitude for mrs. elton’s attentions to jane was in the first style of guilelesssimplicity and warmth. she was quite one of her worthies—the most amiable, affable,delightful woman—just as accomplished and condescending as mrs. elton meant to be considered.emma’s only surprize was that jane fairfax should accept those attentions and toleratemrs. elton as she seemed to do. she heard

of her walking with the eltons, sitting withthe eltons, spending a day with the eltons! this was astonishing!—she could not havebelieved it possible that the taste or the pride of miss fairfax could endure such societyand friendship as the vicarage had to offer. “she is a riddle, quite a riddle!” saidshe.—“to chuse to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort! andnow to chuse the mortification of mrs. elton’s notice and the penury of her conversation,rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real,generous affection.” jane had come to highbury professedly forthree months; the campbells were gone to ireland for three months; but now the campbells hadpromised their daughter to stay at least till

midsummer, and fresh invitations had arrivedfor her to join them there. according to miss bates—it all came from her—mrs. dixonhad written most pressingly. would jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent,friends contrived—no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had declinedit! “she must have some motive, more powerfulthan appears, for refusing this invitation,” was emma’s conclusion. “she must be undersome sort of penance, inflicted either by the campbells or herself. there is great fear,great caution, great resolution somewhere.—she is not to be with the dixons. the decree isissued by somebody. but why must she consent to be with the eltons?—here is quite a separatepuzzle.”

upon her speaking her wonder aloud on thatpart of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of mrs. elton, mrs. weston venturedthis apology for jane. “we cannot suppose that she has any greatenjoyment at the vicarage, my dear emma—but it is better than being always at home. heraunt is a good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. we mustconsider what miss fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to.”“you are right, mrs. weston,” said mr. knightley warmly, “miss fairfax is as capableas any of us of forming a just opinion of mrs. elton. could she have chosen with whomto associate, she would not have chosen her. but (with a reproachful smile at emma) shereceives attentions from mrs. elton, which

nobody else pays her.”emma felt that mrs. weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she was herself struckby his warmth. with a faint blush, she presently replied,“such attentions as mrs. elton’s, i should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratifymiss fairfax. mrs. elton’s invitations i should have imagined any thing but inviting.”“i should not wonder,” said mrs. weston, “if miss fairfax were to have been drawnon beyond her own inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in accepting mrs. elton’s civilitiesfor her. poor miss bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into agreater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite ofthe very natural wish of a little change.”

both felt rather anxious to hear him speakagain; and after a few minutes silence, he said,“another thing must be taken into consideration too—mrs. elton does not talk to miss fairfaxas she speaks of her. we all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, theplainest spoken amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civilityin our personal intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted. we cannotgive any body the disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before.we feel things differently. and besides the operation of this, as a general principle,you may be sure that miss fairfax awes mrs. elton by her superiority both of mind andmanner; and that, face to face, mrs. elton

treats her with all the respect which shehas a claim to. such a woman as jane fairfax probably never fell in mrs. elton’s waybefore—and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littlenessin action, if not in consciousness.” “i know how highly you think of jane fairfax,”said emma. little henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made herirresolute what else to say. “yes,” he replied, “any body may knowhow highly i think of her.” “and yet,” said emma, beginning hastilyand with an arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to know the worst atonce—she hurried on—“and yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highlyit is. the extent of your admiration may take

you by surprize some day or other.”mr. knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, andeither the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour intohis face, as he answered, “oh! are you there?—but you are miserablybehindhand. mr. cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.”he stopped.—emma felt her foot pressed by mrs. weston, and did not herself know whatto think. in a moment he went on— “that will never be, however, i can assureyou. miss fairfax, i dare say, would not have me if i were to ask her—and i am very surei shall never ask her.” emma returned her friend’s pressure withinterest; and was pleased enough to exclaim,

“you are not vain, mr. knightley. i willsay that for you.” he seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—andin a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,“so you have been settling that i should marry jane fairfax?”“no indeed i have not. you have scolded me too much for match-making, for me to presumeto take such a liberty with you. what i said just now, meant nothing. one says those sortof things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. oh! no, upon my word ihave not the smallest wish for your marrying jane fairfax or jane any body. you would notcome in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married.”mr. knightley was thoughtful again. the result

of his reverie was, “no, emma, i do notthink the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.—i never hada thought of her in that way, i assure you.” and soon afterwards, “jane fairfax is avery charming young woman—but not even jane fairfax is perfect. she has a fault. she hasnot the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. “well,” said she, “andyou soon silenced mr. cole, i suppose?” “yes, very soon. he gave me a quiet hint;i told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. cole does not want to bewiser or wittier than his neighbours.” “in that respect how unlike dear mrs. elton,who wants to be wiser and wittier than all

the world! i wonder how she speaks of thecoles—what she calls them! how can she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiarvulgarity? she calls you, knightley—what can she do for mr. cole? and so i am not tobe surprized that jane fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her. mrs.weston, your argument weighs most with me. i can much more readily enter into the temptationof getting away from miss bates, than i can believe in the triumph of miss fairfax’smind over mrs. elton. i have no faith in mrs. elton’s acknowledging herself the inferiorin thought, word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scantyrule of good-breeding. i cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting hervisitor with praise, encouragement, and offers

of service; that she will not be continuallydetailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation tothe including her in those delightful exploring parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau.”“jane fairfax has feeling,” said mr. knightley—“i do not accuse her of want of feeling. hersensibilities, i suspect, are strong—and her temper excellent in its power of forbearance,patience, self-control; but it wants openness. she is reserved, more reserved, i think, thanshe used to be—and i love an open temper. no—till cole alluded to my supposed attachment,it had never entered my head. i saw jane fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration andpleasure always—but with no thought beyond.” “well, mrs. weston,” said emma triumphantlywhen he left them, “what do you say now

to mr. knightley’s marrying jane fairfax?”“why, really, dear emma, i say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of not beingin love with her, that i should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last.do not beat me.” chapter xvi every body in and about highbury who had evervisited mr. elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. dinner-partiesand evening-parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fastthat she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day.“i see how it is,” said she. “i see what a life i am to lead among you. upon myword we shall be absolutely dissipated. we

really seem quite the fashion. if this isliving in the country, it is nothing very formidable. from monday next to saturday,i assure you we have not a disengaged day!—a woman with fewer resources than i have, neednot have been at a loss.” no invitation came amiss to her. her bathhabits made evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and maple grove had given her a tastefor dinners. she was a little shocked at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attemptat rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the highbury card-parties. mrs. bates, mrs. perry,mrs. goddard and others, were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world, butshe would soon shew them how every thing ought to be arranged. in the course of the springshe must return their civilities by one very

superior party—in which her card-tablesshould be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style—andmore waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, tocarry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour, and in the proper order.emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at hartfield for the eltons.they must not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious suspicions, andimagined capable of pitiful resentment. a dinner there must be. after emma had talkedabout it for ten minutes, mr. woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usualstipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regulardifficulty of deciding who should do it for

him.the persons to be invited, required little thought. besides the eltons, it must be thewestons and mr. knightley; so far it was all of course—and it was hardly less inevitablethat poor little harriet must be asked to make the eighth:—but this invitation wasnot given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts emma was particularly pleasedby harriet’s begging to be allowed to decline it. “she would rather not be in his companymore than she could help. she was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happywife together, without feeling uncomfortable. if miss woodhouse would not be displeased,she would rather stay at home.” it was precisely what emma would have wished, had she deemedit possible enough for wishing. she was delighted

with the fortitude of her little friend—forfortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and shecould now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, jane fairfax.—since her last conversation with mrs. weston and mr. knightley, she was more conscience-strickenabout jane fairfax than she had often been.—mr. knightley’s words dwelt with her. he hadsaid that jane fairfax received attentions from mrs. elton which nobody else paid her.“this is very true,” said she, “at least as far as relates to me, which was all thatwas meant—and it is very shameful.—of the same age—and always knowing her—iought to have been more her friend.—she will never like me now. i have neglected hertoo long. but i will shew her greater attention

than i have done.”every invitation was successful. they were all disengaged and all happy.—the preparatoryinterest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. a circumstance rather unlucky occurred.the two eldest little knightleys were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit ofsome weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one wholeday at hartfield—which one day would be the very day of this party.—his professionalengagements did not allow of his being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbedby its happening so. mr. woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmostthat his nerves could bear—and here would be a ninth—and emma apprehended that itwould be a ninth very much out of humour at

not being able to come even to hartfield forforty-eight hours without falling in with a dinner-party.she comforted her father better than she could comfort herself, by representing that thoughhe certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the increase ofnoise would be very immaterial. she thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself,to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of hisbrother. the event was more favourable to mr. woodhousethan to emma. john knightley came; but mr. weston was unexpectedly summoned to town andmust be absent on the very day. he might be able to join them in the evening, but certainlynot to dinner. mr. woodhouse was quite at

ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrivalof the little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removedthe chief of even emma’s vexation. the day came, the party were punctually assembled,and mr. john knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable.instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talkingto miss fairfax. mrs. elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he lookedat in silence—wanting only to observe enough for isabella’s information—but miss fairfaxwas an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. he had met her beforebreakfast as he was returning from a walk with his little boys, when it had been justbeginning to rain. it was natural to have

some civil hopes on the subject, and he said,“i hope you did not venture far, miss fairfax, this morning, or i am sure you must have beenwet.—we scarcely got home in time. i hope you turned directly.”“i went only to the post-office,” said she, “and reached home before the rain wasmuch. it is my daily errand. i always fetch the letters when i am here. it saves trouble,and is a something to get me out. a walk before breakfast does me good.”“not a walk in the rain, i should imagine.” “no, but it did not absolutely rain wheni set out.” mr. john knightley smiled, and replied,“that is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from yourown door when i had the pleasure of meeting

you; and henry and john had seen more dropsthan they could count long before. the post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives.when you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters are never worth going throughthe rain for.” there was a little blush, and then this answer,“i must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connexion,and therefore i cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent aboutletters.” “indifferent! oh! no—i never conceivedyou could become indifferent. letters are no matter of indifference; they are generallya very positive curse.” “you are speaking of letters of business;mine are letters of friendship.”

“i have often thought them the worst ofthe two,” replied he coolly. “business, you know, may bring money, but friendshiphardly ever does.” “ah! you are not serious now. i know mr.john knightley too well—i am very sure he understands the value of friendship as wellas any body. i can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than tome, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference, itis not age, but situation. you have every body dearest to you always at hand, i, probably,never shall again; and therefore till i have outlived all my affections, a post-office,i think, must always have power to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.”“when i talked of your being altered by

time, by the progress of years,” said johnknightley, “i meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. iconsider one as including the other. time will generally lessen the interest of everyattachment not within the daily circle—but that is not the change i had in view for you.as an old friend, you will allow me to hope, miss fairfax, that ten years hence you mayhave as many concentrated objects as i have.” it was kindly said, and very far from givingoffence. a pleasant “thank you” seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quiveringlip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was felt beyond a laugh. her attention was nowclaimed by mr. woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making thecircle of his guests, and paying his particular

compliments to the ladies, was ending withher—and with all his mildest urbanity, said, “i am very sorry to hear, miss fairfax,of your being out this morning in the rain. young ladies should take care of themselves.—youngladies are delicate plants. they should take care of their health and their complexion.my dear, did you change your stockings?” “yes, sir, i did indeed; and i am very muchobliged by your kind solicitude about me.” “my dear miss fairfax, young ladies arevery sure to be cared for.—i hope your good grand-mama and aunt are well. they are someof my very old friends. i wish my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. you do us a greatdeal of honour to-day, i am sure. my daughter and i are both highly sensible of your goodness,and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing

you at hartfield.”the kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty,and made every fair lady welcome and easy. by this time, the walk in the rain had reachedmrs. elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon jane.“my dear jane, what is this i hear?—going to the post-office in the rain!—this mustnot be, i assure you.—you sad girl, how could you do such a thing?—it is a signi was not there to take care of you.” jane very patiently assured her that she hadnot caught any cold. “oh! do not tell me. you really are a verysad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.—to the post-office indeed!mrs. weston, did you ever hear the like? you

and i must positively exert our authority.”“my advice,” said mrs. weston kindly and persuasively, “i certainly do feel temptedto give. miss fairfax, you must not run such risks.—liable as you have been to severecolds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year.the spring i always think requires more than common care. better wait an hour or two, oreven half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again.now do not you feel that you had? yes, i am sure you are much too reasonable. you lookas if you would not do such a thing again.” “oh! she shall not do such a thing again,”eagerly rejoined mrs. elton. “we will not allow her to do such a thing again:”—andnodding significantly—“there must be some

arrangement made, there must indeed. i shallspeak to mr. e. the man who fetches our letters every morning (one of our men, i forget hisname) shall inquire for yours too and bring them to you. that will obviate all difficultiesyou know; and from us i really think, my dear jane, you can have no scruple to accept suchan accommodation.” “you are extremely kind,” said jane; “buti cannot give up my early walk. i am advised to be out of doors as much as i can, i mustwalk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, i have scarcelyever had a bad morning before.” “my dear jane, say no more about it. thething is determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as i can presume to determine any thingwithout the concurrence of my lord and master.

you know, mrs. weston, you and i must be cautioushow we express ourselves. but i do flatter myself, my dear jane, that my influence isnot entirely worn out. if i meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that pointas settled.” “excuse me,” said jane earnestly, “icannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant.if the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when i am nothere, by my grandmama’s.” “oh! my dear; but so much as patty has todo!—and it is a kindness to employ our men.” jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered;but instead of answering, she began speaking again to mr. john knightley.“the post-office is a wonderful establishment!”

said she.—“the regularity and despatchof it! if one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is reallyastonishing!” “it is certainly very well regulated.”“so seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! so seldom that a letter, among thethousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and notone in a million, i suppose, actually lost! and when one considers the variety of hands,and of bad hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder.”“the clerks grow expert from habit.—they must begin with some quickness of sight andhand, and exercise improves them. if you want any farther explanation,” continued he,smiling, “they are paid for it. that is

the key to a great deal of capacity. the publicpays and must be served well.” the varieties of handwriting were farthertalked of, and the usual observations made. “i have heard it asserted,” said johnknightley, “that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where thesame master teaches, it is natural enough. but for that reason, i should imagine thelikeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after anearly age, and scramble into any hand they can get. isabella and emma, i think, do writevery much alike. i have not always known their writing apart.”“yes,” said his brother hesitatingly, “there is a likeness. i know what you mean—butemma’s hand is the strongest.”

“isabella and emma both write beautifully,”said mr. woodhouse; “and always did. and so does poor mrs. weston”—with half asigh and half a smile at her. “i never saw any gentleman’s handwriting”—emmabegan, looking also at mrs. weston; but stopped, on perceiving that mrs. weston was attendingto some one else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, “now, how am i going tointroduce him?—am i unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people?is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?—your yorkshire friend—your correspondentin yorkshire;—that would be the way, i suppose, if i were very bad.—no, i can pronouncehis name without the smallest distress. i certainly get better and better.—now forit.”

mrs. weston was disengaged and emma beganagain—“mr. frank churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s hands i ever saw.”“i do not admire it,” said mr. knightley. “it is too small—wants strength. it islike a woman’s writing.” this was not submitted to by either lady.they vindicated him against the base aspersion. “no, it by no means wanted strength—itwas not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. had not mrs. weston any letter abouther to produce?” no, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter,had put it away. “if we were in the other room,” said emma,“if i had my writing-desk, i am sure i could produce a specimen. i have a note of his.—donot you remember, mrs. weston, employing him

to write for you one day?”“he chose to say he was employed”— “well, well, i have that note; and can shewit after dinner to convince mr. knightley.” “oh! when a gallant young man, like mr.frank churchill,” said mr. knightley dryly, “writes to a fair lady like miss woodhouse,he will, of course, put forth his best.” dinner was on table.—mrs. elton, beforeshe could be spoken to, was ready; and before mr. woodhouse had reached her with his requestto be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying—“must i go first? i really am ashamed of always leading the way.”jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped emma. she had heardand seen it all; and felt some curiosity to

know whether the wet walk of this morninghad produced any. she suspected that it had; that it would not have been so resolutelyencountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had notbeen in vain. she thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual—a glow bothof complexion and spirits. she could have made an inquiry or two, asto the expedition and the expense of the irish mails;—it was at her tongue’s end—butshe abstained. she was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt jane fairfax’sfeelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearanceof good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.

chapter xvii when the ladies returned to the drawing-roomafter dinner, emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;—withso much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did mrs. elton engross jane fairfax andslight herself. she and mrs. weston were obliged to be almost always either talking togetheror silent together. mrs. elton left them no choice. if jane repressed her for a littletime, 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 principalsubjects: the post-office—catching cold—fetching letters—and friendship, were long underdiscussion; and to them succeeded one, which

must be at least equally unpleasant to jane—inquirieswhether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of mrs.elton’s meditated activity. “here is april come!” said she, “i getquite anxious about you. june will soon be here.”“but i have never fixed on june or any other month—merely looked forward to the summerin general.” “but have you really heard of nothing?”“i have not even made any inquiry; i do not wish to make any yet.”“oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuringexactly the desirable thing.” “i not aware!” said jane, shaking herhead; “dear mrs. elton, who can have thought

of it as i have done?”“but you have not seen so much of the world as i have. you do not know how many candidatesthere always are for the first situations. i saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhoodround maple grove. a cousin of mr. suckling, mrs. bragge, had such an infinity of applications;every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. wax-candlesin the schoolroom! you may imagine how desirable! of all houses in the kingdom mrs. bragge’sis the one i would most wish to see you in.” “colonel and mrs. campbell are to be intown again by midsummer,” said jane. “i must spend some time with them; i am surethey will want it;—afterwards i may probably be glad to dispose of myself. but i wouldnot wish you to take the trouble of making

any inquiries at present.”“trouble! aye, i know your scruples. you are afraid of giving me trouble; but i assureyou, my dear jane, the campbells can hardly be more interested about you than i am. ishall write to mrs. partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge tobe on the look-out for any thing eligible.” “thank you, but i would rather you did notmention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, i do not wish to be giving anybody trouble.” “but, my dear child, the time is drawingnear; here is april, and june, or say even july, is very near, with such business toaccomplish before us. your inexperience really amuses me! a situation such as you deserve,and your friends would require for you, is

no everyday occurrence, is not obtained ata moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly.”“excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my intention; i make no inquiry myself, andshould be sorry to have any made by my friends. when i am quite determined as to the time,i am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. there are places in town, offices, where inquirywould soon produce something—offices for the sale—not quite of human flesh—butof human intellect.” “oh! my dear, human flesh! you quite shockme; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, i assure you mr. suckling was always rathera friend to the abolition.” “i did not mean, i was not thinking of theslave-trade,” replied jane; “governess-trade,

i assure you, was all that i had in view;widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greatermisery of the victims, i do not know where it lies. but i only mean to say that thereare advertising offices, and that by applying to them i should have no doubt of very soonmeeting with something that would do.” “something that would do!” repeated mrs.elton. “aye, that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—i know what a modest creatureyou are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing thatmay offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle,or able to command the elegancies of life.” “you are very obliging; but as to all that,i am very indifferent; it would be no object

to me to be with the rich; my mortifications,i think, would only be the greater; i should suffer more from comparison. a gentleman’sfamily is all that i should condition for.” “i know you, i know you; you would takeup with any thing; but i shall be a little more nice, and i am sure the good campbellswill be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the firstcircle. your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have asmany rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that is—i do notknow—if you knew the harp, you might do all that, i am very sure; but you sing aswell as play;—yes, i really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate forwhat you chose;—and you must and shall be

delightfully, honourably and comfortably settledbefore the campbells or i have any rest.” “you may well class the delight, the honour,and the comfort of such a situation together,” said jane, “they are pretty sure to be equal;however, i am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me.i am exceedingly obliged to you, mrs. elton, i am obliged to any body who feels for me,but i am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. for two or threemonths longer i shall remain where i am, and as i am.”“and i am quite serious too, i assure you,” replied mrs. elton gaily, “in resolvingto be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing reallyunexceptionable may pass us.”

in this style she ran on; never thoroughlystopped by any thing till mr. woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a changeof object, and emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to jane,“here comes this dear old beau of mine, i protest!—only think of his gallantry incoming away before the other men!—what a dear creature he is;—i assure you i likehim excessively. i admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much moreto my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. but this good old mr. woodhouse,i wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. oh! i assure you i beganto think my caro sposo would be absolutely jealous. i fancy i am rather a favourite;he took notice of my gown. how do you like

it?—selina’s choice—handsome, i think,but i do not know whether it is not over-trimmed; i have the greatest dislike to the idea ofbeing over-trimmed—quite a horror of finery. i must put on a few ornaments now, becauseit is expected of me. a bride, you know, must appear like a bride, but my natural tasteis all for simplicity; a simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. buti am quite in the minority, i believe; few people seem to value simplicity of dress,—showand finery are every thing. i have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my whiteand silver poplin. do you think it will look well?”the whole party were but just reassembled in the drawing-room when mr. weston made hisappearance among them. he had returned to

a late dinner, and walked to hartfield assoon as it was over. he had been too much expected by the best judges, for surprize—butthere was great joy. mr. woodhouse was almost as glad to see him now, as he would have beensorry to see him before. john knightley only was in mute astonishment.—that a man whomight have spent his evening quietly at home after a day of business in london, shouldset off again, and walk half a mile to another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixedcompany till bed-time, of finishing his day in the efforts of civility and the noise ofnumbers, was a circumstance to strike him deeply. a man who had been in motion sinceeight o’clock in the morning, and might now have been still, who had been long talking,and might have been silent, who had been in

more than one crowd, and might have been alone!—sucha man, to quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside, and on the evening ofa cold sleety april day rush out again into the world!—could he by a touch of his fingerhave instantly taken back his wife, there would have been a motive; but his coming wouldprobably prolong rather than break up the party. john knightley looked at him with amazement,then shrugged his shoulders, and said, “i could not have believed it even of him.”mr. weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the indignation he was exciting, happyand cheerful as usual, and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day spentanywhere from home confers, was making himself agreeable among the rest; and having satisfiedthe inquiries of his wife as to his dinner,

convincing her that none of all her carefuldirections to the servants had been forgotten, and spread abroad what public news he hadheard, was proceeding to a family communication, which, though principally addressed to mrs.weston, he had not the smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in the room.he gave her a letter, it was from frank, and to herself; he had met with it in his way,and had taken the liberty of opening it. “read it, read it,” said he, “it willgive you pleasure; only a few lines—will not take you long; read it to emma.”the two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling and talking to them the wholetime, in a voice a little subdued, but very audible to every body.“well, he is coming, you see; good news,

i think. well, what do you say to it?—ialways told you he would be here again soon, did not i?—anne, my dear, did not i alwaystell you so, and you would not believe me?—in town next week, you see—at the latest, idare say; for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done; mostlikely they will be there to-morrow or saturday. as to her illness, all nothing of course.but it is an excellent thing to have frank among us again, so near as town. they willstay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. this is preciselywhat i wanted. well, pretty good news, is not it? have you finished it? has emma readit all? put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, butit will not do now. i shall only just mention

the circumstance to the others in a commonway.” mrs. weston was most comfortably pleased onthe occasion. her looks and words had nothing to restrain them. she was happy, she knewshe was happy, and knew she ought to be happy. her congratulations were warm and open; butemma could not speak so fluently. she was a little occupied in weighing her own feelings,and trying to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was considerable.mr. weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too communicative to want othersto talk, was very well satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to make therest of his friends happy by a partial communication of what the whole room must have overheardalready.

it was well that he took every body’s joyfor granted, or he might not have thought either mr. woodhouse or mr. knightley particularlydelighted. they were the first entitled, after mrs. weston and emma, to be made happy;—fromthem he would have proceeded to miss fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with johnknightley, that it would have been too positive an interruption; and finding himself closeto mrs. elton, and her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the subject with her. chapter xviii “i hope i shall soon have the pleasure ofintroducing my son to you,” said mr. weston. mrs. elton, very willing to suppose a particularcompliment intended her by such a hope, smiled

most graciously.“you have heard of a certain frank churchill, i presume,” he continued—“and know himto be my son, though he does not bear my name.” “oh! yes, and i shall be very happy in hisacquaintance. i am sure mr. elton will lose no time in calling on him; and we shall bothhave great pleasure in seeing him at the vicarage.” “you are very obliging.—frank will beextremely happy, i am sure.— he is to be in town next week, if not sooner. we havenotice of it in a letter to-day. i met the letters in my way this morning, and seeingmy son’s hand, presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—it was to mrs.weston. she is his principal correspondent, i assure you. i hardly ever get a letter.”“and so you absolutely opened what was directed

to her! oh! mr. weston—(laughing affectedly)i must protest against that.—a most dangerous precedent indeed!—i beg you will not letyour neighbours follow your example.—upon my word, if this is what i am to expect, wemarried women must begin to exert ourselves!—oh! mr. weston, i could not have believed it ofyou!” “aye, we men are sad fellows. you must takecare of yourself, mrs. elton.—this letter tells us—it is a short letter—writtenin a hurry, merely to give us notice—it tells us that they are all coming up to towndirectly, on mrs. churchill’s account—she has not been well the whole winter, and thinksenscombe too cold for her—so they are all to move southward without loss of time.”“indeed!—from yorkshire, i think. enscombe

is in yorkshire?”“yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles from london, a considerable journey.”“yes, upon my word, very considerable. sixty-five miles farther than from maple grove to london.but what is distance, mr. weston, to people of large fortune?—you would be amazed tohear how my brother, mr. suckling, sometimes flies about. you will hardly believe me—buttwice in one week he and mr. bragge went to london and back again with four horses.”“the evil of the distance from enscombe,” said mr. weston, “is, that mrs. churchill,as we understand, has not been able to leave the sofa for a week together. in frank’slast letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to get into her conservatory withouthaving both his arm and his uncle’s! this,

you know, speaks a great degree of weakness—butnow she is so impatient to be in town, that she means to sleep only two nights on theroad.—so frank writes word. certainly, delicate ladies have very extraordinary constitutions,mrs. elton. you must grant me that.” “no, indeed, i shall grant you nothing.i always take the part of my own sex. i do indeed. i give you notice—you will findme a formidable antagonist on that point. i always stand up for women—and i assureyou, if you knew how selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn, you would not wonderat mrs. churchill’s making incredible exertions to avoid it. selina says it is quite horrorto her—and i believe i have caught a little of her nicety. she always travels with herown sheets; an excellent precaution. does

mrs. churchill do the same?”“depend upon it, mrs. churchill does every thing that any other fine lady ever did. mrs.churchill will not be second to any lady in the land for”—mrs. elton eagerly interposed with, “oh! mr. weston, do not mistake me. selinais no fine lady, i assure you. do not run away with such an idea.”“is not she? then she is no rule for mrs. churchill, who is as thorough a fine ladyas any body ever beheld.” mrs. elton began to think she had been wrongin disclaiming so warmly. it was by no means her object to have it believed that her sisterwas not a fine lady; perhaps there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and shewas considering in what way she had best retract,

when mr. weston went on.“mrs. churchill is not much in my good graces, as you may suspect—but this is quite betweenourselves. she is very fond of frank, and therefore i would not speak ill of her. besides,she is out of health now; but that indeed, by her own account, she has always been. iwould not say so to every body, mrs. elton, but i have not much faith in mrs. churchill’sillness.” “if she is really ill, why not go to bath,mr. weston?—to bath, or to clifton?” “she has taken it into her head that enscombe istoo cold for her. the fact is, i suppose, that she is tired of enscombe. she has nowbeen a longer time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she begins to wantchange. it is a retired place. a fine place,

but very retired.”“aye—like maple grove, i dare say. nothing can stand more retired from the road thanmaple grove. such an immense plantation all round it! you seem shut out from every thing—inthe most complete retirement.—and mrs. churchill probably has not health or spirits like selinato enjoy that sort of seclusion. or, perhaps she may not have resources enough in herselfto be qualified for a country life. i always say a woman cannot have too many resources—andi feel very thankful that i have so many myself as to be quite independent of society.”“frank was here in february for a fortnight.” “so i remember to have heard. he will findan addition to the society of highbury when he comes again; that is, if i may presumeto call myself an addition. but perhaps he

may never have heard of there being such acreature in the world.” this was too loud a call for a complimentto be passed by, and mr. weston, with a very good grace, immediately exclaimed,“my dear madam! nobody but yourself could imagine such a thing possible. not heard ofyou!—i believe mrs. weston’s letters lately have been full of very little else than mrs.elton.” he had done his duty and could return to hisson. “when frank left us,” continued he, “itwas quite uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this day’s news doublywelcome. it has been completely unexpected. that is, i always had a strong persuasionhe would be here again soon, i was sure something

favourable would turn up—but nobody believedme. he and mrs. weston were both dreadfully desponding. ‘how could he contrive to come?and how could it be supposed that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and soforth—i always felt that something would happen in our favour; and so it has, you see.i have observed, mrs. elton, in the course of my life, that if things are going untowardlyone month, they are sure to mend the next.” “very true, mr. weston, perfectly true.it is just what i used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days of courtship,when, because things did not go quite right, did not proceed with all the rapidity whichsuited his feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he was sure at this rateit would be may before hymen’s saffron robe

would be put on for us. oh! the pains i havebeen at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him cheerfuller views! the carriage—we haddisappointments about the carriage;—one morning, i remember, he came to me quite indespair.” she was stopped by a slight fit of coughing,and mr. weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.“you were mentioning may. may is the very month which mrs. churchill is ordered, orhas ordered herself, to spend in some warmer place than enscombe—in short, to spend inlondon; so that we have the agreeable prospect of frequent visits from frank the whole spring—preciselythe season of the year which one should have chosen for it: days almost at the longest;weather genial and pleasant, always inviting

one out, and never too hot for exercise. whenhe was here before, we made the best of it; but there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerlessweather; there always is in february, you know, and we could not do half that we intended.now will be the time. this will be complete enjoyment; and i do not know, mrs. elton,whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of constant expectation there will beof his coming in to-day or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly to happinessthan having him actually in the house. i think it is so. i think it is the state of mindwhich gives most spirit and delight. i hope you will be pleased with my son; but you mustnot expect a prodigy. he is generally thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.mrs. weston’s partiality for him is very

great, and, as you may suppose, most gratifyingto me. she thinks nobody equal to him.” “and i assure you, mr. weston, i have verylittle doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. i have heard so much in praiseof mr. frank churchill.—at the same time it is fair to observe, that i am one of thosewho always judge for themselves, and are by no means implicitly guided by others. i giveyou notice that as i find your son, so i shall judge of him.—i am no flatterer.”mr. weston was musing. “i hope,” said he presently, “i havenot been severe upon poor mrs. churchill. if she is ill i should be sorry to do herinjustice; but there are some traits in her character which make it difficult for me tospeak of her with the forbearance i could

wish. you cannot be ignorant, mrs. elton,of my connexion with the family, nor of the treatment i have met with; and, between ourselves,the whole blame of it is to be laid to her. she was the instigator. frank’s mother wouldnever have been slighted as she was but for her. mr. churchill has pride; but his prideis nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent, gentlemanlike sort of pride thatwould harm nobody, and only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her prideis arrogance and insolence! and what inclines one less to bear, she has no fair pretenceof family or blood. she was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter of a gentleman;but ever since her being turned into a churchill she has out-churchill’d them all in highand mighty claims: but in herself, i assure

you, she is an upstart.”“only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! i have quite a horror of upstarts.maple grove has given me a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a familyin that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance to my brother and sister from the airs theygive themselves! your description of mrs. churchill made me think of them directly.people of the name of tupman, very lately settled there, and encumbered with many lowconnexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and expecting to be on a footing withthe old established families. a year and a half is the very utmost that they can havelived at west hall; and how they got their fortune nobody knows. they came from birmingham,which is not a place to promise much, you

know, mr. weston. one has not great hopesfrom birmingham. i always say there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more ispositively known of the tupmans, though a good many things i assure you are suspected;and yet by their manners they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother, mr. suckling,who happens to be one of their nearest neighbours. it is infinitely too bad. mr. suckling, whohas been eleven years a resident at maple grove, and whose father had it before him—ibelieve, at least—i am almost sure that old mr. suckling had completed the purchasebefore his death.” they were interrupted. tea was carrying round,and mr. weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the opportunity of walking away.after tea, mr. and mrs. weston, and mr. elton

sat down with mr. woodhouse to cards. theremaining five were left to their own powers, and emma doubted their getting on very well;for mr. knightley seemed little disposed for conversation; mrs. elton was wanting notice,which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself in a worry of spirits which wouldhave made her prefer being silent. mr. john knightley proved more talkative thanhis brother. he was to leave them early the next day; and he soon began with—“well, emma, i do not believe i have any thing more to say about the boys; but youhave your sister’s letter, and every thing is down at full length there we may be sure.my charge would be much more concise than her’s, and probably not much in the samespirit; all that i have to recommend being

comprised in, do not spoil them, and do notphysic them.” “i rather hope to satisfy you both,” saidemma, “for i shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough forisabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”“and if you find them troublesome, you must send them home again.”“that is very likely. you think so, do not you?”“i hope i am aware that they may be too noisy for your father—or even may be someencumbrance to you, if your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as they havedone lately.” “increase!”“certainly; you must be sensible that the

last half-year has made a great differencein your way of life.” “difference! no indeed i am not.”“there can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used tobe. witness this very time. here am i come down for only one day, and you are engagedwith a dinner-party!—when did it happen before, or any thing like it? your neighbourhoodis increasing, and you mix more with it. a little while ago, every letter to isabellabrought an account of fresh gaieties; dinners at mr. cole’s, or balls at the crown. thedifference which randalls, randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.”“yes,” said his brother quickly, “it is randalls that does it all.”“very well—and as randalls, i suppose,

is not likely to have less influence thanheretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, emma, that henry and john may be sometimesin the way. and if they are, i only beg you to send them home.”“no,” cried mr. knightley, “that need not be the consequence. let them be sent todonwell. i shall certainly be at leisure.” “upon my word,” exclaimed emma, “youamuse me! i should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place withoutyour being of the party; and why i am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attendto the little boys. these amazing engagements of mine—what have they been? dining oncewith the coles—and having a ball talked of, which never took place. i can understandyou—(nodding at mr. john knightley)—your

good fortune in meeting with so many of yourfriends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed. but you, (turning to mr.knightley,) who know how very, very seldom i am ever two hours from hartfield, why youshould foresee such a series of dissipation for me, i cannot imagine. and as to my dearlittle boys, i must say, that if aunt emma has not time for them, i do not think theywould fare much better with uncle knightley, who is absent from home about five hours whereshe is absent one—and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settlinghis accounts.” mr. knightley seemed to be trying not to smile;and succeeded without difficulty, upon mrs. elton’s beginning to talk to him.

volume iii chapter i a very little quiet reflection was enoughto satisfy emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this news of frank churchill. shewas soon convinced that it was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or embarrassed;it was for him. her own attachment had really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worththinking of;—but if he, who had undoubtedly been always so much the most in love of thetwo, were to be returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he had taken away, it wouldbe very distressing. if a separation of two months should not have cooled him, there weredangers and evils before her:—caution for

him and for herself would be necessary. shedid not mean to have her own affections entangled again, and it would be incumbent on her toavoid any encouragement of his. she wished she might be able to keep him froman absolute declaration. that would be so very painful a conclusion of their presentacquaintance! and yet, she could not help rather anticipating something decisive. shefelt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a crisis, an event, a something toalter her present composed and tranquil state. it was not very long, though rather longerthan mr. weston had foreseen, before she had the power of forming some opinion of frankchurchill’s feelings. the enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had beenimagined, 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 couldthen exercise all her quick observation, and speedily determine how he was influenced,and how she must act. they met with the utmost friendliness. there could be no doubt of hisgreat pleasure in seeing her. but she had an almost instant doubt of his caring forher as he had done, of his feeling the same tenderness in the same degree. she watchedhim well. it was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been. absence, with theconviction probably of her indifference, had produced this very natural and very desirableeffect. he was in high spirits; as ready to talk andlaugh as ever, and seemed delighted to speak

of his former visit, and recur to old stories:and he was not without agitation. it was not in his calmness that she read his comparativedifference. he was not calm; his spirits were evidently fluttered; there was restlessnessabout him. lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but what decidedher belief on the subject, was his staying only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying awayto make other calls in highbury. “he had seen a group of old acquaintance in the streetas he passed—he had not stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he hadthe vanity to think they would be disappointed if he did not call, and much as he wishedto stay longer at hartfield, he must hurry off.” she had no doubt as to his being lessin love—but neither his agitated spirits,

nor his hurrying away, seemed like a perfectcure; and she was rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning power,and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself with her long.this was the only visit from frank churchill in the course of ten days. he was often hoping,intending to come—but was always prevented. his aunt could not bear to have him leaveher. such was his own account at randall’s. if he were quite sincere, if he really triedto come, it was to be inferred that mrs. churchill’s removal to london had been of no service tothe wilful or nervous part of her disorder. that she was really ill was very certain;he had declared himself convinced of it, at randalls. though much might be fancy, he couldnot doubt, when he looked back, that she was

in a weaker state of health than she had beenhalf a year ago. he did not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and medicinemight not remove, or at least that she might not have many years of existence before her;but he could not be prevailed on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her complaintswere merely imaginary, or that she was as strong as ever.it soon appeared that london was not the place for her. she could not endure its noise. hernerves were under continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end, hernephew’s letter to randalls communicated a change of plan. they were going to removeimmediately to richmond. mrs. churchill had been recommended to the medical skill of aneminent person there, and had otherwise a

fancy for the place. a ready-furnished housein a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit expected from the change.emma heard that frank wrote in the highest spirits of this arrangement, and seemed mostfully to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him of such near neighbourhoodto many dear friends—for the house was taken for may and june. she was told that now hewrote with the greatest confidence of being often with them, almost as often as he couldeven wish. emma saw how mr. weston understood these joyousprospects. he was considering her as the source of all the happiness they offered. she hopedit was not so. two months must bring it to the proof.mr. weston’s own happiness was indisputable.

he was quite delighted. it was the very circumstancehe could have wished for. now, it would be really having frank in their neighbourhood.what were nine miles to a young man?—an hour’s ride. he would be always coming over.the difference in that respect of richmond and london was enough to make the whole differenceof seeing him always and seeing him never. sixteen miles—nay, eighteen—it must befull eighteen to manchester-street—was a serious obstacle. were he ever able to getaway, the day would be spent in coming and returning. there was no comfort in havinghim in london; he might as well be at enscombe; but richmond was the very distance for easyintercourse. better than nearer! one good thing was immediately brought toa certainty by this removal,—the ball at

the crown. it had not been forgotten before,but it had been soon acknowledged vain to attempt to fix a day. now, however, it wasabsolutely to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after the churchills had removedto richmond, a few lines from frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better forthe change, and that he had no doubt of being able to join them for twenty-four hours atany given time, induced them to name as early a day as possible.mr. weston’s ball was to be a real thing. a very few to-morrows stood between the youngpeople of highbury and happiness. mr. woodhouse was resigned. the time of yearlightened the evil to him. may was better for every thing than february. mrs. bateswas engaged to spend the evening at hartfield,

james had due notice, and he sanguinely hopedthat neither dear little henry nor dear little john would have any thing the matter withthem, while dear emma were gone. chapter ii no misfortune occurred, again to prevent theball. the day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching,frank churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached randalls before dinner,and every thing was safe. no second meeting had there yet been betweenhim and emma. the room at the crown was to witness it;—but it would be better thana common meeting in a crowd. mr. weston had been so very earnest in his entreaties forher arriving there as soon as possible after

themselves, for the purpose of taking heropinion as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other persons came, thatshe could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’scompany. she was to convey harriet, and they drove to the crown in good time, the randallsparty just sufficiently before them. frank churchill seemed to have been on thewatch; and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightfulevening. 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 couldnot hear the sound of at first, without great surprize. “so unreasonably early!” shewas going to exclaim; but she presently found

that it was a family of old friends, who werecoming, like herself, by particular desire, to help mr. weston’s judgment; and theywere so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been entreated to comeearly with the same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if halfthe company might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which mr. weston depended, andfelt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man who had so many intimates and confidantes,was not the very first distinction in the scale of vanity. she liked his open manners,but a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher character.—generalbenevolence, but not general friendship, made

a man what he ought to be.—she could fancysuch a man. the whole party walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, havingnothing else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe in their variousmodes, till other subjects were started, that, though may, a fire in the evening was stillvery pleasant. emma found that it was not mr. weston’sfault that the number of privy councillors was not yet larger. they had stopped at mrs.bates’s door to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be broughtby the eltons. frank was standing by her, but not steadily;there was a restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. he was looking about, he wasgoing to the door, he was watching for the

sound of other carriages,—impatient to begin,or afraid of being always near her. mrs. elton was spoken of. “i think she mustbe here soon,” said he. “i have a great curiosity to see mrs. elton, i have heardso much of her. it cannot be long, i think, before she comes.”a carriage was heard. he was on the move immediately; but coming back, said,“i am forgetting that i am not acquainted with her. i have never seen either mr. ormrs. elton. i have no business to put myself forward.”mr. and mrs. elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties passed.“but miss bates and miss fairfax!” said mr. weston, looking about. “we thought youwere to bring them.”

the mistake had been slight. the carriagewas sent for them now. emma longed to know what frank’s first opinion of mrs. eltonmight be; how he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of graciousness.he was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention,after the introduction had passed. in a few minutes the carriage returned.—somebodytalked of rain.—“i will see that there are umbrellas, sir,” said frank to his father:“miss bates must not be forgotten:” and away he went. mr. weston was following; butmrs. elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his son; and so briskly didshe begin, that the young man himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly beout of hearing.

“a very fine young man indeed, mr. weston.you know i candidly told you i should form my own opinion; and i am happy to say thati am extremely pleased with him.—you may believe me. i never compliment. i think hima very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what i like and approve—sotruly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism. you must know i have a vast disliketo puppies—quite a horror of them. they were never tolerated at maple grove. neithermr. suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say verycutting things! selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.”while she talked of his son, mr. weston’s attention was chained; but when she got tomaple grove, he could recollect that there

were ladies just arriving to be attended to,and with happy smiles must hurry away. mrs. elton turned to mrs. weston. “i haveno doubt of its being our carriage with miss bates and jane. our coachman and horses areso extremely expeditious!—i believe we drive faster than any body.—what a pleasure itis to send one’s carriage for a friend!—i understand you were so kind as to offer, butanother time it will be quite unnecessary. you may be very sure i shall always take careof them.” miss bates and miss fairfax, escorted by thetwo gentlemen, walked into the room; and mrs. elton seemed to think it as much her dutyas mrs. weston’s to receive them. her gestures and movements might be understood by any onewho looked on like emma; but her words, every

body’s words, were soon lost under the incessantflow of miss bates, who came in talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutesafter her being admitted into the circle at the fire. as the door opened she was heard,“so very obliging of you!—no rain at all. nothing to signify. i do not care for myself.quite thick shoes. and jane declares—well!—(as soon as she was within the door) well! thisis brilliant indeed!—this is admirable!—excellently contrived, upon my word. nothing wanting.could not have imagined it.—so well lighted up!—jane, jane, look!—did you ever seeany thing? oh! mr. weston, you must really have had aladdin’s lamp. good mrs. stokeswould not know her own room again. i saw her as i came in; she was standing in the entrance.‘oh! mrs. stokes,’ said i—but i had

not time for more.” she was now met by mrs.weston.—“very well, i thank you, ma’am. i hope you are quite well. very happy to hearit. so afraid you might have a headache!—seeing you pass by so often, and knowing how muchtrouble you must have. delighted to hear it indeed. ah! dear mrs. elton, so obliged toyou for the carriage!—excellent time. jane and i quite ready. did not keep the horsesa moment. most comfortable carriage.—oh! and i am sure our thanks are due to you, mrs.weston, on that score. mrs. elton had most kindly sent jane a note, or we should havebeen.—but two such offers in one day!—never were such neighbours. i said to my mother,‘upon my word, ma’am—.’ thank you, my mother is remarkably well. gone to mr.woodhouse’s. i made her take her shawl—for

the evenings are not warm—her large newshawl— mrs. dixon’s wedding-present.—so kind of her to think of my mother! boughtat weymouth, you know—mr. dixon’s choice. there were three others, jane says, whichthey hesitated about some time. colonel campbell rather preferred an olive. my dear jane, areyou sure you did not wet your feet?—it was but a drop or two, but i am so afraid:—butmr. frank churchill was so extremely—and there was a mat to step upon—i shall neverforget his extreme politeness.—oh! mr. frank churchill, i must tell you my mother’s spectacleshave never been in fault since; the rivet never came out again. my mother often talksof your good-nature. does not she, jane?—do not we often talk of mr. frank churchill?—ah!here’s miss woodhouse.—dear miss woodhouse,

how do you do?—very well i thank you, quitewell. this is meeting quite in fairy-land!—such a transformation!—must not compliment, iknow (eyeing emma most complacently)—that would be rude—but upon my word, miss woodhouse,you do look—how do you like jane’s hair?—you are a judge.—she did it all herself. quitewonderful how she does her hair!—no hairdresser from london i think could.—ah! dr. hughesi declare—and mrs. hughes. must go and speak to dr. and mrs. hughes for a moment.—howdo you do? how do you do?—very well, i thank you. this is delightful, is not it?—where’sdear mr. richard?—oh! there he is. don’t disturb him. much better employed talkingto the young ladies. how do you do, mr. richard?—i saw you the other day as you rode throughthe town—mrs. otway, i protest!—and good

mr. otway, and miss otway and miss caroline.—sucha host of friends!—and mr. george and mr. arthur!—how do you do? how do you all do?—quitewell, i am much obliged to you. never better.—don’t i hear another carriage?—who can this be?—verylikely the worthy coles.—upon my word, this is charming to be standing about among suchfriends! and such a noble fire!—i am quite roasted. no coffee, i thank you, for me—nevertake coffee.—a little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,—no hurry—oh! here itcomes. every thing so good!” frank churchill returned to his station byemma; and as soon as miss bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearingthe discourse of mrs. elton and miss fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—hewas thoughtful. whether he were overhearing

too, she could not determine. after a goodmany compliments to jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and properlytaken, mrs. elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself—and it was, “howdo you like my gown?—how do you like my trimming?—how has wright done my hair?”—withmany other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. mrs. elton then said,“nobody can think less of dress in general than i do—but upon such an occasion as this,when every body’s eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the westons—whoi have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour—i would not wish to be inferiorto others. and i see very few pearls in the room except mine.—so frank churchill isa capital dancer, i understand.—we shall

see if our styles suit.—a fine young mancertainly is frank churchill. i like him very well.”at this moment frank began talking so vigorously, that emma could not but imagine he had overheardhis own praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of the ladies weredrowned for a while, till another suspension brought mrs. elton’s tones again distinctlyforward.—mr. elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,“oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?—i was this momenttelling jane, i thought you would begin to be impatient for tidings of us.”“jane!”—repeated frank churchill, with a look of surprize and displeasure.—“thatis easy—but miss fairfax does not disapprove

it, i suppose.”“how do you like mrs. elton?” said emma in a whisper.“not at all.” “you are ungrateful.”“ungrateful!—what do you mean?” then changing from a frown to a smile—“no,do not tell me—i do not want to know what you mean.—where is my father?—when arewe to begin dancing?” emma could hardly understand him; he seemedin an odd humour. he walked off to find his father, but was quickly back again with bothmr. and mrs. weston. he had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be laidbefore emma. it had just occurred to mrs. weston that mrs. elton must be asked to beginthe ball; that she would expect it; which

interfered with all their wishes of givingemma that distinction.—emma heard the sad truth with fortitude.“and what are we to do for a proper partner for her?” said mr. weston. “she will thinkfrank ought to ask her.” frank turned instantly to emma, to claim herformer promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfectapprobation of—and it then appeared that mrs. weston was wanting him to dance withmrs. elton himself, and that their business was to help to persuade him into it, whichwas done pretty soon.—mr. weston and mrs. elton led the way, mr. frank churchill andmiss woodhouse followed. emma must submit to stand second to mrs. elton, though shehad always considered the ball as peculiarly

for her. it was almost enough to make herthink of marrying. mrs. elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity completelygratified; for though she had intended to begin with frank churchill, she could notlose by the change. mr. weston might be his son’s superior.—in spite of this littlerub, however, emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length ofthe set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual festivitybefore her.—she was more disturbed by mr. knightley’s not dancing than by any thingelse.—there he was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,—notclassing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were pretending tofeel an interest in the dance till their rubbers

were made up,—so young as he looked!—hecould not have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placedhimself. his tall, firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders ofthe elderly men, was such as emma felt must draw every body’s eyes; and, excepting herown partner, there was not one among the whole row of young men who could be compared withhim.—he moved a few steps nearer, and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlikea manner, with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the trouble.—whenevershe caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general he was looking grave. she wishedhe could love a ballroom better, and could like frank churchill better.—he seemed oftenobserving her. she must not flatter herself

that he thought of her dancing, but if hewere criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid. there was nothing like flirtationbetween her and her partner. they seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers.that frank churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.the ball proceeded pleasantly. the anxious cares, the incessant attentions of mrs. weston,were not thrown away. every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball,which is seldom bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given inthe very beginning of the existence of this. of very important, very recordable events,it was not more productive than such meetings usually are. there was one, however, whichemma thought something of.—the two last

dances before supper were begun, and harriethad no partner;—the only young lady sitting down;—and so equal had been hitherto thenumber of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the wonder!—but emma’swonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing mr. elton sauntering about. he would not askharriet to dance if it were possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and shewas expecting him every moment to escape into the card-room.escape, however, was not his plan. he came to the part of the room where the sitters-bywere collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew hisliberty, and his resolution of maintaining it. he did not omit being sometimes directlybefore miss smith, or speaking to those who

were close to her.—emma saw it. she wasnot yet dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore leisureto look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all. when she was half-wayup the set, the whole group were exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyesto watch; but mr. elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue whichjust then took place between him and mrs. weston; and she perceived that his wife, whowas standing immediately above her, was not only listening also, but even encouraginghim by significant glances.—the kind-hearted, gentle mrs. weston had left her seat to joinhim and say, “do not you dance, mr. elton?” to which his prompt reply was, “most readily,mrs. weston, if you will dance with me.”

“me!—oh! no—i would get you a betterpartner than myself. i am no dancer.” “if mrs. gilbert wishes to dance,” saidhe, “i shall have great pleasure, i am sure—for, though beginning to feel myself rather anold married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very great pleasureat any time to stand up with an old friend like mrs. gilbert.”“mrs. gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom i shouldbe very glad to see dancing—miss smith.” “miss smith!—oh!—i had not observed.—youare extremely obliging—and if i were not an old married man.—but my dancing daysare over, mrs. weston. you will excuse me. any thing else i should be most happy to do,at your command—but my dancing days are

over.”mrs. weston said no more; and emma could imagine with what surprize and mortification she mustbe returning to her seat. this was mr. elton! the amiable, obliging, gentle mr. elton.—shelooked round for a moment; he had joined mr. knightley at a little distance, and was arranginghimself for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.she would not look again. her heart was in a glow, and she feared her face might be ashot. in another moment a happier sight caught her;—mr.knightley leading harriet to the set!—never had she been more surprized, seldom more delighted,than at that instant. she was all pleasure and gratitude, both for harriet and herself,and longed to be thanking him; and though

too distant for speech, her countenance saidmuch, as soon as she could catch his eye again. his dancing proved to be just what she hadbelieved it, extremely good; and harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had notbeen for the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment and veryhigh sense of the distinction which her happy features announced. it was not thrown awayon her, she bounded higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was in a continualcourse of smiles. mr. elton had retreated into the card-room,looking (emma trusted) very foolish. she did not think he was quite so hardened as hiswife, though growing very like her;—she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audiblyto her partner,

“knightley has taken pity on poor littlemiss smith!—very good-natured, i declare.” supper was announced. the move began; andmiss bates might be heard from that moment, without interruption, till her being seatedat table and taking up her spoon. “jane, jane, my dear jane, where are you?—hereis your tippet. mrs. weston begs you to put on your tippet. she says she is afraid therewill be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done—one door nailed up—quantitiesof matting—my dear jane, indeed you must. mr. churchill, oh! you are too obliging! howwell you put it on!—so gratified! excellent dancing indeed!—yes, my dear, i ran home,as i said i should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody missed me.—iset off without saying a word, just as i told

you. grandmama was quite well, had a charmingevening with mr. woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and backgammon.—tea was made downstairs,biscuits and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some of herthrows: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were amused, and who were yourpartners. ‘oh!’ said i, ‘i shall not forestall jane; i left her dancing with mr.george otway; she will love to tell you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partnerwas mr. elton, i do not know who will ask her next, perhaps mr. william cox.’ my dearsir, you are too obliging.—is there nobody you would not rather?—i am not helpless.sir, you are most kind. upon my word, jane on one arm, and me on the other!—stop, stop,let us stand a little back, mrs. elton is

going; dear mrs. elton, how elegant she looks!—beautifullace!—now we all follow in her train. quite the queen of the evening!—well, here weare at the passage. two steps, jane, take care of the two steps. oh! no, there is butone. well, i was persuaded there were two. how very odd! i was convinced there were two,and there is but one. i never saw any thing equal to the comfort and style—candles everywhere.—iwas telling you of your grandmama, jane,—there was a little disappointment.—the baked applesand biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee ofsweetbread and some asparagus brought in at first, and good mr. woodhouse, not thinkingthe asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. now there is nothing grandmamaloves better than sweetbread and asparagus—so

she was rather disappointed, but we agreedwe would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its getting round to dear miss woodhouse,who would be so very much concerned!—well, this is brilliant! i am all amazement! couldnot have supposed any thing!—such elegance and profusion!—i have seen nothing likeit since—well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? anywhere, so that jane is notin a draught. where i sit is of no consequence. oh! do you recommend this side?—well, iam sure, mr. churchill—only it seems too good—but just as you please. what you directin this house cannot be wrong. dear jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishesfor grandmama? soup too! bless me! i should not be helped so soon, but it smells mostexcellent, and i cannot help beginning.”

emma had no opportunity of speaking to mr.knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invitedhim irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. he was warm in his reprobation of mr. elton’sconduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness; and mrs. elton’s looks also received thedue share of censure. “they aimed at wounding more than harriet,”said he. “emma, why is it that they are your enemies?”he looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added, “she ought notto be angry with you, i suspect, whatever he may be.—to that surmise, you say nothing,of course; but confess, emma, that you did want him to marry harriet.”“i did,” replied emma, “and they cannot

forgive me.”he shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he only said,“i shall not scold you. i leave you to your own reflections.”“can you trust me with such flatterers?—does my vain spirit ever tell me i am wrong?”“not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—if one leads you wrong, i am surethe other tells you of it.” “i do own myself to have been completelymistaken in mr. elton. there is a littleness about him which you discovered, and whichi did not: and i was fully convinced of his being in love with harriet. it was througha series of strange blunders!” “and, in return for your acknowledging somuch, i will do you the justice to say, that

you would have chosen for him better thanhe has chosen for himself.—harriet smith has some first-rate qualities, which mrs.elton is totally without. an unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely tobe preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as mrs. elton. i found harrietmore conversable than i expected.” emma was extremely gratified.—they wereinterrupted by the bustle of mr. weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.“come miss woodhouse, miss otway, miss fairfax, what are you all doing?—come emma, set yourcompanions the example. every body is lazy! every body is asleep!”“i am ready,” said emma, “whenever i am wanted.”“whom are you going to dance with?” asked

mr. knightley.she hesitated a moment, and then replied, “with you, if you will ask me.”“will you?” said he, offering his hand. “indeed i will. you have shewn that youcan dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it atall improper.” “brother and sister! no, indeed.” chapter iii this little explanation with mr. knightleygave emma considerable pleasure. it was one of the agreeable recollections of the ball,which she walked about the lawn the next morning to enjoy.—she was extremely glad that theyhad come to so good an understanding respecting

the eltons, and that their opinions of bothhusband and wife were so much alike; and his praise of harriet, his concession in her favour,was peculiarly gratifying. the impertinence of the eltons, which for a few minutes hadthreatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the occasion of some of its highestsatisfactions; and she looked forward to another happy result—the cure of harriet’s infatuation.—fromharriet’s manner of speaking of the circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she hadstrong hopes. it seemed as if her eyes were suddenly opened, and she were enabled to seethat mr. elton was not the superior creature she had believed him. the fever was over,and emma could harbour little fear of the pulse being quickened again by injurious courtesy.she depended on the evil feelings of the eltons

for supplying all the discipline of pointedneglect that could be farther requisite.—harriet rational, frank churchill not too much inlove, and mr. knightley not wanting to quarrel with her, how very happy a summer must bebefore her! she was not to see frank churchill this morning.he had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure of stopping at hartfield, ashe was to be at home by the middle of the day. she did not regret it.having arranged all these matters, looked them through, and put them all to rights,she was just turning to the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the two littleboys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the great iron sweep-gate opened, and twopersons entered whom she had never less expected

to see together—frank churchill, with harrietleaning on his arm—actually harriet!—a moment sufficed to convince her that somethingextraordinary had happened. harriet looked white and frightened, and he was trying tocheer her.—the iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards asunder;—they wereall three soon in the hall, and harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.a young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizesbe explained. such events are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last long.a few minutes made emma acquainted with the whole.miss smith, and miss bickerton, another parlour boarder at mrs. goddard’s, who had beenalso at the ball, had walked out together,

and taken a road, the richmond road, which,though apparently public enough for safety, had led them into alarm.—about half a milebeyond highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by elms on each side, it becamefor a considerable stretch very retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some wayinto it, they had suddenly perceived at a small distance before them, on a broader patchof greensward by the side, a party of gipsies. a child on the watch, came towards them tobeg; and miss bickerton, excessively frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on harrietto follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at the top, and made the bestof her way by a short cut back to highbury. but poor harriet could not follow. she hadsuffered very much from cramp after dancing,

and her first attempt to mount the bank broughton such a return of it as made her absolutely powerless—and in this state, and exceedinglyterrified, she had been obliged to remain. how the trampers might have behaved, had theyoung ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such an invitation for attackcould not be resisted; and harriet was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headedby a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and impertinent in look, though not absolutelyin word.—more and more frightened, she immediately promised them money, and taking out her purse,gave them a shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her ill.—she wasthen able to walk, though but slowly, and was moving away—but her terror and her pursewere too tempting, and she was followed, or

rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demandingmore. in this state frank churchill had found her,she trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. by a most fortunate chance hisleaving highbury had been delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this criticalmoment. the pleasantness of the morning had induced him to walk forward, and leave hishorses to meet him by another road, a mile or two beyond highbury—and happening tohave borrowed a pair of scissors the night before of miss bates, and to have forgottento restore them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in for a few minutes:he was therefore later than he had intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the wholeparty till almost close to them. the terror

which the woman and boy had been creatingin harriet was then their own portion. he had left them completely frightened; and harrieteagerly clinging to him, and hardly able to speak, had just strength enough to reach hartfield,before her spirits were quite overcome. it was his idea to bring her to hartfield: hehad thought of no other place. this was the amount of the whole story,—ofhis communication and of harriet’s as soon as she had recovered her senses and speech.—hedared not stay longer than to see her well; these several delays left him not anotherminute to lose; and emma engaging to give assurance of her safety to mrs. goddard, andnotice of there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to mr. knightley, heset off, with all the grateful blessings that

she could utter for her friend and herself.such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown togetherin such a way, could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest heart and thesteadiest brain. so emma thought, at least. could a linguist, could a grammarian, couldeven a mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed their appearance together,and heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstances had been at work to makethem peculiarly interesting to each other?—how much more must an imaginist, like herself,be on fire with speculation and foresight!—especially with such a groundwork of anticipation asher mind had already made. it was a very extraordinary thing! nothingof the sort had ever occurred before to any

young ladies in the place, within her memory;no rencontre, no alarm of the kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, andat the very hour, when the other very person was chancing to pass by to rescue her!—itcertainly was very extraordinary!—and knowing, as she did, the favourable state of mind ofeach at this period, it struck her the more. he was wishing to get the better of his attachmentto herself, she just recovering from her mania for mr. elton. it seemed as if every thingunited to promise the most interesting consequences. it was not possible that the occurrence shouldnot be strongly recommending each to the other. in the few minutes’ conversation which shehad yet had with him, while harriet had been partially insensible, he had spoken of herterror, her naivete, her fervour as she seized

and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amusedand delighted; and just at last, after harriet’s own account had been given, he had expressedhis indignation at the abominable folly of miss bickerton in the warmest terms. everything was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted. she would notstir a step, nor drop a hint. no, she had had enough of interference. there could beno harm in a scheme, a mere passive scheme. it was no more than a wish. beyond it shewould on no account proceed. emma’s first resolution was to keep herfather from the knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion:but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible. within half an hour it was knownall over highbury. it was the very event to

engage those who talk most, the young andthe low; and all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the happiness of frightfulnews. the last night’s ball seemed lost in the gipsies. poor mr. woodhouse trembledas he sat, and, as emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied without their promisingnever to go beyond the shrubbery again. it was some comfort to him that many inquiriesafter himself and miss woodhouse (for his neighbours knew that he loved to be inquiredafter), as well as miss smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he hadthe pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all very indifferent—which, thoughnot exactly true, for she was perfectly well, and harriet not much otherwise, emma wouldnot interfere with. she had an unhappy state

of health in general for the child of sucha man, for she hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not invent illnesses forher, she could make no figure in a message. the gipsies did not wait for the operationsof justice; they took themselves off in a hurry. the young ladies of highbury mighthave walked again in safety before their panic began, and the whole history dwindled sooninto a matter of little importance but to emma and her nephews:—in her imaginationit maintained its ground, and henry and john were still asking every day for the storyof harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting her right if she varied in the slightestparticular from the original recital. chapter iv

a very few days had passed after this adventure,when harriet came one morning to emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sittingdown and hesitating, thus began: “miss woodhouse—if you are at leisure—ihave something that i should like to tell you—a sort of confession to make—and then,you know, it will be over.” emma was a good deal surprized; but beggedher to speak. there was a seriousness in harriet’s manner which prepared her, quite as much asher words, for something more than ordinary. “it is my duty, and i am sure it is my wish,”she continued, “to have no reserves with you on this subject. as i am happily quitean altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you should have the satisfactionof knowing it. i do not want to say more than

is necessary—i am too much ashamed of havinggiven way as i have done, and i dare say you understand me.”“yes,” said emma, “i hope i do.” “how i could so long a time be fancyingmyself!...” cried harriet, warmly. “it seems like madness! i can see nothing at allextraordinary in him now.—i do not care whether i meet him or not—except that ofthe two i had rather not see him—and indeed i would go any distance round to avoid him—buti do not envy his wife in the least; i neither admire her nor envy her, as i have done: sheis very charming, i dare say, and all that, but i think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—ishall never forget her look the other night!—however, i assure you, miss woodhouse, i wish her noevil.—no, let them be ever so happy together,

it will not give me another moment’s pang:and to convince you that i have been speaking truth, i am now going to destroy—what iought to have destroyed long ago—what i ought never to have kept—i know that verywell (blushing as she spoke).—however, now i will destroy it all—and it is my particularwish to do it in your presence, that you may see how rational i am grown. cannot you guesswhat this parcel holds?” said she, with a conscious look.“not the least in the world.—did he ever give you any thing?”“no—i cannot call them gifts; but they are things that i have valued very much.”she held the parcel towards her, and emma read the words most precious treasures onthe top. her curiosity was greatly excited.

harriet unfolded the parcel, and she lookedon with impatience. within abundance of silver paper was a pretty little tunbridge-ware box,which harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but, excepting the cotton,emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister. “now,” said harriet, “you must recollect.”“no, indeed i do not.” “dear me! i should not have thought it possibleyou could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the verylast times we ever met in it!—it was but a very few days before i had my sore throat—justbefore mr. and mrs. john knightley came—i think the very evening.—do not you rememberhis cutting his finger with your new penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?—but,as you had none about you, and knew i had,

you desired me to supply him; and so i tookmine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller,and kept playing some time with what was left, before he gave it back to me. and so then,in my nonsense, i could not help making a treasure of it—so i put it by never to beused, and looked at it now and then as a great treat.”“my dearest harriet!” cried emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up,“you make me more ashamed of myself than i can bear. remember it? aye, i remember itall now; all, except your saving this relic—i knew nothing of that till this moment—butthe cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying i had none aboutme!—oh! my sins, my sins!—and i had plenty

all the while in my pocket!—one of my senselesstricks!—i deserve to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life.—well—(sittingdown again)—go on—what else?” “and had you really some at hand yourself?i am sure i never suspected it, you did it so naturally.”“and so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!” said emma, recoveringfrom her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. and secretlyshe added to herself, “lord bless me! when should i ever have thought of putting by incotton a piece of court-plaister that frank churchill had been pulling about! i neverwas equal to this.” “here,” resumed harriet, turning to herbox again, “here is something still more

valuable, i mean that has been more valuable,because this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister never did.”emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. it was the end of an old pencil,—thepart without any lead. “this was really his,” said harriet.—“donot you remember one morning?—no, i dare say you do not. but one morning—i forgetexactly the day—but perhaps it was the tuesday or wednesday before that evening, he wantedto make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was about spruce-beer. mr. knightley had beentelling him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when hetook out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it wouldnot do, so you lent him another, and this

was left upon the table as good for nothing.but i kept my eye on it; and, as soon as i dared, caught it up, and never parted withit again from that moment.” “i do remember it,” cried emma; “i perfectlyremember it.—talking about spruce-beer.—oh! yes—mr. knightley and i both saying we likedit, and mr. elton’s seeming resolved to learn to like it too. i perfectly rememberit.—stop; mr. knightley was standing just here, was not he? i have an idea he was standingjust here.” “ah! i do not know. i cannot recollect.—itis very odd, but i cannot recollect.—mr. elton was sitting here, i remember, much aboutwhere i am now.”— “well, go on.”“oh! that’s all. i have nothing more to

shew you, or to say—except that i am nowgoing to throw them both behind the fire, and i wish you to see me do it.”“my poor dear harriet! and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things?”“yes, simpleton as i was!—but i am quite ashamed of it now, and wish i could forgetas easily as i can burn them. it was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances,after he was married. i knew it was—but had not resolution enough to part with them.”“but, harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?—i have not a word to sayfor the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful.”“i shall be happier to burn it,” replied harriet. “it has a disagreeable look tome. i must get rid of every thing.—there

it goes, and there is an end, thank heaven!of mr. elton.” “and when,” thought emma, “will therebe a beginning of mr. churchill?” she had soon afterwards reason to believethat the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she hadtold no fortune, might be proved to have made harriet’s.—about a fortnight after thealarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesignedly. emma was not thinkingof it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. she merely said,in the course of some trivial chat, “well, harriet, whenever you marry i would adviseyou to do so and so”—and thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence sheheard harriet say in a very serious tone,

“i shall never marry.”emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a moment’s debate, asto whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,“never marry!—this is a new resolution.” “it is one that i shall never change, however.”after another short hesitation, “i hope it does not proceed from—i hope it is notin compliment to mr. elton?” “mr. elton indeed!” cried harriet indignantly.—“oh!no”—and emma could just catch the words, “so superior to mr. elton!”she then took a longer time for consideration. should she proceed no farther?—should shelet it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?—perhaps harriet might think her cold or angry if shedid; or perhaps if she were totally silent,

it might only drive harriet into asking herto hear too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such an openand frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly resolved.—she believedit would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that she meant to say and know.plain dealing was always best. she had previously determined how far she would proceed, on anyapplication of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judicious law of herown brain laid down with speed.—she was decided, and thus spoke—“harriet, i will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. your resolution, or ratheryour expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you mightprefer, would be too greatly your superior

in situation to think of you. is not it so?”“oh! miss woodhouse, believe me i have not the presumption to suppose— indeed i amnot so mad.—but it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to think ofhis infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, andveneration, which are so proper, in me especially.” “i am not at all surprized at you, harriet.the service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart.”“service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—the very recollection of it,and all that i felt at the time—when i saw him coming—his noble look—and my wretchednessbefore. 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 ismore than i can promise. i do not advise you to give way to it, harriet. i do not by anymeans engage for its being returned. consider what you are about. perhaps it will be wisestin 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 bethe guide of your sensations. i give you this caution now, because i shall never speak toyou again on the subject. i am determined against all interference. henceforward i knownothing of the matter. let no name ever pass our lips. we were very wrong before; we willbe cautious now.—he is your superior, no

doubt, and there do seem objections and obstaclesof a very serious nature; but yet, harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, therehave been matches of greater disparity. but take care of yourself. i would not have youtoo sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts to him,is a mark of good taste which i shall always know how to value.”harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. emma was very decided in thinkingsuch an attachment no bad thing for her friend. its tendency would be to raise and refineher mind—and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. chapter v

in this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance,june opened upon hartfield. to highbury in general it brought no material change. theeltons were still talking of a visit from the sucklings, and of the use to be made oftheir barouche-landau; and jane fairfax was still at her grandmother’s; and as the returnof the campbells from ireland was again delayed, and august, instead of midsummer, fixed forit, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she wereable to defeat mrs. elton’s activity in her service, and save herself from being hurriedinto a delightful situation against her will. mr. knightley, who, for some reason best knownto himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to frank churchill, was only growing to dislikehim more. he began to suspect him of some

double dealing in his pursuit of emma. thatemma was his object appeared indisputable. every thing declared it; his own attentions,his father’s hints, his mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it was all in unison; words,conduct, discretion, and indiscretion, told the same story. but while so many were devotinghim to emma, and emma herself making him over to harriet, mr. knightley began to suspecthim of some inclination to trifle with jane fairfax. he could not understand it; but therewere symptoms of intelligence between them—he thought so at least—symptoms of admirationon his side, which, having once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirelyvoid of meaning, however he might wish to escape any of emma’s errors of imagination.she was not present when the suspicion first

arose. he was dining with the randalls family,and jane, at the eltons’; and he had seen a look, more than a single look, at miss fairfax,which, from the admirer of miss woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of place. when he wasagain in their company, he could not help remembering what he had seen; nor could heavoid observations which, unless it were like cowper and his fire at twilight,“myself creating what i saw,” brought him yet stronger suspicion of therebeing a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between frank churchilland jane. he had walked up one day after dinner, ashe very often did, to spend his evening at hartfield. emma and harriet were going towalk; he joined them; and, on returning, they

fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves,judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain; mr. and mrs.weston and their son, miss bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. they all united;and, on reaching hartfield gates, emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting thatwould be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. the randallsparty agreed to it immediately; and after a pretty long speech from miss bates, whichfew persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear miss woodhouse’smost obliging invitation. as they were turning into the grounds, mr.perry passed by on horseback. the gentlemen spoke of his horse.“by the bye,” said frank churchill to

mrs. weston presently, “what became of mr.perry’s plan of setting up his carriage?” mrs. weston looked surprized, and said, “idid not know that he ever had any such plan.” “nay, i had it from you. you wrote me wordof it three months ago.” “me! impossible!”“indeed you did. i remember it perfectly. you mentioned it as what was certainly tobe very soon. mrs. perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. it was owingto her persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal ofharm. you must remember it now?” “upon my word i never heard of it till thismoment.” “never! really, never!—bless me! how couldit be?—then i must have dreamt it—but

i was completely persuaded—miss smith, youwalk as if you were tired. you will not be sorry to find yourself at home.”“what is this?—what is this?” cried mr. weston, “about perry and a carriage?is perry going to set up his carriage, frank? i am glad he can afford it. you had it fromhimself, had you?” “no, sir,” replied his son, laughing,“i seem to have had it from nobody.—very odd!—i really was persuaded of mrs. weston’shaving mentioned it in one of her letters to enscombe, many weeks ago, with all theseparticulars—but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course itmust have been a dream. i am a great dreamer. i dream of every body at highbury when i amaway—and when i have gone through my particular

friends, then i begin dreaming of mr. andmrs. perry.” “it is odd though,” observed his father,“that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was notvery likely you should be thinking of at enscombe. perry’s setting up his carriage! and hiswife’s persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what will happen, ihave no doubt, some time or other; only a little premature. what an air of probabilitysometimes runs through a dream! and at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! well, frank,your dream certainly shews that highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. emma,you are a great dreamer, i think?” emma was out of hearing. she had hurried onbefore her guests to prepare her father for

their appearance, and was beyond the reachof mr. weston’s hint. “why, to own the truth,” cried miss bates,who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, “if i must speak on thissubject, there is no denying that mr. frank churchill might have—i do not mean to saythat he did not dream it—i am sure i have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world—butif i am questioned about it, i must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; formrs. perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the coles knew of it as well as ourselves—butit was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. mrs.perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in greatspirits one morning because she thought she

had prevailed. jane, don’t you remembergrandmama’s telling us of it when we got home? i forget where we had been walking to—verylikely to randalls; yes, i think it was to randalls. mrs. perry was always particularlyfond of my mother—indeed i do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her inconfidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond:and, from that day to this, i never mentioned it to a soul that i know of. at the same time,i will not positively answer for my having never dropt a hint, because i know i do sometimespop out a thing before i am aware. i am a talker, you know; i am rather a talker; andnow and then i have let a thing escape me which i should not. i am not like jane; iwish i were. i will answer for it she never

betrayed the least thing in the world. whereis she?—oh! just behind. perfectly remember mrs. perry’s coming.—extraordinary dream,indeed!” they were entering the hall. mr. knightley’seyes had preceded miss bates’s in a glance at jane. from frank churchill’s face, wherehe thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turnedto hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. mr. weston had walkedin. the two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. mr. knightley suspectedin frank churchill the determination of catching her eye—he seemed watching her intently—invain, however, if it were so—jane passed between them into the hall, and looked atneither.

there was no time for farther remark or explanation.the dream must be borne with, and mr. knightley must take his seat with the rest round thelarge modern circular table which emma had introduced at hartfield, and which none butemma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of thesmall-sized pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years been crowded.tea passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in a hurry to move.“miss woodhouse,” said frank churchill, after examining a table behind him, whichhe could reach as he sat, “have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their box ofletters? it used to stand here. where is it? this is a sort of dull-looking evening, thatought to be treated rather as winter than

summer. we had great amusement with thoseletters one morning. i want to puzzle you again.”emma was pleased with the thought; and producing the box, the table was quickly scattered overwith alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves. theywere rapidly forming words for each other, or for any body else who would be puzzled.the quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for mr. woodhouse, who had oftenbeen distressed by the more animated sort, which mr. weston had occasionally introduced,and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departureof the “poor little boys,” or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letternear him, how beautifully emma had written

it.frank churchill placed a word before miss fairfax. she gave a slight glance round thetable, and applied herself to it. frank was next to emma, jane opposite to them—andmr. knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his object to see as much as hecould, with as little apparent observation. the word was discovered, and with a faintsmile pushed away. if meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight,she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed;and harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up,and fell to work. she was sitting by mr. knightley, and turned to him for help. the word was blunder;and as harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there

was a blush on jane’s cheek which gave ita meaning not otherwise ostensible. mr. knightley connected it with the dream; but how it couldall be, was beyond his comprehension. how the delicacy, the discretion of his favouritecould have been so lain asleep! he feared there must be some decided involvement. disingenuousnessand double dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. these letters were but the vehicle forgallantry and trick. it was a child’s play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on frank churchill’spart. with great indignation did he continue toobserve him; with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions.he saw a short word prepared for emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. hesaw that emma had soon made it out, and found

it highly entertaining, though it was somethingwhich she judged it proper to appear to censure; for she said, “nonsense! for shame!” heheard frank churchill next say, with a glance towards jane, “i will give it to her—shalli?”—and as clearly heard emma opposing it with eager laughing warmth. “no, no,you must not; you shall not, indeed.” it was done however. this gallant young man,who seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend himself without complaisance, directlyhanded over the word to miss fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civilityentreated her to study it. mr. knightley’s excessive curiosity to know what this wordmight be, made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it wasnot long before he saw it to be dixon. jane

fairfax’s perception seemed to accompanyhis; her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meaning, the superiorintelligence, of those five letters so arranged. she was evidently displeased; looked up, andseeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and sayingonly, “i did not know that proper names were allowed,” pushed away the letters witheven an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that couldbe offered. her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towardsher aunt. “aye, very true, my dear,” cried the latter,though jane had not spoken a word—“i was just going to say the same thing. it is timefor us to be going indeed. the evening is

closing in, and grandmama will be lookingfor us. my dear sir, you are too obliging. we really must wish you good night.”jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her aunt had preconceived. she wasimmediately up, and wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she couldnot get away; and mr. knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiouslypushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. she was afterwards lookingfor her shawl—frank churchill was looking also—it was growing dusk, and the room wasin confusion; and how they parted, mr. knightley could not tell.he remained at hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; sofull, that when the candles came to assist

his observations, he must—yes, he certainlymust, as a friend—an anxious friend—give emma some hint, ask her some question. hecould not see her in a situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. it was hisduty. “pray, emma,” said he, “may i ask inwhat lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and missfairfax? i saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertainingto the one, and so very distressing to the other.”emma was extremely confused. she could not endure to give him the true explanation; forthough her suspicions were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of having ever impartedthem.

“oh!” she cried in evident embarrassment,“it all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.”“the joke,” he replied gravely, “seemed confined to you and mr. churchill.”he had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. she would rather busy herself aboutany thing than speak. he sat a little while in doubt. a variety of evils crossed his mind.interference—fruitless interference. emma’s confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy,seemed to declare her affection engaged. yet he would speak. he owed it to her, to riskany thing that might be involved in an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; toencounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause.“my dear emma,” said he at last, with

earnest kindness, “do you think you perfectlyunderstand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speakingof?” “between mr. frank churchill and miss fairfax?oh! yes, perfectly.—why do you make a doubt of it?”“have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admiredhim?” “never, never!” she cried with a mostopen eagerness—“never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur tome. and how could it possibly come into your head?”“i have lately imagined that i saw symptoms of attachment between them—certain expressivelooks, which i did not believe meant to be

public.”“oh! you amuse me excessively. i am delighted to find that you can vouchsafe to let yourimagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry to check you in your first essay—butindeed it will not do. there is no admiration between them, i do assure you; and the appearanceswhich have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather ofa totally different nature—it is impossible exactly to explain:—there is a good dealof nonsense in it—but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense,is, that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as any twobeings in the world can be. that is, i presume it to be so on her side, and i can answerfor its being so on his. i will answer for

the gentleman’s indifference.”she spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced, mr. knightley.she was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particularsof his suspicions, every look described, and all the wheres and hows of a circumstancewhich highly entertained her: but his gaiety did not meet hers. he found he could not beuseful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. that he might not be irritatedinto an absolute fever, by the fire which mr. woodhouse’s tender habits required almostevery evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walkedhome to the coolness and solitude of donwell abbey.

chapter vi after being long fed with hopes of a speedyvisit from mr. and mrs. suckling, the highbury world were obliged to endure the mortificationof hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. no such importation of noveltiescould enrich their intellectual stores at present. in the daily interchange of news,they must be again restricted to the other topics with which for a while the sucklings’coming had been united, such as the last accounts of mrs. churchill, whose health seemed everyday to supply a different report, and the situation of mrs. weston, whose happinessit was to be hoped might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child,as that of all her neighbours was by the approach

of it.mrs. elton was very much disappointed. it was the delay of a great deal of pleasureand parade. her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party bestill only talked of. so she thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her thatevery thing need not be put off. why should not they explore to box hill though the sucklingsdid not come? they could go there again with them in the autumn. it was settled that theyshould go to box hill. that there was to be such a party had been long generally known:it had even given the idea of another. emma had never been to box hill; she wished tosee what every body found so well worth seeing, and she and mr. weston had agreed to chusesome fine morning and drive thither. two or

three more of the chosen only were to be admittedto join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superiorto the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic parade ofthe eltons and the sucklings. this was so very well understood between them,that emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure, on hearing frommr. weston that he had been proposing to mrs. elton, as her brother and sister had failedher, that the two parties should unite, and go together; and that as mrs. elton had veryreadily acceded to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. now, as her objectionwas nothing but her very great dislike of mrs. elton, of which mr. weston must alreadybe perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing

forward again:—it could not be done withouta reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and she found herself thereforeobliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid;an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being saidto be of mrs. elton’s party! every feeling was offended; and the forbearance of her outwardsubmission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageablegoodwill of mr. weston’s temper. “i am glad you approve of what i have done,”said he very comfortably. “but i thought you would. such schemes as these are nothingwithout numbers. one cannot have too large a party. a large party secures its own amusement.and she is a good-natured woman after all.

one could not leave her out.”emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of it in private.it was now the middle of june, and the weather fine; and mrs. elton was growing impatientto name the day, and settle with mr. weston as to pigeon-pies and cold lamb, when a lamecarriage-horse threw every thing into sad uncertainty. it might be weeks, it might beonly a few days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations could be ventured on,and it was all melancholy stagnation. mrs. elton’s resources were inadequate to suchan attack. “is not this most vexatious, knightley?”she cried.—“and such weather for exploring!—these delays and disappointments are quite odious.what are we to do?—the year will wear away

at this rate, and nothing done. before thistime last year i assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from maple grove to kingsweston.” “you had better explore to donwell,” repliedmr. knightley. “that may be done without horses. come, and eat my strawberries. theyare ripening fast.” if mr. knightley did not begin seriously,he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight; and the “oh!i should like it of all things,” was not plainer in words than manner. donwell wasfamous for its strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation: but no plea wasnecessary; cabbage-beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be goingsomewhere. she promised him again and again

to come—much oftener than he doubted—andwas extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing complimentas she chose to consider it. “you may depend upon me,” said she. “icertainly will come. name your day, and i will come. you will allow me to bring janefairfax?” “i cannot name a day,” said he, “tilli have spoken to some others whom i would wish to meet you.”“oh! leave all that to me. only give me a carte-blanche.—i am lady patroness, youknow. it is my party. i will bring friends with me.”“i hope you will bring elton,” said he: “but i will not trouble you to give anyother invitations.”

“oh! now you are looking very sly. but consider—youneed not be afraid of delegating power to me. i am no young lady on her preferment.married women, you know, may be safely authorised. it is my party. leave it all to me. i willinvite your guests.” “no,”—he calmly replied,—“thereis but one married woman in the world whom i can ever allow to invite what guests shepleases to donwell, and that one is—” “—mrs. weston, i suppose,” interruptedmrs. elton, rather mortified. “no—mrs. knightley;—and till she isin being, i will manage such matters myself.” “ah! you are an odd creature!” she cried,satisfied to have no one preferred to herself.—“you are a humourist, and may say what you like.quite a humourist. well, i shall bring jane

with me—jane and her aunt.—the rest ileave to you. i have no objections at all to meeting the hartfield family. don’t scruple.i know you are attached to them.” “you certainly will meet them if i can prevail;and i shall call on miss bates in my way home.” “that’s quite unnecessary; i see janeevery day:—but as you like. it is to be a morning scheme, you know, knightley; quitea simple thing. i shall wear a large bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hangingon my arm. here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon. nothing can be more simple, yousee. and jane will have such another. there is to be no form or parade—a sort of gipsyparty. we are to walk about your gardens, and gather the strawberries ourselves, andsit under trees;—and whatever else you may

like to provide, it is to be all out of doors—atable spread in the shade, you know. every thing as natural and simple as possible. isnot that your idea?” “not quite. my idea of the simple and thenatural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. the nature and the simplicityof gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, i think is best observed bymeals within doors. when you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shallbe cold meat in the house.” “well—as you please; only don’t havea great set out. and, by the bye, can i or my housekeeper be of any use to you with ouropinion?—pray be sincere, knightley. if you wish me to talk to mrs. hodges, or toinspect anything—”

“i have not the least wish for it, i thankyou.” “well—but if any difficulties should arise,my housekeeper is extremely clever.” “i will answer for it, that mine thinksherself full as clever, and would spurn any body’s assistance.”“i wish we had a donkey. the thing would be for us all to come on donkeys, jane, missbates, and me—and my caro sposo walking by. i really must talk to him about purchasinga donkey. in a country life i conceive it to be a sort of necessary; for, let a womanhave ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home;—andvery long walks, you know—in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.”“you will not find either, between donwell

and highbury. donwell lane is never dusty,and now it is perfectly dry. come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. you can borrowmrs. cole’s. i would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible.”“that i am sure you would. indeed i do you justice, my good friend. under that peculiarsort of dry, blunt manner, i know you have the warmest heart. as i tell mr. e., you area thorough humourist.—yes, believe me, knightley, i am fully sensible of your attention to mein the whole of this scheme. you have hit upon the very thing to please me.”mr. knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. he wished to persuademr. woodhouse, as well as emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have any of themsitting down out of doors to eat would inevitably

make him ill. mr. woodhouse must not, underthe specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at donwell, be temptedaway to his misery. he was invited on good faith. no lurking horrorswere to upbraid him for his easy credulity. he did consent. he had not been at donwellfor two years. “some very fine morning, he, and emma, and harriet, could go very well;and he could sit still with mrs. weston, while the dear girls walked about the gardens. hedid not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day. he should like to seethe old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet mr. and mrs. elton,and any other of his neighbours.—he could not see any objection at all to his, and emma’s,and harriet’s going there some very fine

morning. he thought it very well done of mr.knightley to invite them—very kind and sensible—much cleverer than dining out.—he was not fondof dining out.” mr. knightley was fortunate in every body’smost ready concurrence. the invitation was everywhere so well received, that it seemedas if, like mrs. elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular compliment to themselves.—emmaand harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it; and mr. weston, unasked,promised to get frank over to join them, if possible; a proof of approbation and gratitudewhich could have been dispensed with.—mr. knightley was then obliged to say that heshould be glad to see him; and mr. weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spareno arguments to induce him to come.

in the meanwhile the lame horse recoveredso fast, that the party to box hill was again under happy consideration; and at last donwellwas settled for one day, and box hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactlyright. under a bright mid-day sun, at almost midsummer,mr. woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down, to partake of this al-frescoparty; and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the abbey, especially prepared forhim by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk withpleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body to come and sit down, and not toheat themselves.—mrs. weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired,and sit all the time with him, remained, when

all the others were invited or persuaded out,his patient listener and sympathiser. it was so long since emma had been at theabbey, that as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was glad to leavehim, and look around her; eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particularobservation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interestingto her and all her family. she felt all the honest pride and complacencywhich her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewedthe respectable size and style of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situation,low and sheltered—its ample gardens stretching down to meadows washed by a stream, of whichthe abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect,

had scarcely a sight—and its abundance oftimber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—thehouse was larger than hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground,rambling and irregular, with many comfortable, and one or two handsome rooms.—it was justwhat it ought to be, and it looked what it was—and emma felt an increasing respectfor it, as the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding.—somefaults of temper john knightley had; but isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. shehad given them neither men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush. these werepleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to doas the others did, and collect round the strawberry-beds.—the

whole party were assembled, excepting frankchurchill, who was expected every moment from richmond; and mrs. elton, in all her apparatusof happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering,accepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought orspoken of.—“the best fruit in england—every body’s favourite—always wholesome.—thesethe finest beds and finest sorts.—delightful to gather for one’s self—the only wayof really enjoying them.—morning decidedly the best time—never tired—every sort good—hautboyinfinitely superior—no comparison—the others hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—chilipreferred—white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in london—abundance aboutbristol—maple grove—cultivation—beds

when to be renewed—gardeners thinking exactlydifferent—no general rule—gardeners never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit—onlytoo rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—currants more refreshing—onlyobjection to gathering strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—could bear it no longer—mustgo and sit in the shade.” such, for half an hour, was the conversation—interruptedonly once by mrs. weston, who came out, in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquireif he were come—and she was a little uneasy.—she had some fears of his horse.seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now emma was obliged to overhear what mrs.elton and jane fairfax were talking of.—a situation, a most desirable situation, wasin question. mrs. elton had received notice

of it that morning, and was in raptures. itwas not with mrs. suckling, it was not with mrs. bragge, but in felicity and splendourit fell short only of them: it was with a cousin of mrs. bragge, an acquaintance ofmrs. suckling, a lady known at maple grove. delightful, charming, superior, first circles,spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—and mrs. elton was wild to have the offer closed withimmediately.—on her side, all was warmth, energy, and triumph—and she positively refusedto take her friend’s negative, though miss fairfax continued to assure her that she wouldnot at present engage in any thing, repeating the same motives which she had been heardto urge before.—still mrs. elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescenceby the morrow’s post.—how jane could bear

it at all, was astonishing to emma.—shedid look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a decision of action unusualto her, proposed a removal.—“should not they walk? would not mr. knightley shew themthe gardens—all the gardens?—she wished to see the whole extent.”—the pertinacityof her friend seemed more than she could bear. it was hot; and after walking some time overthe gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensiblyfollowed one another to the delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which stretchingbeyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasuregrounds.—it led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall withhigh pillars, which seemed intended, in their

erection, to give the appearance of an approachto the house, which never had been there. disputable, however, as might be the tasteof such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed itextremely pretty.—the considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the abbey stood,gradually acquired a steeper form beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was abank of considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with wood;—and at the bottomof this bank, favourably placed and sheltered, rose the abbey mill farm, with meadows infront, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it.it was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind. english verdure, english culture,english comfort, seen under a sun bright,

without being oppressive.in this walk emma and mr. weston found all the others assembled; and towards this viewshe immediately perceived mr. knightley and harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leadingthe way. mr. knightley and harriet!—it was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to seeit.—there had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion, and turnedfrom her with little ceremony. now they seemed in pleasant conversation. there had been atime also when emma would have been sorry to see harriet in a spot so favourable forthe abbey mill farm; but now she feared it not. it might be safely viewed with all itsappendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom,and light column of smoke ascending.—she

joined them at the wall, and found them moreengaged in talking than in looking around. he was giving harriet information as to modesof agriculture, etc. and emma received a smile which seemed to say, “these are my own concerns.i have a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of introducing robert martin.”—shedid not suspect him. it was too old a story.—robert martin had probably ceased to think of harriet.—theytook a few turns together along the walk.—the shade was most refreshing, and emma foundit the pleasantest part of the day. the next remove was to the house; they mustall go in and eat;—and they were all seated and busy, and still frank churchill did notcome. mrs. weston looked, and looked in vain. his father would not own himself uneasy, andlaughed at her fears; but she could not be

cured of wishing that he would part with hisblack mare. he had expressed himself as to coming, with more than common certainty. “hisaunt was so much better, that he had not a doubt of getting over to them.”—mrs. churchill’sstate, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation asmight disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence—and mrs. weston was at last persuadedto believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of mrs. churchill that he wasprevented coming.—emma looked at harriet while the point was under consideration; shebehaved very well, and betrayed no emotion. the cold repast was over, and the party wereto go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old abbey fish-ponds; perhapsget as far as the clover, which was to be

begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate,have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—mr. woodhouse, who had alreadytaken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the riverwere imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his daughter resolved to remain with him,that mrs. weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety whichher spirits seemed to need. mr. knightley had done all in his power formr. woodhouse’s entertainment. books of engravings, drawers of medals, cameos, corals,shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets, had been prepared forhis old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness had perfectly answered. mr.woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused.

mrs. weston had been shewing them all to him,and now he would shew them all to emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child,than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical.—beforethis second looking over was begun, however, emma walked into the hall for the sake ofa few moments’ free observation of the entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardlythere, when jane fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden, and with a lookof escape.—little expecting to meet miss woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first;but miss woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of.“will you be so kind,” said she, “when i am missed, as to say that i am gone home?—iam going this moment.—my aunt is not aware

how late it is, nor how long we have beenabsent—but i am sure we shall be wanted, and i am determined to go directly.—i havesaid nothing about it to any body. it would only be giving trouble and distress. someare gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk. till they all come in i shall not bemissed; and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that i am gone?”“certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to walk to highbury alone?”“yes—what should hurt me?—i walk fast. i shall be at home in twenty minutes.”“but it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. let my father’s servantgo with you.—let me order the carriage. it can be round in five minutes.”“thank you, thank you—but on no account.—i

would rather walk.—and for me to be afraidof walking alone!—i, who may so soon have to guard others!”she spoke with great agitation; and emma very feelingly replied, “that can be no reasonfor your being exposed to danger now. i must order the carriage. the heat even would bedanger.—you are fatigued already.” “i am,”—she answered—“i am fatigued;but it is not the sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—miss woodhouse,we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. mine, i confess, are exhausted.the greatest kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own way, and only saythat i am gone when it is necessary.” emma had not another word to oppose. she sawit all; and entering into her feelings, promoted

her quitting the house immediately, and watchedher safely off with the zeal of a friend. her parting look was grateful—and her partingwords, “oh! miss woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone!”—seemed to burstfrom an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to bepractised by her, even towards some of those who loved her best.“such a home, indeed! such an aunt!” said emma, as she turned back into the hall again.“i do pity you. and the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the morei shall like you.” jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour,and they had only accomplished some views of st. mark’s place, venice, when frankchurchill entered the room. emma had not been

thinking of him, she had forgotten to thinkof him—but she was very glad to see him. mrs. weston would be at ease. the black marewas blameless; they were right who had named mrs. churchill as the cause. he had been detainedby a temporary increase of illness in her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—andhe had quite given up every thought of coming, till very late;—and had he known how hota ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed heshould not have come at all. the heat was excessive; he had never suffered any thinglike it—almost wished he had staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could bear any degreeof cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest possible distancefrom the slight remains of mr. woodhouse’s

fire, looking very deplorable.“you will soon be cooler, if you sit still,” said emma.“as soon as i am cooler i shall go back again. i could very ill be spared—but sucha point had been made of my coming! you will all be going soon i suppose; the whole partybreaking up. i met one as i came—madness in such weather!—absolute madness!”emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that frank churchill’s state might be bestdefined by the expressive phrase of being out of humour. some people were always crosswhen they were hot. such might be his constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking wereoften the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment;he would find abundance of every thing in

the dining-room—and she humanely pointedout the door. “no—he should not eat. he was not hungry;it would only make him hotter.” in two minutes, however, he relented in his own favour; andmuttering something about spruce-beer, walked off. emma returned all her attention to herfather, saying in secret— “i am glad i have done being in love withhim. i should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. harriet’ssweet easy temper will not mind it.” he was gone long enough to have had a verycomfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown quite cool—and, with good manners, likehimself—able to draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their employment; andregret, in a reasonable way, that he should

be so late. he was not in his best spirits,but seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself talk nonsense very agreeably.they were looking over views in swisserland. “as soon as my aunt gets well, i shall goabroad,” said he. “i shall never be easy till i have seen some of these places. youwill have my sketches, some time or other, to look at—or my tour to read—or my poem.i shall do something to expose myself.” “that may be—but not by sketches in swisserland.you will never go to swisserland. your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave england.”“they may be induced to go too. a warm climate may be prescribed for her. i have more thanhalf an expectation of our all going abroad. i assure you i have. i feel a strong persuasion,this morning, that i shall soon be abroad.

i ought to travel. i am tired of doing nothing.i want a change. i am serious, miss woodhouse, whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy—iam sick of england—and would leave it to-morrow, if i could.”“you are sick of prosperity and indulgence. cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself,and be contented to stay?” “i sick of prosperity and indulgence! youare quite mistaken. i do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. i am thwartedin every thing material. i do not consider myself at all a fortunate person.”“you are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. go and eat and drinka little more, and you will do very well. another slice of cold meat, another draughtof madeira and water, will make you nearly

on a par with the rest of us.”“no—i shall not stir. i shall sit by you. you are my best cure.”“we are going to box hill to-morrow;—you will join us. it is not swisserland, but itwill be something for a young man so much in want of a change. you will stay, and gowith us?” “no, certainly not; i shall go home in thecool of the evening.” “but you may come again in the cool of to-morrowmorning.” “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 therewithout me.”

“these are difficulties which you must settlefor 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 therewas great joy at the sight of frank churchill; others took it very composedly; but therewas a very general distress and disturbance on miss fairfax’s disappearance being explained.that it was time for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a short final arrangementfor the next day’s scheme, they parted. frank churchill’s little inclination toexclude himself increased so much, that his last words to emma were,“well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, i will.”she smiled her acceptance; and nothing less

than a summons from richmond was to take himback before the following evening. chapter vii they had a very fine day for box hill; andall the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality, were in favourof a pleasant party. mr. weston directed the whole, officiating safely between hartfieldand the vicarage, and every body was in good time. emma and harriet went together; missbates and her niece, with the eltons; the gentlemen on horseback. mrs. weston remainedwith mr. woodhouse. nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there. seven mileswere travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and every body had a burst of admiration onfirst arriving; but in the general amount

of the day there was deficiency. there wasa languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. they separatedtoo much into parties. the eltons walked together; mr. knightley took charge of miss bates andjane; and emma and harriet belonged to frank churchill. and mr. weston tried, in vain,to make them harmonise better. it seemed at first an accidental division, but it nevermaterially varied. mr. and mrs. elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be asagreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, thereseemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fineprospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful mr. weston, to remove.at first it was downright dulness to emma.

she had never seen frank churchill so silentand stupid. he said nothing worth hearing—looked without seeing—admired without intelligence—listenedwithout knowing what she said. while he was so dull, it was no wonder that harriet shouldbe dull likewise; and they were both insufferable. when they all sat down it was better; to hertaste a great deal better, for frank churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his firstobject. every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. to amuse her,and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for—and emma, glad to be enlivened,not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement,the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animatingperiod of their acquaintance; but which now,

in her own estimation, meant nothing, thoughin the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as noenglish word but flirtation could very well describe. “mr. frank churchill and misswoodhouse flirted together excessively.” they were laying themselves open to that veryphrase—and to having it sent off in a letter to maple grove by one lady, to ireland byanother. not that emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather becauseshe felt less happy than she had expected. she laughed because she was disappointed;and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship,admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. shestill intended him for her friend.

“how much i am obliged to you,” said he,“for telling me to come to-day!—if it had not been for you, i should certainly havelost all the happiness of this party. i had quite determined to go away again.”“yes, you were very cross; and i do not know what about, except that you were toolate for the best strawberries. i was a kinder friend than you deserved. but you were humble.you begged hard to be commanded to come.” “don’t say i was cross. i was fatigued.the heat overcame me.” “it is hotter to-day.”“not to my feelings. i am perfectly comfortable to-day.”“you are comfortable because you are under command.”“your command?—yes.”

“perhaps i intended you to say so, but imeant self-command. you had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday, and run away fromyour own management; but to-day you are got back again—and as i cannot be always withyou, it is best to believe your temper under your own command rather than mine.”“it comes to the same thing. i can have no self-command without a motive. you orderme, whether you speak or not. and you can be always with me. you are always with me.”“dating from three o’clock yesterday. my perpetual influence could not begin earlier,or you would not have been so much out of humour before.”“three o’clock yesterday! that is your date. i thought i had seen you first in february.”“your gallantry is really unanswerable.

but (lowering her voice)—nobody speaks exceptourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment ofseven silent people.” “i say nothing of which i am ashamed,”replied he, with lively impudence. “i saw you first in february. let every body on thehill hear me if they can. let my accents swell to mickleham on one side, and dorking on theother. i saw you first in february.” and then whispering—“our companions are excessivelystupid. what shall we do to rouse them? any nonsense will serve. they shall talk. ladiesand gentlemen, i am ordered by miss woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, thatshe desires to know what you are all thinking of?”some laughed, and answered good-humouredly.

miss bates said a great deal; mrs. elton swelledat the idea of miss woodhouse’s presiding; mr. knightley’s answer was the most distinct.“is miss woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”“oh! no, no”—cried emma, laughing as carelessly as she could—“upon no accountin the world. it is the very last thing i would stand the brunt of just now. let mehear any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. i will not say quite all. thereare one or two, perhaps, (glancing at mr. weston and harriet,) whose thoughts i mightnot be afraid of knowing.” “it is a sort of thing,” cried mrs. eltonemphatically, “which i should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into. though,perhaps, as the chaperon of the party—i

never was in any circle—exploring parties—youngladies—married women—” her mutterings were chiefly to her husband;and he murmured, in reply, “very true, my love, very true. exactlyso, indeed—quite unheard of—but some ladies say any thing. better pass it off as a joke.every body knows what is due to you.” “it will not do,” whispered frank to emma;“they are most of them affronted. i will attack them with more address. ladies andgentlemen—i am ordered by miss woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowingexactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertainingfrom each of you, in a general way. here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she ispleased to say, am very entertaining already,)

and she only demands from each of you eitherone thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderatelyclever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at themall.” “oh! very well,” exclaimed miss bates,“then i need not be uneasy. ‘three things very dull indeed.’ that will just do forme, you know. i shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever i open my mouth,shan’t i? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body’s assent)—donot you all think i shall?” emma could not resist.“ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. pardon me—but you will be limited as tonumber—only three at once.”

miss bates, deceived by the mock ceremonyof her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it couldnot anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.“ah!—well—to be sure. yes, i see what she means, (turning to mr. knightley,) andi will try to hold my tongue. i must make myself very disagreeable, or she would nothave said such a thing to an old friend.” “i like your plan,” cried mr. weston.“agreed, agreed. i will do my best. i am making a conundrum. how will a conundrum reckon?”“low, i am afraid, sir, very low,” answered his son;—“but we shall be indulgent—especiallyto any one who leads the way.” “no, no,” said emma, “it will not reckonlow. a conundrum of mr. weston’s shall clear

him and his next neighbour. come, sir, praylet me hear it.” “i doubt its being very clever myself,”said mr. weston. “it is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—what two lettersof the alphabet are there, that express perfection?” “what two letters!—express perfection!i am sure i do not know.” “ah! you will never guess. you, (to emma),i am certain, will never guess.—i will tell you.—m. and a.—em-ma.—do you understand?”understanding and gratification came together. it might be a very indifferent piece of wit,but emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did frank and harriet.—itdid not seem to touch the rest of the party equally; some looked very stupid about it,and mr. knightley gravely said,

“this explains the sort of clever thingthat is wanted, and mr. weston has done very well for himself; but he must have knockedup every body else. perfection should not have come quite so soon.”“oh! for myself, i protest i must be excused,” said mrs. elton; “i really cannot attempt—iam not at all fond of the sort of thing. i had an acrostic once sent to me upon my ownname, which i was not at all pleased with. i knew who it came from. an abominable puppy!—youknow who i mean (nodding to her husband). these kind of things are very well at christmas,when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploringabout the country in summer. miss woodhouse must excuse me. i am not one of those whohave witty things at every body’s service.

i do not pretend to be a wit. i have a greatdeal of vivacity in my own way, but i really must be allowed to judge when to speak andwhen to hold my tongue. pass us, if you please, mr. churchill. pass mr. e., knightley, jane,and myself. we have nothing clever to say—not one of us.“yes, yes, pray pass me,” added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness; “ihave nothing to say that can entertain miss woodhouse, or any other young lady. an oldmarried man—quite good for nothing. shall we walk, augusta?”“with all my heart. i am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. come, jane,take my other arm.” jane declined it, however, and the husbandand wife walked off. “happy couple!” said

frank churchill, as soon as they were outof hearing:—“how well they suit one another!—very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintanceformed only in a public place!—they only knew each other, i think, a few weeks in bath!peculiarly lucky!—for as to any real knowledge of a person’s disposition that bath, orany public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. it is only by seeingwomen in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you canform any just judgment. short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generallybe ill-luck. how many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and ruedit all the rest of his life!” miss fairfax, who had seldom spoken before,except among her own confederates, spoke now.

“such things do occur, undoubtedly.”—shewas stopped by a cough. frank churchill turned towards her to listen.“you were speaking,” said he, gravely. she recovered her voice.“i was only going to observe, that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimesoccur both to men and women, i cannot imagine them to be very frequent. a hasty and imprudentattachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. i wouldbe understood to mean, that it can be only weak, irresolute characters, (whose happinessmust be always at the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance tobe an inconvenience, an oppression for ever.” he made no answer; merely looked, and bowedin submission; and soon afterwards said, in

a lively tone,“well, i have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever i marry, i hopesome body will chuse my wife for me. will you? (turning to emma.) will you chuse a wifefor me?—i am sure i should like any body fixed on by you. you provide for the family,you know, (with a smile at his father). find some body for me. i am in no hurry. adopther, educate her.” “and make her like myself.”“by all means, if you can.” “very well. i undertake the commission.you shall have a charming wife.” “she must be very lively, and have hazleeyes. i care for nothing else. i shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when ireturn, i shall come to you for my wife. remember.”

emma was in no danger of forgetting. it wasa commission to touch every favourite feeling. would not harriet be the very creature described?hazle eyes excepted, two years more might make her all that he wished. he might evenhave harriet in his thoughts at the moment; who could say? referring the education toher seemed to imply it. “now, ma’am,” said jane to her aunt,“shall we join mrs. elton?” “if you please, my dear. with all my heart.i am quite ready. i was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. weshall soon overtake her. there she is—no, that’s somebody else. that’s one of theladies in the irish car party, not at all like her.—well, i declare—”they walked off, followed in half a minute

by mr. knightley. mr. weston, his son, emma,and harriet, only remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch almostunpleasant. even emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herselfrather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quiteunattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. the appearanceof the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight;and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of mrs. eltonto have her carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home whichwas to close the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. such another scheme,composed of so many ill-assorted people, she

hoped never to be betrayed into again.while waiting for the carriage, she found mr. knightley by her side. he looked around,as if to see that no one were near, and then said,“emma, i must once more speak to you as i have been used to do: a privilege ratherendured than allowed, perhaps, but i must still use it. i cannot see you acting wrong,without a remonstrance. how could you be so unfeeling to miss bates? how could you beso insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation?—emma, i hadnot thought it possible.” emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, buttried to laugh it off. “nay, how could i help saying what i did?—nobodycould have helped it. it was not so very bad.

i dare say she did not understand me.”“i assure you she did. she felt your full meaning. she has talked of it since. i wishyou could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour and generosity. i wish you couldhave heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions,as she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must beso irksome.” “oh!” cried emma, “i know there is nota better creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is good and what is ridiculousare most unfortunately blended in her.” “they are blended,” said he, “i acknowledge;and, were she prosperous, i could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculousover the good. were she a woman of fortune,

i would leave every harmless absurdity totake its chance, i would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. were sheyour equal in situation—but, emma, consider how far this is from being the case. she ispoor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, mustprobably sink more. her situation should secure your compassion. it was badly done, indeed!you, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when hernotice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of themoment, laugh at her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many ofwhom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.—this is not pleasantto you, emma—and it is very far from pleasant

to me; but i must, i will,—i will tell youtruths while i can; satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel,and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.”while they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before shecould speak again, he had handed her in. he had misinterpreted the feelings which hadkept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. they were combined only of anger against herself,mortification, and deep concern. she had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage,sunk back for a moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, makingno acknowledgment, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager toshew a difference; but it was just too late.

he had turned away, and the horses were inmotion. she continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusualspeed, they were half way down the hill, and every thing left far behind. she was vexedbeyond what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she could conceal. never had shefelt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. she was most forciblystruck. the truth of this representation there was no denying. she felt it at her heart.how could she have been so brutal, so cruel to miss bates! how could she have exposedherself to such ill opinion in any one she valued! and how suffer him to leave her withoutsaying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!time did not compose her. as she reflected

more, she seemed but to feel it more. shenever had been so depressed. happily it was not necessary to speak. there was only harriet,who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged, and very willing to be silent; and emma feltthe tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any troubleto check them, extraordinary as they were. chapter viii the wretchedness of a scheme to box hill wasin emma’s thoughts all the evening. how it might be considered by the rest of theparty, 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 completelymisspent, 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 felicityto it. there, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hoursof the twenty-four to his comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree ofhis fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be opento any severe reproach. as a daughter, she hoped she was not without a heart. she hopedno 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 herthe very next morning, and it should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal,kindly intercourse. she was just as determined when the morrowcame, and went early, that nothing might prevent her. it was not unlikely, she thought, thatshe might see mr. knightley in her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were payingher visit. she had no objection. she would not be ashamed of the appearance of the penitence,so justly and truly hers. her eyes were towards donwell as she walked, but she saw him not.“the ladies were all at home.” she had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor everbefore entered the passage, nor walked up

the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure,but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule.there was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of moving and talking. she heard missbates’s voice, something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened andawkward; hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon.the aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. jane she had a distinctglimpse of, looking extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she heard missbates saying, “well, my dear, i shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and i am sureyou are ill enough.” poor old mrs. bates, civil and humble as usual,looked as if she did not quite understand

what was going on.“i am afraid jane is not very well,” said she, “but i do not know; they tell me sheis well. i dare say my daughter will be here presently, miss woodhouse. i hope you finda chair. i wish hetty had not gone. i am very little able—have you a chair, ma’am? doyou sit where you like? i am sure she will be here presently.”emma seriously hoped she would. she had a moment’s fear of miss bates keeping awayfrom her. but miss bates soon came—“very happy and obliged”—but emma’s consciencetold her that there was not the same cheerful volubility as before—less ease of look andmanner. a very friendly inquiry after miss fairfax, she hoped, might lead the way toa return of old feelings. the touch seemed

immediate.“ah! miss woodhouse, how kind you are!—i suppose you have heard—and are come to giveus joy. this does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away a tear ortwo)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, after having had her so long,and she has a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning:—such long letters,you know, to be written to colonel campbell, and mrs. dixon. ‘my dear,’ said i, ‘youwill blind yourself’—for tears were in her eyes perpetually. one cannot wonder, onecannot wonder. it is a great change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a situation,i suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out—do not think usungrateful, miss woodhouse, for such surprising

good fortune—(again dispersing her tears)—but,poor dear soul! if you were to see what a headache she has. when one is in great pain,you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. she is as low as possible.to look at her, nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation.you will excuse her not coming to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own room—iwant her to lie down upon the bed. ‘my dear,’ said i, ‘i shall say you are laid down uponthe bed:’ but, however, she is not; she is walking about the room. but, now that shehas written her letters, she says she shall soon be well. she will be extremely sorryto miss seeing you, miss woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. you were kept waitingat the door—i was quite ashamed—but somehow

there was a little bustle—for it so happenedthat we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the stairs, we did not know anybody was coming. ‘it is only mrs. cole,’ said i, ‘depend upon it. nobody else wouldcome so early.’ ‘well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some time or other, and it mayas well be now.’ but then patty came in, and said it was you. ‘oh!’ said i, ‘itis miss woodhouse: i am sure you will like to see her.’—‘i can see nobody,’ saidshe; and up she got, and would go away; and that was what made us keep you waiting—andextremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘if you must go, my dear,’ said i, ‘you must,and i will say you are laid down upon the bed.’”emma was most sincerely interested. her heart

had been long growing kinder towards jane;and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungeneroussuspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and the remembrance of the less just and lessgentle sensations of the past, obliged her to admit that jane might very naturally resolveon seeing mrs. cole or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. shespoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely wishing that the circumstanceswhich she collected from miss bates to be now actually determined on, might be as muchfor miss fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible. “it must be a severe trialto them all. she had understood it was to be delayed till colonel campbell’s return.”“so very kind!” replied miss bates. “but

you are always kind.”there was no bearing such an “always;” and to break through her dreadful gratitude,emma made the direct inquiry of— “where—may i ask?—is miss fairfax going?”“to a mrs. smallridge—charming woman—most superior—to have the charge of her threelittle girls—delightful children. impossible that any situation could be more replete withcomfort; if we except, perhaps, mrs. suckling’s own family, and mrs. bragge’s; but mrs.smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighbourhood:—lives only fourmiles from maple grove. jane will be only four miles from maple grove.”“mrs. elton, i suppose, has been the person to whom miss fairfax owes—”“yes, our good mrs. elton. the most indefatigable,

true friend. she would not take a denial.she would not let jane say, ‘no;’ for when jane first heard of it, (it was the daybefore yesterday, the very morning we were at donwell,) when jane first heard of it,she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention; exactlyas you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till colonel campbell’s return,and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present—and so she toldmrs. elton over and over again—and i am sure i had no more idea that she would changeher mind!—but that good mrs. elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw farther thani did. it is not every body that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, andrefuse to take jane’s answer; but she positively

declared she would not write any such denialyesterday, as jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure enough, yesterday evening it was allsettled that jane should go. quite a surprize to me! i had not the least idea!—jane tookmrs. elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of mrs.smallridge’s situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it.—i did notknow a word of it till it was all settled.” “you spent the evening with mrs. elton?”“yes, all of us; mrs. elton would have us come. it was settled so, upon the hill, whilewe were walking about with mr. knightley. ‘you must all spend your evening with us,’said she—‘i positively must have you all come.’”“mr. knightley was there too, was he?”

“no, not mr. knightley; he declined it fromthe first; and though i thought he would come, because mrs. elton declared she would notlet him off, he did not;—but my mother, and jane, and i, were all there, and a veryagreeable evening we had. such kind friends, you know, miss woodhouse, one must alwaysfind agreeable, though every body seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party. even pleasure,you know, is fatiguing—and i cannot say that any of them seemed very much to haveenjoyed it. however, i shall always think it a very pleasant party, and feel extremelyobliged to the kind friends who included me in it.”“miss fairfax, i suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mindthe whole day?”

“i dare say she had.”“whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends—buti hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible—i mean, as to the characterand manners of the family.” “thank you, dear miss woodhouse. yes, indeed,there is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it. except the sucklingsand bragges, there is not such another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, inall mrs. elton’s acquaintance. mrs. smallridge, a most delightful woman!—a style of livingalmost equal to maple grove—and as to the children, except the little sucklings andlittle bragges, there are not such elegant sweet children anywhere. jane will be treatedwith such regard and kindness!—it will be

nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure.—andher salary!—i really cannot venture to name her salary to you, miss woodhouse. even you,used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a youngperson like jane.” “ah! madam,” cried emma, “if other childrenare at all like what i remember to have been myself, i should think five times the amountof what i have ever yet heard named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.”“you are so noble in your ideas!” “and when is miss fairfax to leave you?”“very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it. within a fortnight. mrs.smallridge is in a great hurry. my poor mother does not know how to bear it. so then, i tryto put it out of her thoughts, and say, come

ma’am, do not let us think about it anymore.” “her friends must all be sorry to lose her;and will not colonel and mrs. campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herselfbefore their return?” “yes; jane says she is sure they will; butyet, this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. i wasso astonished when she first told me what she had been saying to mrs. elton, and whenmrs. elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it! it was before tea—stay—no,it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards—and yet it was beforetea, because i remember thinking—oh! no, now i recollect, now i have it; somethinghappened before tea, but not that. mr. elton

was called out of the room before tea, oldjohn abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. poor old john, i have a great regard for him;he was clerk to my poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man, he is bed-ridden,and very poorly with the rheumatic gout in his joints—i must go and see him to-day;and so will jane, i am sure, if she gets out at all. and poor john’s son came to talkto mr. elton about relief from the parish; he is very well to do himself, you know, beinghead man at the crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he cannot keep hisfather without some help; and so, when mr. elton came back, he told us what john ostlerhad been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise having been sent to randallsto take mr. frank churchill to richmond. that

was what happened before tea. it was aftertea that jane spoke to mrs. elton.” miss bates would hardly give emma time tosay how perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without supposing it possiblethat she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of mr. frank churchill’s going, she proceededto give them all, it was of no consequence. what mr. elton had learned from the ostleron the subject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own knowledge, and the knowledgeof the servants at randalls, was, that a messenger had come over from richmond soon after thereturn of the party from box hill—which messenger, however, had been no more thanwas expected; and that mr. churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing, upon thewhole, a tolerable account of mrs. churchill,

and only wishing him not to delay coming backbeyond the next morning early; but that mr. frank churchill having resolved to go homedirectly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, tom hadbeen sent off immediately for the crown chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it passby, the boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.there was nothing in all this either to astonish or interest, and it caught emma’s attentiononly as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind. the contrast between mrs.churchill’s importance in the world, and jane fairfax’s, struck her; one was everything, the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference of woman’s destiny, andquite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed,

till roused by miss bates’s saying,“aye, i see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte. what is to become of that?—verytrue. poor dear jane was talking of it just now.—‘you must go,’ said she. ‘youand i must part. you will have no business here.—let it stay, however,’ said she;‘give it houseroom till colonel campbell comes back. i shall talk about it to him;he will settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—and to this day,i do believe, she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter’s.”now emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and the remembrance of all her former fancifuland unfair conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself to believe hervisit had been long enough; and, with a repetition

of every thing that she could venture to sayof the good wishes which she really felt, took leave. chapter ix emma’s pensive meditations, as she walkedhome, were not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found those who must rouseher. mr. knightley and harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting withher father.—mr. knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver thanusual, said, “i would not go away without seeing you,but i have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. i am going to london,to spend a few days with john and isabella.

have you any thing to send or say, besidesthe ‘love,’ which nobody carries?” “nothing at all. but is not this a suddenscheme?” “yes—rather—i have been thinking ofit some little time.” emma was sure he had not forgiven her; helooked unlike himself. time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought tobe friends again. while he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going—her father began hisinquiries. “well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—andhow did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter?—i dare say they must havebeen very much obliged to you for coming. dear emma has been to call on mrs. and missbates, mr. knightley, as i told you before.

she is always so attentive to them!”emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile, and shake of thehead, which spoke much, she looked at mr. knightley.—it seemed as if there were aninstantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers,and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured.— he lookedat her with a glow of regard. she was warmly gratified—and in another moment still moreso, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part.—he took her hand;—whethershe had not herself made the first motion, she could not say—she might, perhaps, haverather offered it—but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the pointof carrying it to his lips—when, from some

fancy or other, he suddenly let it go.—whyhe should feel such a scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all but done,she could not perceive.—he would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—theintention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was that his manners had in general solittle gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more.—itwas with him, of so simple, yet so dignified a nature.—she could not but recall the attemptwith great satisfaction. it spoke such perfect amity.—he left them immediately afterwards—gonein a moment. he always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecidednor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance.emma could not regret her having gone to miss

bates, but she wished she had left her tenminutes earlier;—it would have been a great pleasure to talk over jane fairfax’s situationwith mr. knightley.—neither would she regret that he should be going to brunswick square,for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed—but it might have happened at a better time—andto have had longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.—they parted thorough friends,however; she could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his unfinishedgallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion.—hehad been sitting with them half an hour, she found. it was a pity that she had not comeback earlier! in the hope of diverting her father’s thoughtsfrom the disagreeableness of mr. knightley’s

going to london; and going so suddenly; andgoing on horseback, which she knew would be all very bad; emma communicated her news ofjane fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it supplied a very useful check,—interested,without disturbing him. he had long made up his mind to jane fairfax’s going out asgoverness, and could talk of it cheerfully, but mr. knightley’s going to london hadbeen an unexpected blow. “i am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hearshe is to be so comfortably settled. mrs. elton is very good-natured and agreeable,and i dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. i hope it is a dry situation,and that her health will be taken good care of. it ought to be a first object, as i amsure poor miss taylor’s always was with

me. you know, my dear, she is going to beto this new lady what miss taylor was to us. and i hope she will be better off in one respect,and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long.”the following day brought news from richmond to throw every thing else into the background.an express arrived at randalls to announce the death of mrs. churchill! though her nephewhad had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six-and-thirtyhours after his return. a sudden seizure of a different nature from any thing forebodedby her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle. the great mrs. churchillwas no more. it was felt as such things must be felt. everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness

towards the departed, solicitude for the survivingfriends; and, in a reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be buried. goldsmithtells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; andwhen she stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended as a clearer ofill-fame. mrs. churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spokenof with compassionate allowances. in one point she was fully justified. she had never beenadmitted before to be seriously ill. the event acquitted her of all the fancifulness, andall the selfishness of imaginary complaints. “poor mrs. churchill! no doubt she had beensuffering a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and continual pain wouldtry the temper. it was a sad event—a great

shock—with all her faults, what would mr.churchill do without her? mr. churchill’s loss would be dreadful indeed. mr. churchillwould never get over it.”—even mr. weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said,“ah! poor woman, who would have thought it!” and resolved, that his mourning shouldbe as handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and moralising over her broad hemswith a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. how it would affect frank wasamong the earliest thoughts of both. it was also a very early speculation with emma. thecharacter of mrs. churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced over them bothwith awe and compassion—and then rested with lightened feelings on how frank mightbe affected by the event, how benefited, how

freed. she saw in a moment all the possiblegood. now, an attachment to harriet smith would have nothing to encounter. mr. churchill,independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded intoany thing by his nephew. all that remained to be wished was, that the nephew should formthe attachment, as, with all her goodwill in the cause, emma could feel no certaintyof its being already formed. harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion,with great self-command. what ever she might feel of brighter hope, she betrayed nothing.emma was gratified, to observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and refrainedfrom any allusion that might endanger its maintenance. they spoke, therefore, of mrs.churchill’s death with mutual forbearance.

short letters from frank were received atrandalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. mr. churchillwas better than could be expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the funeralfor yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in windsor, to whom mr. churchillhad been promising a visit the last ten years. at present, there was nothing to be done forharriet; good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on emma’s side.it was a more pressing concern to shew attention to jane fairfax, whose prospects were closing,while harriet’s opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at highbury,who wished to shew her kindness—and with emma it was grown into a first wish. she hadscarcely a stronger regret than for her past

coldness; and the person, whom she had beenso many months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she would have lavished everydistinction of regard or sympathy. she wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew a valuefor her society, and testify respect and consideration. she resolved to prevail on her to spend aday at hartfield. a note was written to urge it. the invitation was refused, and by a verbalmessage. “miss fairfax was not well enough to write;” and when mr. perry called athartfield, the same morning, it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have beenvisited, though against her own consent, by himself, and that she was suffering undersevere headaches, and a nervous fever to a degree, which made him doubt the possibilityof her going to mrs. smallridge’s at the

time proposed. her health seemed for the momentcompletely deranged—appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms,nothing touching the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of thefamily, mr. perry was uneasy about her. he thought she had undertaken more than she wasequal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. her spirits seemedovercome. her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—confinedalways to one room;—he could have wished it otherwise—and her good aunt, though hisvery old friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best companion for an invalid of thatdescription. her care and attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, onlytoo great. he very much feared that miss fairfax

derived more evil than good from them. emmalistened with the warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and looked around eagerto discover some way of being useful. to take her—be it only an hour or two—from heraunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational conversation, even foran hour or two, might do her good; and the following morning she wrote again to say,in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriageat any hour that jane would name—mentioning that she had mr. perry’s decided opinion,in favour of such exercise for his patient. the answer was only in this short note:“miss fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise.”emma felt that her own note had deserved something

better; but it was impossible to quarrel withwords, whose tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and she thought only of how shemight best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. in spite of the answer,therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to mrs. bates’s, in the hope that jane wouldbe induced to join her—but it would not do;—miss bates came to the carriage door,all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking an airing might be ofthe greatest service—and every thing that message could do was tried—but all in vain.miss bates was obliged to return without success; jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere proposalof going out seemed to make her worse.—emma wished she could have seen her, and triedher own powers; but, almost before she could

hint the wish, miss bates made it appear thatshe had promised her niece on no account to let miss woodhouse in. “indeed, the truthwas, that poor dear jane could not bear to see any body—any body at all—mrs. elton,indeed, could not be denied—and mrs. cole had made such a point—and mrs. perry hadsaid so much—but, except them, jane would really see nobody.”emma did not want to be classed with the mrs. eltons, the mrs. perrys, and the mrs. coles,who would force themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of preference herself—shesubmitted, therefore, and only questioned miss bates farther as to her niece’s appetiteand diet, which she longed to be able to assist. on that subject poor miss bates was very unhappy,and very communicative; jane would hardly

eat any thing:—mr. perry recommended nourishingfood; but every thing they could command (and never had any body such good neighbours) wasdistasteful. emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeperdirectly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot of very superior qualitywas speedily despatched to miss bates with a most friendly note. in half an hour thearrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from miss bates, but “dear jane would notbe satisfied without its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and, moreover,she insisted on her saying, that she was not at all in want of any thing.”when emma afterwards heard that jane fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows,at some distance from highbury, on the afternoon

of the very day on which she had, under theplea of being unequal to any exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her inthe carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing together—that jane was resolvedto receive no kindness from her. she was sorry, very sorry. her heart was grieved for a statewhich seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistencyof action, and inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was given so littlecredit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend: but she had theconsolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself,that could mr. knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting jane fairfax,could he even have seen into her heart, he

would not, on this occasion, have found anything to reprove. chapter x one morning, about ten days after mrs. churchill’sdecease, emma was called downstairs to mr. weston, who “could not stay five minutes,and wanted particularly to speak with her.”—he met her at the parlour-door, and hardly askingher how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheardby her father, “can you come to randalls at any time thismorning?—do, if it be possible. mrs. weston wants to see you. she must see you.”“is she unwell?” “no, no, not at all—only a little agitated.she would have ordered the carriage, and come

to you, but she must see you alone, and thatyou know—(nodding towards her father)—humph!—can you come?”“certainly. this moment, if you please. it is impossible to refuse what you ask insuch a way. but what can be the matter?—is she really not ill?”“depend upon me—but ask no more questions. you will know it all in time. the most unaccountablebusiness! but hush, hush!” to guess what all this meant, was impossibleeven for emma. something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as herfriend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, thatshe would take her walk now, she and mr. weston were soon out of the house together and ontheir way at a quick pace for randalls.

“now,”—said emma, when they were fairlybeyond the sweep gates,—“now mr. weston, do let me know what has happened.”“no, no,”—he gravely replied.—“don’t ask me. i promised my wife to leave it allto her. she will break it to you better than i can. do not be impatient, emma; it willall come out too soon.” “break it to me,” cried emma, standingstill with terror.—“good god!—mr. weston, tell me at once.—something has happenedin brunswick square. i know it has. tell me, i charge you tell me this moment what it is.”“no, indeed you are mistaken.”— “mr. weston do not trifle with me.—considerhow many of my dearest friends are now in brunswick square. which of them is it?—icharge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt

concealment.”“upon my word, emma.”— “your word!—why not your honour!—whynot say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? good heavens!—whatcan be to be broke to me, that does not relate to one of that family?”“upon my honour,” said he very seriously, “it does not. it is not in the smallestdegree connected with any human being of the name of knightley.”emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.“i was wrong,” he continued, “in talking of its being broke to you. i should not haveused the expression. in fact, it does not concern you—it concerns only myself,—thatis, we hope.—humph!—in short, my dear

emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasyabout it. i don’t say that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be much worse.—ifwe walk fast, we shall soon be at randalls.” emma found that she must wait; and now itrequired little effort. she asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her ownfancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern—somethingjust come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,—somethingwhich the late event at richmond had brought forward. her fancy was very active. half adozen natural children, perhaps—and poor frank cut off!—this, though very undesirable,would be no matter of agony to her. it inspired little more than an animating curiosity.“who is that gentleman on horseback?”

said she, as they proceeded—speaking moreto assist mr. weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view.“i do not know.—one of the otways.—not frank;—it is not frank, i assure you. youwill not see him. he is half way to windsor by this time.”“has your son been with you, then?” “oh! yes—did not you know?—well, well,never mind.” for a moment he was silent; and then added,in a tone much more guarded and demure, “yes, frank came over this morning, justto ask us how we did.” they hurried on, and were speedily at randalls.—“well,my dear,” said he, as they entered the room—“i have brought her, and now i hope you willsoon be better. i shall leave you together.

there is no use in delay. i shall not be faroff, if you want me.”—and emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before hequitted the room,—“i have been as good as my word. she has not the least idea.”mrs. weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that emma’suneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,“what is it my dear friend? something of a very unpleasant nature, i find, has occurred;—dolet me know directly what it is. i have been walking all this way in complete suspense.we both abhor suspense. do not let mine continue longer. it will do you good to speak of yourdistress, whatever it may be.” “have you indeed no idea?” said mrs. westonin a trembling voice. “cannot you, my dear

emma—cannot you form a guess as to whatyou are to hear?” “so far as that it relates to mr. frankchurchill, i do guess.” “you are right. it does relate to him, andi will tell you directly;” (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against lookingup.) “he has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. it is impossibleto express our surprize. he came to speak to his father on a subject,—to announcean attachment—” she stopped to breathe. emma thought firstof herself, and then of harriet. “more than an attachment, indeed,” resumedmrs. weston; “an engagement—a positive engagement.—what will you say, emma—whatwill any body say, when it is known that frank

churchill and miss fairfax are engaged;—nay,that they have been long engaged!” emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horror-struck,exclaimed, “jane fairfax!—good god! you are not serious?you do not mean it?” “you may well be amazed,” returned mrs.weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that emma might have timeto recover— “you may well be amazed. but it is even so. there has been a solemn engagementbetween them ever since october—formed at weymouth, and kept a secret from every body.not a creature knowing it but themselves—neither the campbells, nor her family, nor his.—itis so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible tomyself. i can hardly believe it.—i thought

i knew him.”emma scarcely heard what was said.—her mind was divided between two ideas—her own formerconversations with him about miss fairfax; and poor harriet;—and for some time shecould only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation.“well,” said she at last, trying to recover herself; “this is a circumstance which imust think of at least half a day, before i can at all comprehend it. what!—engagedto her all the winter—before either of them came to highbury?”“engaged since october,—secretly engaged.—it has hurt me, emma, very much. it has hurthis father equally. some part of his conduct we cannot excuse.”emma pondered a moment, and then replied,

“i will not pretend not to understand you;and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followedhis attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.”mrs. weston looked up, afraid to believe; but emma’s countenance was as steady asher words. “that you may have less difficulty in believingthis boast, of my present perfect indifference,” she continued, “i will farther tell you,that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when i did like him,when i was very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was attached—and how it cameto cease, is perhaps the wonder. fortunately, however, it did cease. i have really for sometime past, for at least these three months,

cared nothing about him. you may believe me,mrs. weston. this is the simple truth.” mrs. weston kissed her with tears of joy;and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her moregood than any thing else in the world could do.“mr. weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,” said she. “on this point wehave been wretched. it was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other—andwe were persuaded that it was so.— imagine what we have been feeling on your account.”“i have escaped; and that i should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to youand myself. but this does not acquit him, mrs. weston; and i must say, that i thinkhim greatly to blame. what right had he to

come among us with affection and faith engaged,and with manners so very disengaged? what right had he to endeavour to please, as hecertainly did—to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainlydid—while he really belonged to another?—how could he tell what mischief he might be doing?—howcould he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?—very wrong, very wrongindeed.” “from something that he said, my dear emma,i rather imagine—” “and how could she bear such behaviour!composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to anotherwoman, before her face, and not resent it.—that is a degree of placidity, which i can neithercomprehend nor respect.”

“there were misunderstandings between them,emma; he said so expressly. he had not time to enter into much explanation. he was hereonly a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation which did not allow the fulluse even of the time he could stay—but that there had been misunderstandings he decidedlysaid. the present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunderstandingsmight very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct.”“impropriety! oh! mrs. weston—it is too calm a censure. much, much beyond impropriety!—ithas sunk him, i cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. so unlike what a man shouldbe!—none of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, thatdisdain of trick and littleness, which a man

should display in every transaction of hislife.” “nay, dear emma, now i must take his part;for though he has been wrong in this instance, i have known him long enough to answer forhis having many, very many, good qualities; and—”“good god!” cried emma, not attending to her.—“mrs. smallridge, too! jane actuallyon the point of going as governess! what could he mean by such horrible indelicacy? to sufferher to engage herself—to suffer her even to think of such a measure!”“he knew nothing about it, emma. on this article i can fully acquit him. it was a privateresolution of hers, not communicated to him—or at least not communicated in a way to carryconviction.—till yesterday, i know he said

he was in the dark as to her plans. they burston him, i do not know how, but by some letter or message—and it was the discovery of whatshe was doing, of this very project of hers, which determined him to come forward at once,own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end tothe miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long.”emma began to listen better. “i am to hear from him soon,” continuedmrs. weston. “he told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he spoke in a mannerwhich seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. let us wait,therefore, for this letter. it may bring many extenuations. it may make many things intelligibleand excusable which now are not to be understood.

don’t let us be severe, don’t let us bein a hurry to condemn him. let us have patience. i must love him; and now that i am satisfiedon one point, the one material point, i am sincerely anxious for its all turning outwell, and ready to hope that it may. they must both have suffered a great deal undersuch a system of secresy and concealment.” “his sufferings,” replied emma dryly,“do not appear to have done him much harm. well, and how did mr. churchill take it?”“most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty. conceivewhat the events of a week have done in that family! while poor mrs. churchill lived, isuppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility;—but scarcely areher remains at rest in the family vault, than

her husband is persuaded to act exactly oppositeto what she would have required. what a blessing it is, when undue influence does not survivethe grave!—he gave his consent with very little persuasion.”“ah!” thought emma, “he would have done as much for harriet.”“this was settled last night, and frank was off with the light this morning. he stoppedat highbury, at the bates’s, i fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was insuch a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever,that, as i tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour.—he was very muchagitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that made him appear quite a different creaturefrom any thing i had ever seen him before.—in

addition to all the rest, there had been theshock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of—andthere was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal.”“and do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?—thecampbells, the dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?”emma could not speak the name of dixon without a little blush.“none; not one. he positively said that it had been known to no being in the worldbut their two selves.” “well,” said emma, “i suppose we shallgradually grow reconciled to the idea, and i wish them very happy. but i shall alwaysthink it a very abominable sort of proceeding.

what has it been but a system of hypocrisyand deceit,—espionage, and treachery?—to come among us with professions of opennessand simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!—here have we been, thewhole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footingof truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round,comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both tohear.—they must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in away not perfectly agreeable!” “i am quite easy on that head,” repliedmrs. weston. “i am very sure that i never said any thing of either to the other, whichboth might not have heard.”

“you are in luck.—your only blunder wasconfined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady.”“true. but as i have always had a thoroughly good opinion of miss fairfax, i never could,under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there i musthave been safe.” at this moment mr. weston appeared at a littledistance from the window, evidently on the watch. his wife gave him a look which invitedhim in; and, while he was coming round, added, “now, dearest emma, let me intreat you tosay and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfiedwith the match. let us make the best of it—and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly saidin her favour. it is not a connexion to gratify;

but if mr. churchill does not feel that, whyshould we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for frank, i mean, thathe should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgmentas i have always given her credit for—and still am disposed to give her credit for,in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. and how much maybe said in her situation for even that error!” “much, indeed!” cried emma feelingly.“if a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation likejane fairfax’s.—of such, one may almost say, that ‘the world is not their’s, northe world’s law.’” she met mr. weston on his entrance, with asmiling countenance, exclaiming,

“a very pretty trick you have been playingme, upon my word! this was a device, i suppose, to sport with my curiosity, and exercise mytalent of guessing. but you really frightened me. i thought you had lost half your property,at least. and here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be oneof congratulation.—i congratulate you, mr. weston, with all my heart, on the prospectof having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in england for your daughter.”a glance or two between him and his wife, convinced him that all was as right as thisspeech proclaimed; and its happy effect on his spirits was immediate. his air and voicerecovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, andentered on the subject in a manner to prove,

that he now only wanted time and persuasionto think the engagement no very bad thing. his companions suggested only what could palliateimprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they had talked it all over together,and he had talked it all over again with emma, in their walk back to hartfield, he was becomeperfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that frank could possiblyhave done. chapter xi “harriet, poor harriet!”—those werethe words; in them lay the tormenting ideas which emma could not get rid of, and whichconstituted the real misery of the business to her. frank churchill had behaved very illby herself—very ill in many ways,—but

it was not so much his behaviour as her own,which made her so angry with him. it was the scrape which he had drawn her into on harriet’saccount, that gave the deepest hue to his offence.—poor harriet! to be a second timethe dupe of her misconceptions and flattery. mr. knightley had spoken prophetically, whenhe once said, “emma, you have been no friend to harriet smith.”—she was afraid shehad done her nothing but disservice.—it was true that she had not to charge herself,in this instance as in the former, with being the sole and original author of the mischief;with having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never have entered harriet’s imagination;for harriet had acknowledged her admiration and preference of frank churchill before shehad ever given her a hint on the subject;

but she felt completely guilty of having encouragedwhat she might have repressed. she might have prevented the indulgence and increase of suchsentiments. her influence would have been enough. and now she was very conscious thatshe ought to have prevented them.—she felt that she had been risking her friend’s happinesson most insufficient grounds. common sense would have directed her to tell harriet, thatshe must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were five hundred chances toone against his ever caring for her.—“but, with common sense,” she added, “i am afraidi have had little to do.” she was extremely angry with herself. if shecould not have been angry with frank churchill too, it would have been dreadful.—as forjane fairfax, she might at least relieve her

feelings from any present solicitude on heraccount. harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no longer be unhappy about jane,whose troubles and whose ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be equallyunder cure.—her days of insignificance and evil were over.—she would soon be well,and happy, and prosperous.—emma could now imagine why her own attentions had been slighted.this discovery laid many smaller matters open. no doubt it had been from jealousy.—in jane’seyes she had been a rival; and well might any thing she could offer of assistance orregard be repulsed. an airing in the hartfield carriage would have been the rack, and arrowrootfrom the hartfield storeroom must have been poison. she understood it all; and as faras her mind could disengage itself from the

injustice and selfishness of angry feelings,she acknowledged that jane fairfax would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond herdesert. but poor harriet was such an engrossing charge! there was little sympathy to be sparedfor any body else. emma was sadly fearful that this second disappointment would be moresevere than the first. considering the very superior claims of the object, it ought; andjudging by its apparently stronger effect on harriet’s mind, producing reserve andself-command, it would.—she must communicate the painful truth, however, and as soon aspossible. an injunction of secresy had been among mr. weston’s parting words. “forthe present, the whole affair was to be completely a secret. mr. churchill had made a point ofit, as a token of respect to the wife he had

so very recently lost; and every body admittedit to be no more than due decorum.”—emma had promised; but still harriet must be excepted.it was her superior duty. in spite of her vexation, she could not helpfeeling it almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same distressing and delicateoffice to perform by harriet, which mrs. weston had just gone through by herself. the intelligence,which had been so anxiously announced to her, she was now to be anxiously announcing toanother. her heart beat quick on hearing harriet’s footstep and voice; so, she supposed, hadpoor mrs. weston felt when she was approaching randalls. could the event of the disclosurebear an equal resemblance!—but of that, unfortunately, there could be no chance.“well, miss woodhouse!” cried harriet,

coming eagerly into the room—“is not thisthe oddest news that ever was?” “what news do you mean?” replied emma,unable to guess, by look or voice, whether harriet could indeed have received any hint.“about jane fairfax. did you ever hear any thing so strange? oh!—you need not be afraidof owning it to me, for mr. weston has told me himself. i met him just now. he told meit was to be a great secret; and, therefore, i should not think of mentioning it to anybody but you, but he said you knew it.” “what did mr. weston tell you?”—saidemma, still perplexed. “oh! he told me all about it; that janefairfax and mr. frank churchill are to be married, and that they have been privatelyengaged to one another this long while. how

very odd!”it was, indeed, so odd; harriet’s behaviour was so extremely odd, that emma did not knowhow to understand it. her character appeared absolutely changed. she seemed to proposeshewing no agitation, or disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery. emma lookedat her, quite unable to speak. “had you any idea,” cried harriet, “ofhis being in love with her?—you, perhaps, might.—you (blushing as she spoke) who cansee into every body’s heart; but nobody else—”“upon my word,” said emma, “i begin to doubt my having any such talent. can youseriously ask me, harriet, whether i imagined him attached to another woman at the verytime that i was—tacitly, if not openly—encouraging

you to give way to your own feelings?—inever had the slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of mr. frank churchill’shaving the least regard for jane fairfax. you may be very sure that if i had, i shouldhave cautioned you accordingly.” “me!” cried harriet, colouring, and astonished.“why should you caution me?—you do not think i care about mr. frank churchill.”“i am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the subject,” replied emma, smiling;“but you do not mean to deny that there was a time—and not very distant either—whenyou gave me reason to understand that you did care about him?”“him!—never, never. dear miss woodhouse, how could you so mistake me?” turning awaydistressed.

“harriet!” cried emma, after a moment’spause—“what do you mean?—good heaven! what do you mean?—mistake you!—am i tosuppose then?—” she could not speak another word.—her voicewas lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till harriet should answer.harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with face turned from her, did not immediatelysay any thing; and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated as emma’s.“i should not have thought it possible,” she began, “that you could have misunderstoodme! i know we agreed never to name him—but considering how infinitely superior he isto every body else, i should not have thought it possible that i could be supposed to meanany other person. mr. frank churchill, indeed!

i do not know who would ever look at him inthe company of the other. i hope i have a better taste than to think of mr. frank churchill,who is like nobody by his side. and that you should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—iam sure, but for believing that you entirely approved and meant to encourage me in my attachment,i should have considered it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think ofhim. at first, if you had not told me that more wonderful things had happened; that therehad been matches of greater disparity (those were your very words);—i should not havedared to give way to—i should not have thought it possible—but if you, who had been alwaysacquainted with him—” “harriet!” cried emma, collecting herselfresolutely—“let us understand each other

now, without the possibility of farther mistake.are you speaking of—mr. knightley?” “to be sure i am. i never could have anidea of any body else—and so i thought you knew. when we talked about him, it was asclear as possible.” “not quite,” returned emma, with forcedcalmness, “for all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a different person. i couldalmost assert that you had named mr. frank churchill. i am sure the service mr. frankchurchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the gipsies, was spoken of.”“oh! miss woodhouse, how you do forget!” “my dear harriet, i perfectly remember thesubstance of what i said on the occasion. i told you that i did not wonder at your attachment;that considering the service he had rendered

you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreedto it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that service, and mentioningeven what your sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—the impressionof it is strong on my memory.” “oh, dear,” cried harriet, “now i recollectwhat you mean; but i was thinking of something very different at the time. it was not thegipsies—it was not mr. frank churchill that i meant. no! (with some elevation) i was thinkingof a much more precious circumstance—of mr. knightley’s coming and asking me todance, when mr. elton would not stand up with me; and when there was no other partner inthe room. that was the kind action; that was the noble benevolence and generosity; thatwas the service which made me begin to feel

how superior he was to every other being uponearth.” “good god!” cried emma, “this has beena most unfortunate—most deplorable mistake!—what is to be done?”“you would not have encouraged me, then, if you had understood me? at least, however,i cannot be worse off than i should have been, if the other had been the person; and now—itis possible—” she paused a few moments. emma could not speak.“i do not wonder, miss woodhouse,” she resumed, “that you should feel a great differencebetween the two, as to me or as to any body. you must think one five hundred million timesmore above me than the other. but i hope, miss woodhouse, that supposing—that if—strangeas it may appear—. but you know they were

your own words, that more wonderful thingshad happened, matches of greater disparity had taken place than between mr. frank churchilland me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a thing even as this, may have occurred before—andif i should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to—if mr. knightley should really—ifhe does not mind the disparity, i hope, dear miss woodhouse, you will not set yourselfagainst it, and try to put difficulties in the way. but you are too good for that, iam sure.” harriet was standing at one of the windows.emma turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily said,“have you any idea of mr. knightley’s returning your affection?”“yes,” replied harriet modestly, but not

fearfully—“i must say that i have.”emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat silently meditating, in a fixed attitude,for a few minutes. a few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted with her own heart.a mind like hers, once opening to suspicion, made rapid progress. she touched—she admitted—sheacknowledged the whole truth. why was it so much worse that harriet should be in lovewith mr. knightley, than with frank churchill? why was the evil so dreadfully increased byharriet’s having some hope of a return? it darted through her, with the speed of anarrow, that mr. knightley must marry no one but herself!her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before her in the same few minutes. shesaw it all with a clearness which had never

blessed her before. how improperly had shebeen acting by harriet! how inconsiderate, how indelicate, how irrational, how unfeelinghad been her conduct! what blindness, what madness, had led her on! it struck her withdreadful force, and she was ready to give it every bad name in the world. some portionof respect for herself, however, in spite of all these demerits—some concern for herown appearance, and a strong sense of justice by harriet—(there would be no need of compassionto the girl who believed herself loved by mr. knightley—but justice required thatshe should not be made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave emma the resolution to sit andendure farther with calmness, with even apparent kindness.—for her own advantage indeed,it was fit that the utmost extent of harriet’s

hopes should be enquired into; and harriethad done nothing to forfeit the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily formedand maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by the person, whose counsels had never ledher right.—rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her emotion, she turned to harrietagain, and, in a more inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the subject whichhad first introduced it, the wonderful story of jane fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.—neitherof them thought but of mr. knightley and themselves. harriet, who had been standing in no unhappyreverie, was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now encouraging manner of sucha judge, and such a friend as miss woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the historyof her hopes with great, though trembling

delight.—emma’s tremblings as she asked,and as she listened, were better concealed than harriet’s, but they were not less.her voice was not unsteady; but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a developmentof self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexingemotions, must create.—she listened with much inward suffering, but with great outwardpatience, to harriet’s detail.—methodical, or well arranged, or very well delivered,it could not be expected to be; but it contained, when separated from all the feebleness andtautology of the narration, a substance to sink her spirit—especially with the corroboratingcircumstances, which her own memory brought in favour of mr. knightley’s most improvedopinion of harriet.

harriet had been conscious of a differencein his behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.—emma knew that he had, on that occasion,found her much superior to his expectation. from that evening, or at least from the timeof miss woodhouse’s encouraging her to think of him, harriet had begun to be sensible ofhis talking to her much more than he had been used to do, and of his having indeed quitea different manner towards her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—latterly she hadbeen more and more aware of it. when they had been all walking together, he had so oftencome and walked by her, and talked so very delightfully!—he seemed to want to be acquaintedwith her. emma knew it to have been very much the case. she had often observed the change,to almost the same extent.—harriet repeated

expressions of approbation and praise fromhim—and emma felt them to be in the closest agreement with what she had known of his opinionof harriet. he praised her for being without art or affectation, for having simple, honest,generous, feelings.—she knew that he saw such recommendations in harriet; he had dwelton them to her more than once.—much that lived in harriet’s memory, many little particularsof the notice she had received from him, a look, a speech, a removal from one chair toanother, a compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been unnoticed, because unsuspected,by emma. circumstances that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and contained multipliedproofs to her who had seen them, had passed undiscerned by her who now heard them; butthe two latest occurrences to be mentioned,

the two of strongest promise to harriet, werenot without some degree of witness from emma herself.—the first, was his walking withher apart from the others, in the lime-walk at donwell, where they had been walking sometime before emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was convinced) to draw her from therest to himself—and at first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he hadever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—(harriet could not recall it withouta blush.) he seemed to be almost asking her, whether her affections were engaged.—butas soon as she (miss woodhouse) appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, andbegan talking about farming:—the second, was his having sat talking with her nearlyhalf an hour before emma came back from her

visit, the very last morning of his beingat hartfield—though, when he first came in, he had said that he could not stay fiveminutes—and his having told her, during their conversation, that though he must goto london, it was very much against his inclination that he left home at all, which was much more(as emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. the superior degree of confidence towardsharriet, which this one article marked, gave her severe pain.on the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she did, after a little reflection, venturethe following question. “might he not?—is not it possible, that when enquiring, as youthought, into the state of your affections, he might be alluding to mr. martin—he mighthave mr. martin’s interest in view? but

harriet rejected the suspicion with spirit.“mr. martin! no indeed!—there was not a hint of mr. martin. i hope i know betternow, than to care for mr. martin, or to be suspected of it.”when harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to her dear miss woodhouse, to saywhether she had not good ground for hope. “i never should have presumed to think ofit at first,” said she, “but for you. you told me to observe him carefully, andlet his behaviour be the rule of mine—and so i have. but now i seem to feel that i maydeserve him; and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so very wonderful.”the bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many bitter feelings, made the utmostexertion necessary on emma’s side, to enable

her to say on reply,“harriet, i will only venture to declare, that mr. knightley is the last man in theworld, who would intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for her more thanhe really does.” harriet seemed ready to worship her friendfor a sentence so satisfactory; and emma was only saved from raptures and fondness, whichat that moment would have been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s footsteps.he was coming through the hall. harriet was too much agitated to encounter him. “shecould not compose herself— mr. woodhouse would be alarmed—she had better go;”—withmost ready encouragement from her friend, therefore, she passed off through anotherdoor—and the moment she was gone, this was

the spontaneous burst of emma’s feelings:“oh god! that i had never seen her!” the rest of the day, the following night,were hardly enough for her thoughts.—she was bewildered amidst the confusion of allthat had rushed on her within the last few hours. every moment had brought a fresh surprize;and every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—how to understand it all! how tounderstand the deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and living under!—theblunders, the blindness of her own head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about,she tried her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place, every posture, she perceivedthat she had acted most weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most mortifyingdegree; that she had been imposing on herself

in a degree yet more mortifying; that shewas wretched, and should probably find this day but the beginning of wretchedness.to understand, thoroughly understand her own heart, was the first endeavour. to that pointwent every leisure moment which her father’s claims on her allowed, and every moment ofinvoluntary absence of mind. how long had mr. knightley been so dear toher, as every feeling declared him now to be? when had his influence, such influencebegun?— when had he succeeded to that place in her affection, which frank churchill hadonce, for a short period, occupied?—she looked back; she compared the two—comparedthem, as they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of the latter’s becoming knownto her—and as they must at any time have

been compared by her, had it—oh! had it,by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the comparison.—she saw thatthere never had been a time when she did not consider mr. knightley as infinitely the superior,or when his regard for her had not been infinitely the most dear. she saw, that in persuadingherself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been entirely under a delusion, totallyignorant of her own heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for frankchurchill at all! this was the conclusion of the first seriesof reflection. this was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of inquiry, which shereached; and without being long in reaching it.—she was most sorrowfully indignant;ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed

to her—her affection for mr. knightley.—everyother part of her mind was disgusting. with insufferable vanity had she believedherself in the secret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable arrogance proposed to arrangeevery body’s destiny. she was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she hadnot quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. she had brought evil on harriet,on herself, and she too much feared, on mr. knightley.—were this most unequal of allconnexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach of having given it a beginning;for his attachment, she must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of harriet’s;—andeven were this not the case, he would never have known harriet at all but for her folly.mr. knightley and harriet smith!—it was

a union to distance every wonder of the kind.—theattachment of frank churchill and jane fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in thecomparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be saidor thought.—mr. knightley and harriet smith!—such an elevation on her side! such a debasementon his! it was horrible to emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, toforesee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortificationand disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.—could it be?—no; it was impossible.and yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rateabilities to be captivated by very inferior powers? was it new for one, perhaps too busyto seek, to be the prize of a girl who would

seek him?—was it new for any thing in thisworld 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 unexceptionableyoung man who would have made her happy and respectable in the line of life to which sheought to belong—all would have been safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.how harriet could ever have had the presumption to raise her thoughts to mr. knightley!—howshe could dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually assured of it!—butharriet was less humble, had fewer scruples

than formerly.—her inferiority, whetherof mind or situation, seemed little felt.—she had seemed more sensible of mr. elton’sbeing to stoop in marrying her, than she now seemed of mr. knightley’s.—alas! was notthat her own doing too? who had been at pains to give harriet notions of self-consequencebut herself?—who but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if possible,and that her claims were great to a high worldly establishment?—if harriet, from being humble,were grown vain, it was her doing too. till now that she was threatened with itsloss, emma had never known how much of her happiness depended on being first with mr.knightley, first in interest and affection.—satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due, shehad enjoyed it without reflection; and only

in the dread of being supplanted, found howinexpressibly important it had been.—long, very long, she felt she had been first; for,having no female connexions of his own, there had been only isabella whose claims couldbe compared with hers, and she had always known exactly how far he loved and esteemedisabella. she had herself been first with him for many years past. she had not deservedit; she had often been negligent or perverse, slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposinghim, insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him because he would not acknowledgeher false and insolent estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment and habit, andthorough excellence of mind, he had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, withan endeavour to improve her, and an anxiety

for her doing right, which no other creaturehad at all shared. in spite of all her faults, she knew she was dear to him; might she notsay, very dear?—when the suggestions of hope, however, which must follow here, presentedthemselves, she could not presume to indulge them. harriet smith might think herself notunworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by mr. knightley. she couldnot. 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 byher behaviour to miss bates! how directly, how strongly had he expressed himself to heron the subject!—not too strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issuefrom any feeling softer than upright justice

and clear-sighted goodwill.—she had no hope,nothing to deserve the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection for herselfwhich was now in question; but there was a hope (at times a slight one, at times muchstronger,) that harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his regard forher.—wish it she must, for his sake—be the consequence nothing to herself, but hisremaining single all his life. could she be secure of that, indeed, of his never marryingat all, she believed she should be perfectly satisfied.—let him but continue the samemr. knightley to her and her father, the same mr. knightley to all the world; let donwelland hartfield lose none of their precious intercourse of friendship and confidence,and her peace would be fully secured.—marriage,

in fact, would not do for her. it would beincompatible with what she owed to her father, and with what she felt for him. nothing shouldseparate her from her father. she would not marry, even if she were asked by mr. knightley.it must be her ardent wish that harriet might be disappointed; and she hoped, that whenable to see them together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chancesfor it were.—she should see them henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedlyas she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know how toadmit that she could be blinded here.—he was expected back every day. the power ofobservation would be soon given—frightfully soon it appeared when her thoughts were inone course. in the meanwhile, she resolved

against seeing harriet.—it would do neitherof them good, it would do the subject no good, to be talking of it farther.—she was resolvednot to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority for opposingharriet’s confidence. to talk would be only to irritate.—she wrote to her, therefore,kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at present, come to hartfield; acknowledgingit to be her conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one topic had betterbe avoided; and hoping, that if a few days were allowed to pass before they met again,except in the company of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—they might be ableto act as if they had forgotten the conversation of yesterday.—harriet submitted, and approved,and was grateful.

this point was just arranged, when a visitorarrived to tear emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which had engrossed them,sleeping or waking, the last twenty-four hours—mrs. weston, who had been calling on her daughter-in-lawelect, and took hartfield in her way home, almost as much in duty to emma as in pleasureto herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an interview.mr. weston had accompanied her to mrs. bates’s, and gone through his share of this essentialattention most handsomely; but she having then induced miss fairfax to join her in anairing, was now returned with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction,than a quarter of an hour spent in mrs. bates’s parlour, with all the encumbrance of awkwardfeelings, could have afforded.

a little curiosity emma had; and she madethe most of it while her friend related. mrs. weston had set off to pay the visit in a gooddeal of agitation herself; and in the first place had wished not to go at all at present,to be allowed merely to write to miss fairfax instead, and to defer this ceremonious calltill a little time had passed, and mr. churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’sbecoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought such a visit could not be paidwithout leading to reports:—but mr. weston had thought differently; he was extremelyanxious to shew his approbation to miss fairfax and her family, and did not conceive thatany suspicion could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of any consequence;for “such things,” he observed, “always

got about.” emma smiled, and felt that mr.weston had very good reason for saying so. they had gone, in short—and very great hadbeen the evident distress and confusion of the lady. she had hardly been able to speaka word, and every look and action had shewn how deeply she was suffering from consciousness.the quiet, heart-felt satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of herdaughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual, had been a gratifying, yet almostan affecting, scene. they were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterestedin every sensation; thought so much of jane; so much of every body, and so little of themselves,that every kindly feeling was at work for them. miss fairfax’s recent illness hadoffered a fair plea for mrs. weston to invite

her to an airing; she had drawn back and declinedat first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course of their drive, mrs. westonhad, by gentle encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment, as to bring herto converse on the important subject. apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in theirfirst reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towardsherself and mr. weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were putby, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement.mrs. weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion,pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleasedwith all that she had said on the subject.

“on the misery of what she had suffered,during the concealment of so many months,” continued mrs. weston, “she was energetic.this was one of her expressions. ‘i will not say, that since i entered into the engagementi have not had some happy moments; but i can say, that i have never known the blessingof one tranquil hour:’—and the quivering lip, emma, which uttered it, was an attestationthat i felt at my heart.” “poor girl!” said emma. “she thinksherself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?”“wrong! no one, i believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself.‘the consequence,’ said she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; andso it ought. but after all the punishment

that misconduct can bring, it is still notless misconduct. pain is no expiation. i never can be blameless. i have been acting contraryto all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindnessi am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘do not imagine,madam,’ she continued, ‘that i was taught wrong. do not let any reflection fall on theprinciples or the care of the friends who brought me up. the error has been all my own;and i do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give,i shall yet dread making the story known to colonel campbell.’”“poor girl!” said emma again. “she loves him then excessively, i suppose. it must havebeen from attachment only, that she could

be led to form the engagement. her affectionmust have overpowered her judgment.” “yes, i have no doubt of her being extremelyattached to him.” “i am afraid,” returned emma, sighing,“that i must often have contributed to make her unhappy.”“on your side, my love, it was very innocently done. but she probably had something of thatin her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. onenatural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in,” she said, “was that of makingher unreasonable. the consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousandinquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been—that hadbeen—hard for him to bear. ‘i did not

make the allowances,’ said she, ‘whichi ought to have done, for his temper and spirits—his delightful spirits, and that gaiety, thatplayfulness of disposition, which, under any other circumstances, would, i am sure, havebeen as constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.’ she then began to speakof you, and of the great kindness you had shewn her during her illness; and with a blushwhich shewed me how it was all connected, desired me, whenever i had an opportunity,to thank you—i could not thank you too much—for every wish and every endeavour to do her good.she was sensible that you had never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.”“if i did not know her to be happy now,” said emma, seriously, “which, in spite ofevery little drawback from her scrupulous

conscience, she must be, i could not bearthese thanks;—for, oh! mrs. weston, if there were an account drawn up of the evil and thegood i have done miss fairfax!—well (checking herself, and trying to be more lively), thisis all to be forgotten. you are very kind to bring me these interesting particulars.they shew her to the greatest advantage. i am sure she is very good—i hope she willbe very happy. it is fit that the fortune should be on his side, for i think the meritwill be all on hers.” such a conclusion could not pass unansweredby mrs. weston. she thought well of frank in almost every respect; and, what was more,she loved him very much, and her defence was, therefore, earnest. she talked with a greatdeal of reason, and at least equal affection—but

she had too much to urge for emma’s attention;it was soon gone to brunswick square or to donwell; she forgot to attempt to listen;and when mrs. weston ended with, “we have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for,you know, but i hope it will soon come,” she was obliged to pause before she answered,and at last obliged to answer at random, before she could at all recollect what letter itwas which they were so anxious for. “are you well, my emma?” was mrs. weston’sparting question. “oh! perfectly. i am always well, you know.be sure to give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.”mrs. weston’s communications furnished emma with more food for unpleasant reflection,by increasing her esteem and compassion, and

her sense of past injustice towards miss fairfax.she bitterly regretted not having sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushedfor the envious feelings which had certainly been, in some measure, the cause. had shefollowed mr. knightley’s known wishes, in paying that attention to miss fairfax, whichwas every way her due; had she tried to know her better; had she done her part towardsintimacy; had she endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in harriet smith; she must,in all probability, have been spared from every pain which pressed on her now.—birth,abilities, and education, had been equally marking one as an associate for her, to bereceived with gratitude; and the other—what was she?—supposing even that they had neverbecome intimate friends; that she had never

been admitted into miss fairfax’s confidenceon this important matter—which was most probable—still, in knowing her as she ought,and as she might, she must have been preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improperattachment to mr. dixon, which she had not only so foolishly fashioned and harbouredherself, but had so unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared had beenmade a subject of material distress to the delicacy of jane’s feelings, by the levityor carelessness of frank churchill’s. of all the sources of evil surrounding the former,since her coming to highbury, she was persuaded that she must herself have been the worst.she must have been a perpetual enemy. they never could have been all three together,without her having stabbed jane fairfax’s

peace in a thousand instances; and on boxhill, perhaps, it had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.the evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at hartfield. the weather addedwhat it could of gloom. a cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of july appeared but inthe trees and shrubs, which the wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only madesuch cruel sights the longer visible. the weather affected mr. woodhouse, and hecould only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter’sside, and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before. it reminded her oftheir first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of mrs. weston’s wedding-day; but mr. knightleyhad walked in then, soon after tea, and dissipated

every melancholy fancy. alas! such delightfulproofs of hartfield’s attraction, as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly beover. the picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter,had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.—but herpresent forebodings she feared would experience no similar contradiction. the prospect beforeher now, was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled—that mightnot be even partially brightened. if all took place that might take place among the circleof her friends, hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her fatherwith the spirits only of ruined happiness. the child to be born at randalls must be atie there even dearer than herself; and mrs.

weston’s heart and time would be occupiedby it. they should lose her; and, probably, in great measure, her husband also.—frankchurchill would return among them no more; and miss fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose,would soon cease to belong to highbury. they would be married, and settled either at ornear enscombe. all that were good would be withdrawn; and if to these losses, the lossof donwell were to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational society withintheir reach? mr. knightley to be no longer coming there for his evening comfort!—nolonger walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own home for their’s!—howwas it to be endured? and if he were to be lost to them for harriet’s sake; if he wereto be thought of hereafter, as finding in

harriet’s society all that he wanted; ifharriet were to be the chosen, the first, the dearest, the friend, the wife to whomhe looked for all the best blessings of existence; what could be increasing emma’s wretchednessbut the reflection never far distant from her mind, that it had been all her own work?when it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able to refrain from a start, or aheavy sigh, or even from walking about the room for a few seconds—and the only sourcewhence any thing like consolation or composure could be drawn, was in the resolution of herown better conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and gaiety might be thefollowing and every future winter of her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational,more acquainted with herself, and leave her

less to regret when it were gone. the weather continued much the same all thefollowing morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melancholy, seemed to reign athartfield—but in the afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer quarter; theclouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it was summer again. with all the eagernesswhich such a transition gives, emma resolved to be out of doors as soon as possible. neverhad the exquisite sight, smell, sensation of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant aftera storm, been more attractive to her. she longed for the serenity they might graduallyintroduce; and on mr. perry’s coming in soon after dinner, with a disengaged hourto give her father, she lost no time in hurrying

into the shrubbery.—there, with spiritsfreshened, 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 firstintimation 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 arrangementof mind. she must be collected and calm. in half a minute they were together. the “howd’ye do’s” were quiet and constrained on each side. she asked after their mutualfriends; they were all well.—when had he left them?—only that morning. he must havehad a wet ride.—yes.—he meant to walk with her, she found. “he had just lookedinto the dining-room, and as he was not wanted

there, preferred being out of doors.”—shethought he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it, suggestedby her fears, was, that he had perhaps been communicating his plans to his brother, andwas pained by the manner in which they had been received.they walked together. he was silent. she thought he was often looking at her, and trying fora fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. and this belief produced anotherdread. perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to harriet; he might bewatching for encouragement to begin.—she did not, could not, feel equal to lead theway to any such subject. he must do it all himself. yet she could not bear this silence.with him it was most unnatural. she considered—resolved—and,

trying to smile, began—“you have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprize you.”“have i?” said he quietly, and looking at her; “of what nature?”“oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.” after waiting a moment, as if to be sure sheintended to say no more, he replied, “if you mean miss fairfax and frank churchill,i have heard that already.” “how is it possible?” cried emma, turningher glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he mighthave called at mrs. goddard’s in his way. “i had a few lines on parish business frommr. weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what hadhappened.”

emma was quite relieved, and could presentlysay, with a little more composure, “you probably have been less surprized thanany of us, for you have had your suspicions.—i have not forgotten that you once tried togive me a caution.—i wish i had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and aheavy sigh) i seem to have been doomed to blindness.”for a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited anyparticular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against hisheart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,“time, my dearest emma, time will heal the wound.—your own excellent sense—your exertionsfor your father’s sake—i know you will

not allow yourself—.” her arm was pressedagain, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, “the feelings of the warmest friendship—indignation—abominablescoundrel!”—and in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, “he will soon begone. they will soon be in yorkshire. i am sorry for her. she deserves a better fate.”emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure, excitedby such tender consideration, replied, “you are very kind—but you are mistaken—andi must set you right.— i am not in want of that sort of compassion. my blindness towhat was going on, led me to act by them in a way that i must always be ashamed of, andi was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open tounpleasant conjectures, but i have no other

reason to regret that i was not in the secretearlier.” “emma!” cried he, looking eagerly at her,“are you, indeed?”—but checking himself—“no, no, i understand you—forgive me—i am pleasedthat you can say even so much.—he is no object of regret, indeed! and it will notbe very long, i hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.—fortunatethat your affections were not farther entangled!—i could never, i confess, from your manners,assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—i could only be certain that therewas a preference—and a preference which i never believed him to deserve.—he is adisgrace to the name of man.—and is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—jane,jane, you will be a miserable creature.”

“mr. knightley,” said emma, trying tobe lively, but really confused—“i am in a very extraordinary situation. i cannot letyou continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression,i have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that i never have been at all attached tothe person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessingexactly the reverse.—but i never have.” he listened in perfect silence. she wishedhim to speak, but he would not. she supposed she must say more before she were entitledto his clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion.she went on, however. “i have very little to say for my own conduct.—iwas tempted by his attentions, and allowed

myself to appear pleased.—an old story,probably—a common case—and no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before;and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as i do for understanding.many circumstances assisted the temptation. he was the son of mr. weston—he was continuallyhere—i always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell outthe causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was flattered,and i allowed his attentions. latterly, however—for some time, indeed—i have had no idea oftheir meaning any thing.—i thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called forseriousness on my side. he has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. i have neverbeen attached to him. and now i can tolerably

comprehend his behaviour. he never wishedto attach me. it was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—it washis object to blind all about him; and no one, i am sure, could be more effectuallyblinded than myself—except that i was not blinded—that it was my good fortune—that,in short, i was somehow or other safe from him.”she had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her conduct was at leastintelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. at last,and tolerably in his usual tone, he said, “i have never had a high opinion of frankchurchill.—i can suppose, however, that i may have underrated him. my acquaintancewith him has been but trifling.—and even

if i have not underrated him hitherto, hemay yet turn out well.—with such a woman he has a chance.—i have no motive for wishinghim ill—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character andconduct, i shall certainly wish him well.” “i have no doubt of their being happy together,”said emma; “i believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”“he is a most fortunate man!” returned mr. knightley, with energy. “so early inlife—at three-and-twenty—a period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chusesill. at three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! what years of felicity that man,in all human calculation, has before him!—assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterestedlove, for jane fairfax’s character vouches

for her disinterestedness; every thing inhis favour,—equality of situation—i mean, as far as regards society, and all the habitsand manners that are important; equality in every point but one—and that one, sincethe purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for itwill be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.—a man would always wish to givea woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where thereis no doubt of her regard, must, i think, be the happiest of mortals.—frank churchillis, indeed, the favourite of fortune. every thing turns out for his good.—he meets witha young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligenttreatment—and had he and all his family

sought round the world for a perfect wifefor him, they could not have found her superior.—his aunt is in the way.—his aunt dies.—hehas only to speak.—his friends are eager to promote his happiness.—he had used everybody ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—he is a fortunate man indeed!”“you speak as if you envied him.” “and i do envy him, emma. in one respecthe is the object of my envy.” emma could say no more. they seemed to bewithin half a sentence of harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject,if possible. she made her plan; she would speak of something totally different—thechildren in brunswick square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when mr. knightleystartled her, by saying,

“you will not ask me what is the point ofenvy.—you are determined, i see, to have no curiosity.—you are wise—but i cannotbe wise. emma, i must tell you what you will not ask, though i may wish it unsaid the nextmoment.” “oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speakit,” she eagerly cried. “take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”“thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllablefollowed. emma could not bear to give him pain. he waswishing to confide in her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen.she might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to harriet,or, by representing to him his own independence,

relieve him from that state of indecision,which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—they had reachedthe house. “you are going in, i suppose?” said he.“no,”—replied emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he stillspoke—“i should like to take another turn. mr. perry is not gone.” and, after proceedinga few steps, she added—“i stopped you ungraciously, just now, mr. knightley, and,i am afraid, gave you pain.—but if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend,or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed,you may command me.—i will hear whatever you like. i will tell you exactly what i think.”“as a friend!”—repeated mr. knightley.—“emma,

that i fear is a word—no, i have no wish—stay,yes, why should i hesitate?—i have gone too far already for concealment.—emma, iaccept your offer—extraordinary as it may seem, i accept it, and refer myself to youas a friend.—tell me, then, have i no chance of ever succeeding?”he stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpoweredher. “my dearest emma,” said he, “for dearestyou will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, mostbeloved emma—tell me at once. say ‘no,’ if it is to be said.”—she could reallysay nothing.—“you are silent,” he cried, with great animation; “absolutely silent!at present i ask no more.”

emma was almost ready to sink under the agitationof this moment. the dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the mostprominent feeling. “i cannot make speeches, emma:” he soonresumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—“ifi loved you less, i might be able to talk about it more. but you know what i am.—youhear nothing but truth from me.—i have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borneit as no other woman in england would have borne it.—bear with the truths i would tellyou now, dearest emma, as well as you have borne with them. the manner, perhaps, mayhave as little to recommend them. god knows, i have been a very indifferent lover.—butyou understand me.—yes, you see, you understand

my feelings—and will return them if youcan. at present, i ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”while he spoke, emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought,had been able—and yet without losing a word—to catch and comprehend the exact truth of thewhole; to see that harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion,as complete a delusion as any of her own—that harriet was nothing; that she was every thingherself; that what she had been saying relative to harriet had been all taken as the languageof her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement,had been all received as discouragement from herself.—and not only was there time forthese convictions, with all their glow of

attendant happiness; there was time also torejoice that harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to resolve that it need not, andshould not.—it was all the service she could now render her poor friend; for as to anyof that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted her to entreat him to transfer hisaffection from herself to harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two—or even the moresimple sublimity of resolving to refuse him at once and for ever, without vouchsafingany motive, because he could not marry them both, emma had it not. she felt for harriet,with pain and with contrition; but no flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that couldbe probable or reasonable, entered her brain. she had led her friend astray, and it wouldbe a reproach to her for ever; but her judgment

was as strong as her feelings, and as strongas it had ever been before, in reprobating any such alliance for him, as most unequaland degrading. her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—she spoke then, on being soentreated.—what did she say?—just what she ought, of course. a lady always does.—shesaid enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself. he haddespaired at one period; he had received such an injunction to caution and silence, as forthe time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing to hear him.—the change hadperhaps been somewhat sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renewing the conversationwhich she had just put an end to, might be a little extraordinary!—she felt its inconsistency;but mr. knightley was so obliging as to put

up with it, and seek no farther explanation.seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happenthat something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but where, as in thiscase, though the conduct is mistaken, the feelings are not, it may not be very material.—mr.knightley could not impute to emma a more relenting heart than she possessed, or a heartmore disposed to accept of his. he had, in fact, been wholly unsuspiciousof his own influence. he had followed her into the shrubbery with no idea of tryingit. he had come, in his anxiety to see how she bore frank churchill’s engagement, withno selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she allowed him an opening, to soothe orto counsel her.—the rest had been the work

of the moment, the immediate effect of whathe heard, on his feelings. the delightful assurance of her total indifference towardsfrank churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged from him, had given birth to thehope, that, in time, he might gain her affection himself;—but it had been no present hope—hehad only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that shedid not forbid his attempt to attach her.—the superior hopes which gradually opened wereso much the more enchanting.—the affection, which he had been asking to be allowed tocreate, if he could, was already his!—within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughlydistressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bearno other name.

her change was equal.—this one half-hourhad given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each thesame degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—on his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy,old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of frank churchill.—he had been in lovewith emma, and jealous of frank churchill, from about the same period, one sentimenthaving probably enlightened him as to the other. it was his jealousy of frank churchillthat 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.—hehad gone to learn to be indifferent.—but he had gone to a wrong place. there was toomuch domestic happiness in his brother’s

house; woman wore too amiable a form in it;isabella was too much like emma—differing only in those striking inferiorities, whichalways brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even hadhis time been longer.—he had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—tillthis very morning’s post had conveyed the history of jane fairfax.—then, with thegladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believedfrank churchill to be at all deserving emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so muchkeen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. he had ridden home through the rain;and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures,faultless in spite of all her faults, bore

the discovery.he had found her agitated and low.—frank churchill was a villain.— he heard her declarethat she had never loved him. frank churchill’s character was not desperate.—she was hisown emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thoughtof frank churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow. what totally different feelings did emma takeback into the house from what she had brought out!—she had then been only daring to hopefor a little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness,and such happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater when the flutter shouldhave passed away.

they sat down to tea—the same party roundthe same table—how often it had been collected!—and how often had her eyes fallen on the sameshrubs in the lawn, and observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—butnever in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like it; and it was with difficultythat she could summon enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house,or even the attentive daughter. poor mr. woodhouse little suspected what wasplotting against him in the breast of that man whom he was so cordially welcoming, andso anxiously hoping might not have taken cold from his ride.—could he have seen the heart,he would have cared very little for the lungs; but without the most distant imagination ofthe impending evil, without the slightest

perception of any thing extraordinary in thelooks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of newshe had received from mr. perry, and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspiciousof what they could have told him in return. as long as mr. knightley remained with them,emma’s fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a little tranquillisedand subdued—and in the course of the sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening,she found one or two such very serious points to consider, as made her feel, that even herhappiness must have some alloy. her father—and harriet. she could not be alone without feelingthe full weight of their separate claims; and how to guard the comfort of both to theutmost, was the question. with respect to

her father, it was a question soon answered.she hardly knew yet what mr. knightley would ask; but a very short parley with her ownheart produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her father.—she even weptover the idea of it, as a sin of thought. while he lived, it must be only an engagement;but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of drawing her away, it mightbecome an increase of comfort to him.—how to do her best by harriet, was of more difficultdecision;—how to spare her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible atonement;how to appear least her enemy?—on these subjects, her perplexity and distress werevery great—and her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter reproach andsorrowful regret that had ever surrounded

it.—she could only resolve at last, thatshe would still avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need be told by letter;that it would be inexpressibly desirable to have her removed just now for a time fromhighbury, and—indulging in one scheme more—nearly resolve, that it might be practicable to getan invitation for her to brunswick square.—isabella had been pleased with harriet; and a few weeksspent in london must give her some amusement.—she did not think it in harriet’s nature toescape being benefited by novelty and variety, by the streets, the shops, and the children.—atany rate, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from whom every thingwas due; a separation for the present; an averting of the evil day, when they must allbe together again.

she rose early, and wrote her letter to harriet;an employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad, that mr. knightley, in walkingup to hartfield to breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour stolen afterwardsto go over the same ground again with him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessaryto reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the evening before.he had not left her long, by no means long enough for her to have the slightest inclinationfor thinking of any body else, when a letter was brought her from randalls—a very thickletter;—she guessed what it must contain, and deprecated the necessity of reading it.—shewas now in perfect charity with frank churchill; she wanted no explanations, she wanted onlyto have her thoughts to herself—and as for

understanding any thing he wrote, she wassure she was incapable of it.—it must be waded through, however. she opened the packet;it was too surely so;—a note from mrs. weston to herself, ushered in the letter from frankto mrs. weston. “i have the greatest pleasure, my dear emma,in forwarding to you the enclosed. i know what thorough justice you will do it, andhave scarcely a doubt of its happy effect.—i think we shall never materially disagree aboutthe writer again; but i will not delay you by a long preface.—we are quite well.—thisletter has been the cure of all the little nervousness i have been feeling lately.—idid not quite like your looks on tuesday, but it was an ungenial morning; and thoughyou will never own being affected by weather,

i think every body feels a north-east wind.—ifelt for your dear father very much in the storm of tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning,but had the comfort of hearing last night, by mr. perry, that it had not made him ill.“yours ever, “a. w.” [to mrs. weston.]windsor-july. my dear madam,“if i made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will be expected; but expectedor not, i know it will be read with candour and indulgence.—you are all goodness, andi believe there will be need of even all your goodness to allow for some parts of my pastconduct.—but i have been forgiven by one

who had still more to resent. my courage riseswhile i write. it is very difficult for the prosperous to be humble. i have already metwith such success in two applications for pardon, that i may be in danger of thinkingmyself too sure of yours, and of those among your friends who have had any ground of offence.—youmust all endeavour to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when i first arrivedat randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which was to be kept at all hazards.this was the fact. my right to place myself in a situation requiring such concealment,is another question. i shall not discuss it here. for my temptation to think it a right,i refer every caviller to a brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above, in highbury.i dared not address her openly; my difficulties

in the then state of enscombe must be toowell known to require definition; and i was fortunate enough to prevail, before we partedat weymouth, and to induce the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in charityto a secret engagement.—had she refused, i should have gone mad.—but you will beready to say, what was your hope in doing this?—what did you look forward to?—toany thing, every thing—to time, chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. every possibility of good was before me, andthe first of blessings secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and correspondence.if you need farther explanation, i have the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’sson, and the advantage of inheriting a disposition

to hope for good, which no inheritance ofhouses or lands can ever equal the value of.—see me, then, under these circumstances, arrivingon my first visit to randalls;—and here i am conscious of wrong, for that visit mighthave been sooner paid. you will look back and see that i did not come till miss fairfaxwas in highbury; and as you were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly; buti must work on my father’s compassion, by reminding him, that so long as i absentedmyself from his house, so long i lost the blessing of knowing you. my behaviour, duringthe very happy fortnight which i spent with you, did not, i hope, lay me open to reprehension,excepting on one point. and now i come to the principal, the only important part ofmy conduct while belonging to you, which excites

my own anxiety, or requires very solicitousexplanation. with the greatest respect, and the warmest friendship, do i mention misswoodhouse; my father perhaps will think i ought to add, with the deepest humiliation.—afew words which dropped from him yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure i acknowledgemyself liable to.—my behaviour to miss woodhouse indicated, i believe, more than it ought.—inorder to assist a concealment so essential to me, i was led on to make more than an allowableuse of the sort of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—i cannot deny thatmiss woodhouse was my ostensible object—but i am sure you will believe the declaration,that had i not been convinced of her indifference, i would not have been induced by any selfishviews to go on.—amiable and delightful as

miss woodhouse is, she never gave me the ideaof a young woman likely to be attached; and that she was perfectly free from any tendencyto being attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.—she received my attentions withan easy, friendly, goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. we seemed to understandeach other. from our relative situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt tobe so.—whether miss woodhouse began really to understand me before the expiration ofthat fortnight, i cannot say;—when i called to take leave of her, i remember that i waswithin a moment of confessing the truth, and i then fancied she was not without suspicion;but i have no doubt of her having since detected me, at least in some degree.—she may nothave surmised the whole, but her quickness

must have penetrated a part. i cannot doubtit. you will find, whenever the subject becomes freed from its present restraints, that itdid not take her wholly by surprize. she frequently gave me hints of it. i remember her tellingme at the ball, that i owed mrs. elton gratitude for her attentions to miss fairfax.—i hopethis history of my conduct towards her will be admitted by you and my father as greatextenuation of what you saw amiss. while you considered me as having sinned against emmawoodhouse, i could deserve nothing from either. acquit me here, and procure for me, when itis allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said emma woodhouse, whom i regardwith so much brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as happily in loveas myself.—whatever strange things i said

or did during that fortnight, you have nowa key to. my heart was in highbury, and my business was to get my body thither as oftenas might be, and with the least suspicion. if you remember any queernesses, set themall to the right account.—of the pianoforte so much talked of, i feel it only necessaryto say, that its being ordered was absolutely unknown to miss f—, who would never haveallowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—the delicacy of her mind throughoutthe whole engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power of doing justice to. you willsoon, i earnestly hope, know her thoroughly yourself.—no description can describe her.she must tell you herself what she is—yet not by word, for never was there a human creaturewho would so designedly suppress her own merit.—since

i began this letter, which will be longerthan i foresaw, i have heard from her.—she gives a good account of her own health; butas she never complains, i dare not depend. i want to have your opinion of her looks.i know you will soon call on her; she is living in dread of the visit. perhaps it is paidalready. let me hear from you without delay; i am impatient for a thousand particulars.remember how few minutes i was at randalls, and in how bewildered, how mad a state: andi am not much better yet; still insane either from happiness or misery. when i think ofthe kindness and favour i have met with, of her excellence and patience, and my uncle’sgenerosity, i am mad with joy: but when i recollect all the uneasiness i occasionedher, and how little i deserve to be forgiven,

i am mad with anger. if i could but see heragain!—but i must not propose it yet. my uncle has been too good for me to encroach.—imust still add to this long letter. you have not heard all that you ought to hear. i couldnot give any connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in one light, the unseasonablenesswith which the affair burst out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th ult., asyou will conclude, immediately opened to me the happiest prospects, i should not havepresumed on such early measures, but from the very particular circumstances, which leftme not an hour to lose. i should myself have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she wouldhave felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and refinement.—but i had no choice.the hasty engagement she had entered into

with that woman—here, my dear madam, i wasobliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect and compose myself.—i have been walkingover the country, and am now, i hope, rational enough to make the rest of my letter whatit ought to be.—it is, in fact, a most mortifying retrospect for me. i behaved shamefully. andhere i can admit, that my manners to miss w., in being unpleasant to miss f., were highlyblameable. she disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—my plea of concealingthe truth she did not think sufficient.—she was displeased; i thought unreasonably so:i thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily scrupulous and cautious: i thought her evencold. but she was always right. if i had followed her judgment, and subdued my spirits to thelevel of what she deemed proper, i should

have escaped the greatest unhappiness i haveever known.—we quarrelled.— do you remember the morning spent at donwell?—there everylittle dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. i was late; i met her walkinghome by herself, and wanted to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. she absolutelyrefused to allow me, which i then thought most unreasonable. now, however, i see nothingin it but a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. while i, to blind the worldto our engagement, was behaving one hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which might have made every previous cautionuseless?—had we been met walking together between donwell and highbury, the truth musthave been suspected.—i was mad enough, however,

to resent.—i doubted her affection. i doubtedit more the next day on box hill; when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such shameful,insolent neglect of her, and such apparent devotion to miss w., as it would have beenimpossible for any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment in a form of wordsperfectly intelligible to me.—in short, my dear madam, it was a quarrel blamelesson her side, abominable on mine; and i returned the same evening to richmond, though i mighthave staid with you till the next morning, merely because i would be as angry with heras possible. even then, i was not such a fool as not to mean to be reconciled in time; buti was the injured person, injured by her coldness, and i went away determined that she shouldmake the first advances.—i shall always

congratulate myself that you were not of thebox hill party. had you witnessed my behaviour there, i can hardly suppose you would everhave thought well of me again. its effect upon her appears in the immediate resolutionit produced: as soon as she found i was really gone from randalls, she closed with the offerof that officious mrs. elton; the whole system of whose treatment of her, by the bye, hasever filled me with indignation and hatred. i must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearancewhich has been so richly extended towards myself; but, otherwise, i should loudly protestagainst the share of it which that woman has known.—‘jane,’ indeed!—you will observethat i have not yet indulged myself in calling her by that name, even to you. think, then,what i must have endured in hearing it bandied

between the eltons with all the vulgarityof needless repetition, and all the insolence of imaginary superiority. have patience withme, i shall soon have done.—she closed with this offer, resolving to break with me entirely,and wrote the next day to tell me that we never were to meet again.—she felt the engagementto be a source of repentance and misery to each: she dissolved it.—this letter reachedme on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. i answered it within an hour; but fromthe confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my answer,instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk;and i, trusting that i had written enough, though but a few lines, to satisfy her, remainedwithout any uneasiness.—i was rather disappointed

that i did not hear from her again speedily;but i made excuses for her, and was too busy, and—may i add?—too cheerful in my viewsto be captious.—we removed to windsor; and two days afterwards i received a parcel fromher, my own letters all returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post, statingher extreme surprize at not having had the smallest reply to her last; and adding, thatas silence on such a point could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally desirable to bothto have every subordinate arrangement concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by asafe conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if i could not directly command hers,so as to send them to highbury within a week, i would forward them after that period toher at—: in short, the full direction to

mr. smallridge’s, near bristol, stared mein the face. i knew the name, the place, i knew all about it, and instantly saw whatshe had been doing. it was perfectly accordant with that resolution of character which iknew her to possess; and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design in her formerletter, was equally descriptive of its anxious delicacy. for the world would not she haveseemed to threaten me.—imagine the shock; imagine how, till i had actually detectedmy own blunder, i raved at the blunders of the post.—what was to be done?—one thingonly.—i must speak to my uncle. without his sanction i could not hope to be listenedto again.—i spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened awayhis 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 muchhappiness in the marriage state as he had done.—i felt that it would be of a differentsort.—are you disposed to pity me for what i must have suffered in opening the causeto him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—no; do not pity me till i reached highbury, andsaw how ill i had made her. do not pity me till i saw her wan, sick looks.—i reachedhighbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, iwas certain of a good chance of finding her alone.—i was not disappointed; and at lasti was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. a great deal of very reasonable,very just displeasure i had to persuade away.

but it is done; we are reconciled, dearer,much dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again.now, my dear madam, i will release you; but i could not conclude before. a thousand anda thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for theattentions your heart will dictate towards her.—if you think me in a way to be happierthan i deserve, i am quite of your opinion.—miss w. calls me the child of good fortune. i hopeshe is right.—in one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribemyself, your obliged and affectionate son, f. c. weston churchill.

this letter must make its way to emma’sfeelings. she was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, todo it all the justice that mrs. weston foretold. as soon as she came to her own name, it wasirresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable;and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural returnof her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture oflove must have for her at that moment. she never stopt till she had gone through thewhole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had beenless wrong than she had supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and hewas so grateful to mrs. weston, and so much

in love with miss fairfax, and she was sohappy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she musthave shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.she thought so well of the letter, that when mr. knightley came again, she desired himto read it. she was sure of mrs. weston’s wishing it to be communicated; especiallyto one, who, like mr. knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct.“i shall be very glad to look it over,” said he; “but it seems long. i will takeit home with me at night.” but that would not do. mr. weston was to callin the evening, 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 directlyto say, “had i been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-lawa few months ago, emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.”he proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed,“humph! a fine complimentary opening: but it is his way. one man’s style must notbe the rule of another’s. we will not be severe.”“it will be natural for me,” he added shortly afterwards, “to speak my opinionaloud as i read. by doing it, i shall feel that i am near you. it will not be so greata loss of time: but if you dislike it—”

“not at all. i should wish it.”mr. knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity.“he trifles here,” said he, “as to the temptation. he knows he is wrong, and hasnothing rational to urge.—bad.—he ought not to have formed the engagement.—‘hisfather’s disposition:’—he is unjust, however, to his father. mr. weston’s sanguinetemper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but mr. weston earnedevery present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.—very true; he did not come tillmiss fairfax was here.” “and i have not forgotten,” said emma,“how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. you pass it over veryhandsomely—but you were perfectly right.”

“i was not quite impartial in my judgment,emma:—but yet, i think—had you not been in the case—i should still have distrustedhim.” when he came to miss woodhouse, he was obligedto read the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of thehead; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required;concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus—“very bad—though it might have been worse.—playing a most dangerous game. too much indebted tothe event for his acquittal.—no judge of his own manners by you.—always deceivedin fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.—fancyingyou to have fathomed his secret. natural enough!—his

own mind full of intrigue, that he shouldsuspect it in others.—mystery; finesse—how they pervert the understanding! my emma, doesnot every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all ourdealings with each other?” emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibilityon harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of.“you had better go on,” said she. he did so, but very soon stopt again to say,“the pianoforte! ah! that was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to considerwhether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. a boyish scheme,indeed!—i cannot comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any proof of affection whichhe knows she would rather dispense with; and

he did know that she would have preventedthe instrument’s coming if she could.” after this, he made some progress withoutany pause. frank churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully was the firstthing to call for more than a word in passing. “i perfectly agree with you, sir,”—wasthen his remark. “you did behave very shamefully. you never wrote a truer line.” and havinggone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persistingto act in direct opposition to jane fairfax’s sense of right, he made a fuller pause tosay, “this is very bad.—he had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situationof extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to preventher from suffering unnecessarily.—she must

have had much more to contend with, in carryingon the correspondence, than he could. he should have respected even unreasonable scruples,had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. we must look to her one fault, and rememberthat she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she shouldhave been in such a state of punishment.” emma knew that he was now getting to the boxhill party, and grew uncomfortable. her own behaviour had been so very improper! she wasdeeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. it was all read, however, steadily,attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her,instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain—no remembrance of box hill seemed toexist.

“there is no saying much for the delicacyof our good friends, the eltons,” was his next observation.—“his feelings are natural.—what!actually resolve to break with him entirely!—she felt the engagement to be a source of repentanceand misery to each—she dissolved it.—what a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—well,he must be a most extraordinary—” “nay, nay, read on.—you will find howvery much he suffers.” “i hope he does,” replied mr. knightleycoolly, and resuming the letter. “‘smallridge!’—what does this mean? what is all this?”“she had engaged to go as governess to mrs. smallridge’s children—a dear friend ofmrs. elton’s—a neighbour of maple grove; and, by the bye, i wonder how mrs. elton bearsthe disappointment?”

“say nothing, my dear emma, while you obligeme to read—not even of mrs. elton. only one page more. i shall soon have done. whata letter the man writes!” “i wish you would read it with a kinderspirit towards him.” “well, there is feeling here.—he doesseem to have suffered in finding her ill.—certainly, i can have no doubt of his being fond of her.‘dearer, much dearer than ever.’ i hope he may long continue to feel all the valueof such a reconciliation.—he is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.—‘happierthan i deserve.’ come, he knows himself there. ‘miss woodhouse calls me the childof good fortune.’—those were miss woodhouse’s words, were they?— and a fine ending—andthere is the letter. the child of good fortune!

that was your name for him, was it?”“you do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as i am; but still you must, atleast i hope you must, think the better of him for it. i hope it does him some servicewith you.” “yes, certainly it does. he has had greatfaults, faults of inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and i am very much of his opinion in thinkinghim likely to be happier than he deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, reallyattached to miss fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the advantage of beingconstantly with her, i am very ready to believe his character will improve, and acquire fromhers the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. and now, let me talk to youof something else. i have another person’s

interest at present so much at heart, thati cannot think any longer about frank churchill. ever since i left you this morning, emma,my mind has been hard at work on one subject.” the subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected,gentlemanlike english, such as mr. knightley used even to the woman he was in love with,how to be able to ask her to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her father. emma’sanswer was ready at the first word. “while her dear father lived, any change of conditionmust be impossible for her. she could never quit him.” part only of this answer, however,was admitted. the impossibility of her quitting her father, mr. knightley felt as stronglyas herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he could not agree to. he hadbeen thinking it over most deeply, most intently;

he had at first hoped to induce mr. woodhouseto remove with her to donwell; he had wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledgeof mr. woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long; and now he confessed his persuasion,that such a transplantation would be a risk of her father’s comfort, perhaps even ofhis life, which must not be hazarded. mr. woodhouse taken from hartfield!—no, he feltthat it ought not to be attempted. but the plan which had arisen on the sacrifice ofthis, he trusted his dearest emma would not find in any respect objectionable; it was,that he should be received at hartfield; that so long as her father’s happiness—in otherwords, his life—required hartfield to continue her home, it should be his likewise.of their all removing to donwell, emma had

already had her own passing thoughts. likehim, she had tried the scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had notoccurred to her. she was sensible of all the affection it evinced. she felt that, in quittingdonwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; thatin living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much,very much, to be borne with. she promised to think of it, and advised him to think ofit more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or hisopinion on the subject. he had given it, he could assure her, very long and calm consideration;he had been walking away from william larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts tohimself.

“ah! there is one difficulty unprovidedfor,” cried emma. “i am sure william larkins will not like it. you must get his consentbefore you ask mine.” she promised, however, to think of it; andpretty nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the intention of finding it avery good scheme. it is remarkable, that emma, in the many,very many, points of view in which she was now beginning to consider donwell abbey, wasnever struck with any sense of injury to her nephew henry, whose rights as heir-expectanthad formerly been so tenaciously regarded. think she must of the possible differenceto the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile about it,and found amusement in detecting the real

cause of that violent dislike of mr. knightley’smarrying jane fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to theamiable solicitude of the sister and the aunt. this proposal of his, this plan of marryingand continuing at hartfield—the more she contemplated it, the more pleasing it became.his evils seemed to lessen, her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to outweighevery drawback. such a companion for herself in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessnessbefore her!—such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time must be givingincrease of melancholy! she would have been too happy but for poorharriet; but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and advance the sufferings of herfriend, who must now be even excluded from

hartfield. the delightful family party whichemma was securing for herself, poor harriet must, in mere charitable caution, be keptat a distance from. she would be a loser in every way. emma could not deplore her futureabsence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. in such a party, harriet would be rather adead weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a peculiarly cruelnecessity that was to be placing her in such a state of unmerited punishment.in time, of course, mr. knightley would be forgotten, that is, supplanted; but this couldnot be expected to happen very early. mr. knightley himself would be doing nothing toassist the cure;—not like mr. elton. mr. knightley, always so kind, so feeling, sotruly considerate for every body, would never

deserve to be less worshipped than now; andit really was too much to hope even of harriet, that she could be in love with more than threemen in one year. it was a very great relief to emma to findharriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. their intercourse was painful enoughby letter. how much worse, had they been obliged to meet!harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparentsense of ill-usage; and yet emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a somethingbordering on it in her style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—itmight be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have beenquite without resentment under such a stroke.

she had no difficulty in procuring isabella’sinvitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, withoutresorting to invention.—there was a tooth amiss. harriet really wished, and had wishedsome time, to consult a dentist. mrs. john knightley was delighted to be of use; anything of ill health was a recommendation to her—and though not so fond of a dentistas of a mr. wingfield, she was quite eager to have harriet under her care.—when itwas thus settled on her sister’s side, emma proposed it to her friend, and found her verypersuadable.—harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she wasto be conveyed in mr. woodhouse’s carriage.—it was all arranged, it was all completed, andharriet was safe in brunswick square.

now emma could, indeed, enjoy mr. knightley’svisits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by thatsense of injustice, of guilt, of something most painful, which had haunted her when rememberinghow disappointed a heart was near her, how much might at that moment, and at a littledistance, be enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.the difference of harriet at mrs. goddard’s, or in london, made perhaps an unreasonabledifference in emma’s sensations; but she could not think of her in london without objectsof curiosity and employment, which must be averting the past, and carrying her out ofherself. she would not allow any other anxiety to succeeddirectly to the place in her mind which harriet

had occupied. there was a communication beforeher, one which she only could be competent to make—the confession of her engagementto her father; but she would have nothing to do with it at present.—she had resolvedto defer the disclosure till mrs. weston were safe and well. no additional agitation shouldbe thrown at this period among those she loved—and the evil should not act on herself by anticipationbefore the appointed time.—a fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, tocrown every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.she soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to employ half an hour of this holidayof spirits in calling on miss fairfax.—she ought to go—and she was longing to see her;the resemblance of their present situations

increasing every other motive of goodwill.it would be a secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of prospectwould certainly add to the interest with which she should attend to any thing jane mightcommunicate. she went—she had driven once unsuccessfullyto the door, but had not been into the house since the morning after box hill, when poorjane had been in such distress as had filled her with compassion, though all the worstof her sufferings had been unsuspected.—the fear of being still unwelcome, determinedher, though assured of their being at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—sheheard patty announcing it; but no such bustle succeeded as poor miss bates had before madeso happily intelligible.—no; she heard nothing

but the instant reply of, “beg her to walkup;”—and a moment afterwards she was met on the stairs by jane herself, coming eagerlyforward, as if no other reception of her were felt sufficient.—emma had never seen herlook so well, so lovely, so engaging. there was consciousness, animation, and warmth;there was every thing which her countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— she cameforward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but very feeling tone,“this is most kind, indeed!—miss woodhouse, it is impossible for me to express—i hopeyou will believe—excuse me for being so entirely without words.”emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no want of words, if the sound of mrs. elton’svoice from the sitting-room had not checked

her, and made it expedient to compress allher friendly and all her congratulatory sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.mrs. bates and mrs. elton were together. miss bates was out, which accounted for the previoustranquillity. emma could have wished mrs. elton elsewhere; but she was in a humour tohave patience with every body; and as mrs. elton met her with unusual graciousness, shehoped the rencontre would do them no harm. she soon believed herself to penetrate mrs.elton’s thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in happy spirits; it wasbeing in miss fairfax’s confidence, and fancying herself acquainted with what wasstill a secret to other people. emma saw symptoms of it immediately in the expression of herface; and while paying her own compliments

to mrs. bates, and appearing to attend tothe good old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious parade of mystery foldup a letter which she had apparently been reading aloud to miss fairfax, and returnit into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying, with significant nods,“we can finish this some other time, you know. you and i shall not want opportunities.and, in fact, you have heard all the essential already. i only wanted to prove to you thatmrs. s. admits our apology, and is not offended. you see how delightfully she writes. oh! sheis a sweet creature! you would have doated on her, had you gone.—but not a word more.let us be discreet—quite on our good behaviour.—hush!—you remember those lines—i forget the poem atthis moment:

“for when a lady’s in the case,“you know all other things give place.” now i say, my dear, in our case, for lady,read——mum! a word to the wise.—i am in a fine flow of spirits, an’t i? but iwant to set your heart at ease as to mrs. s.—my representation, you see, has quiteappeased her.” and again, on emma’s merely turning herhead to look at mrs. bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,“i mentioned no names, you will observe.—oh! no; cautious as a minister of state. i managedit extremely well.” emma could not doubt. it was a palpable display,repeated on every possible occasion. when they had all talked a little while in harmonyof the weather and mrs. weston, she found

herself abruptly addressed with,“do not you think, miss woodhouse, our saucy little friend here is charmingly recovered?—donot you think her cure does perry the highest credit?—(here was a side-glance of greatmeaning at jane.) upon my word, perry has restored her in a wonderful short time!—oh!if you had seen her, as i did, when she was at the worst!”—and when mrs. bates wassaying something to emma, whispered farther, “we do not say a word of any assistancethat perry might have; not a word of a certain young physician from windsor.—oh! no; perryshall have all the credit.” “i have scarce had the pleasure of seeingyou, miss woodhouse,” she shortly afterwards began, “since the party to box hill. verypleasant party. but yet i think there was

something wanting. things did not seem—thatis, there seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—so it appeared to me at least,but i might be mistaken. however, i think it answered so far as to tempt one to go again.what say you both to our collecting the same party, and exploring to box hill again, whilethe fine weather lasts?—it must be the same party, you know, quite the same party, notone exception.” soon after this miss bates came in, and emmacould not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first answer to herself, resulting,she supposed, from doubt of what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.“thank you, dear miss woodhouse, you are all kindness.—it is impossible to say—yes,indeed, i quite understand—dearest jane’s

prospects—that is, i do not mean.—butshe is charmingly recovered.—how is mr. woodhouse?—i am so glad.—quite out ofmy power.—such a happy little circle as you find us here.—yes, indeed.—charmingyoung man!—that is—so very friendly; i mean good mr. perry!—such attention to jane!”—andfrom her great, her more than commonly thankful delight towards mrs. elton for being there,emma guessed that there had been a little show of resentment towards jane, from thevicarage quarter, which was now graciously overcome.—after a few whispers, indeed,which placed it beyond a guess, mrs. elton, speaking louder, said,“yes, here i am, my good friend; and here i have been so long, that anywhere else ishould think it necessary to apologise; but,

the truth is, that i am waiting for my lordand master. he promised to join me here, and pay his respects to you.”“what! are we to have the pleasure of a call from mr. elton?—that will be a favourindeed! for i know gentlemen do not like morning visits, and mr. elton’s time is so engaged.”“upon my word it is, miss bates.—he really is engaged from morning to night.—thereis no end of people’s coming to him, on some pretence or other.—the magistrates,and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. they seem not able todo any thing without him.—‘upon my word, mr. e.,’ i often say, ‘rather you thani.—i do not know what would become of my crayons and my instrument, if i had half somany applicants.’—bad enough as it is,

for i absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonabledegree.—i believe i have not played a bar this fortnight.—however, he is coming, iassure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.” and putting up her hand toscreen her words from emma—“a congratulatory visit, you know.—oh! yes, quite indispensable.”miss bates looked about her, so happily—! “he promised to come to me as soon as hecould disengage himself from knightley; but he and knightley are shut up together in deepconsultation.—mr. e. is knightley’s right hand.”emma would not have smiled for the world, and only said, “is mr. elton gone on footto donwell?—he will have a hot walk.” “oh! no, it is a meeting at the crown, aregular meeting. weston and cole will be there

too; but one is apt to speak only of thosewho lead.—i fancy mr. e. and knightley have every thing their own way.”“have not you mistaken the day?” said emma. “i am almost certain that the meetingat the crown is not till to-morrow.—mr. knightley was at hartfield yesterday, andspoke of it as for saturday.” “oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,”was the abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any blunder on mrs. elton’s side.—“ido believe,” she continued, “this is the most troublesome parish that ever was. wenever heard of such things at maple grove.” “your parish there was small,” said jane.“upon my word, my dear, i do not know, for i never heard the subject talked of.”“but it is proved by the smallness of the

school, which i have heard you speak of, asunder the patronage of your sister and mrs. bragge; the only school, and not more thanfive-and-twenty children.” “ah! you clever creature, that’s verytrue. what a thinking brain you have! i say, jane, what a perfect character you and i shouldmake, if we could be shaken together. my liveliness and your solidity would produce perfection.—notthat i presume to insinuate, however, that some people may not think you perfection already.—buthush!—not a word, if you please.” it seemed an unnecessary caution; jane waswanting to give her words, not to mrs. elton, but to miss woodhouse, as the latter plainlysaw. the wish of distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very evident, thoughit could not often proceed beyond a look.

mr. elton made his appearance. his lady greetedhim with some of her sparkling vivacity. “very pretty, sir, upon my word; to sendme on here, to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you vouchsafe to come!—butyou knew what a dutiful creature you had to deal with. you knew i should not stir tillmy lord and master appeared.—here have i been sitting this hour, giving these youngladies a sample of true conjugal obedience—for who can say, you know, how soon it may bewanted?” mr. elton was so hot and tired, that all thiswit seemed thrown away. his civilities to the other ladies must be paid; but his subsequentobject was to lament over himself for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he hadhad for nothing.

“when i got to donwell,” said he, “knightleycould not be found. very odd! very unaccountable! after the note i sent him this morning, andthe message he returned, that he should certainly be at home till one.”“donwell!” cried his wife.—“my dear mr. e., you have not been to donwell!—youmean the crown; you come from the meeting at the crown.”“no, no, that’s to-morrow; and i particularly wanted to see knightley to-day on that veryaccount.—such a dreadful broiling morning!—i went over the fields too—(speaking in atone of great ill-usage,) which made it so much the worse. and then not to find him athome! i assure you i am not at all pleased. and no apology left, no message for me. thehousekeeper declared she knew nothing of my

being expected.—very extraordinary!—andnobody knew at all which way he was gone. perhaps to hartfield, perhaps to the abbeymill, perhaps into his woods.—miss woodhouse, this is not like our friend knightley!—canyou explain it?” emma amused herself by protesting that itwas very extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say for him.“i cannot imagine,” said mrs. elton, (feeling the indignity as a wife ought to do,) “icannot imagine how he could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world! the verylast person whom one should expect to be forgotten!—my dear mr. e., he must have left a message foryou, i am sure he must.—not even knightley could be so very eccentric;—and his servantsforgot it. depend upon it, that was the case:

and very likely to happen with the donwellservants, who are all, i have often observed, extremely awkward and remiss.—i am surei would not have such a creature as his harry stand at our sideboard for any consideration.and as for mrs. hodges, wright holds her very cheap indeed.—she promised wright a receipt,and never sent it.” “i met william larkins,” continued mr.elton, “as i got near the house, and he told me i should not find his master at home,but i did not believe him.—william seemed rather out of humour. he did not know whatwas come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of him.i have nothing to do with william’s wants, but it really is of very great importancethat i should see knightley to-day; and it

becomes a matter, therefore, of very seriousinconvenience that i should have had this hot walk to no purpose.”emma felt that she could not do better than go home directly. in all probability she wasat this very time waited for there; and mr. knightley might be preserved from sinkingdeeper in aggression towards mr. elton, if not towards william larkins.she was pleased, on taking leave, to find miss fairfax determined to attend her outof the room, to go with her even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immediatelymade use of, to say, “it is as well, perhaps, that i have nothad the possibility. had you not been surrounded by other friends, i might have been temptedto introduce a subject, to ask questions,

to speak more openly than might have beenstrictly correct.—i feel that i should certainly have been impertinent.”“oh!” cried jane, with a blush and an hesitation which emma thought infinitely morebecoming to her than all the elegance of all her usual composure—“there would havebeen no danger. the danger would have been of my wearying you. you could not have gratifiedme more than by expressing an interest—. indeed, miss woodhouse, (speaking more collectedly,)with the consciousness which i have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularlyconsoling to me to know that those of my friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving,are not disgusted to such a degree as to—i have not time for half that i could wish tosay. i long to make apologies, excuses, to

urge something for myself. i feel it so verydue. but, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not stand my friend—”“oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,” cried emma warmly, and taking herhand. “you owe me no apologies; and every body to whom you might be supposed to owethem, is so perfectly satisfied, so delighted even—”“you are very kind, but i know what my manners were to you.—so cold and artificial!—ihad always a part to act.—it was a life of deceit!—i know that i must have disgustedyou.” “pray say no more. i feel that all the apologiesshould be on my side. let us forgive each other at once. we must do whatever is to bedone quickest, and i think our feelings will

lose no time there. i hope you have pleasantaccounts from windsor?” “very.”“and the next news, i suppose, will be, that we are to lose you—just as i beginto know you.” “oh! as to all that, of course nothing canbe thought of yet. i am here till claimed by colonel and mrs. campbell.”“nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,” replied emma, smiling—“but, excuse me,it must be thought of.” the smile was returned as jane answered,“you are very right; it has been thought of. and i will own to you, (i am sure it willbe safe), that so far as our living with mr. churchill at enscombe, it is settled. theremust be three months, at least, of deep mourning;

but when they are over, i imagine there willbe nothing more to wait for.” “thank you, thank you.—this is just whati wanted to be assured of.—oh! if you knew how much i love every thing that is decidedand open!—good-bye, good-bye.” mrs. weston’s friends were all made happyby her safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to emma,it was by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. she had been decided in wishingfor a miss weston. she would not acknowledge that it was with any view of making a matchfor her, hereafter, with either of isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a daughterwould suit both father and mother best. it would be a great comfort to mr. weston, ashe grew older—and even mr. weston might

be growing older ten years hence—to havehis fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of achild never banished from home; and mrs. weston—no one could doubt that a daughter would be mostto her; and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, shouldnot have their powers in exercise again. “she has had the advantage, you know, ofpractising on me,” she continued—“like la baronne d’almane on la comtesse d’ostalis,in madame de genlis’ adelaide and theodore, and we shall now see her own little adelaideeducated on a more perfect plan.” “that is,” replied mr. knightley, “shewill indulge her even more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge herat all. it will be the only difference.”

“poor child!” cried emma; “at that rate,what will become of her?” “nothing very bad.—the fate of thousands.she will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. i am losing allmy bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest emma. i, who am owing all my happinessto you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?”emma laughed, and replied: “but i had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteractthe indulgence of other people. i doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me withoutit.” “do you?—i have no doubt. nature gaveyou understanding:—miss taylor gave you principles. you must have done well. my interferencewas quite as likely to do harm as good. it

was very natural for you to say, what righthas he to lecture me?—and i am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done ina disagreeable manner. i do not believe i did you any good. the good was all to myself,by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. i could not think about you so muchwithout doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have beenin love with you ever since you were thirteen at least.”“i am sure you were of use to me,” cried emma. “i was very often influenced rightlyby you—oftener than i would own at the time. i am very sure you did me good. and if poorlittle anna weston is to be spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as muchfor her as you have done for me, except falling

in love with her when she is thirteen.”“how often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your saucy looks—‘mr.knightley, i am going to do so-and-so; papa says i may, or i have miss taylor’s leave’—somethingwhich, you knew, i did not approve. in such cases my interference was giving you two badfeelings instead of one.” “what an amiable creature i was!—no wonderyou should hold my speeches in such affectionate remembrance.”“‘mr. knightley.’—you always called me, ‘mr. knightley;’ and, from habit,it has not so very formal a sound.—and yet it is formal. i want you to call me somethingelse, but i do not know what.” “i remember once calling you ‘george,’in one of my amiable fits, about ten years

ago. i did it because i thought it would offendyou; but, as you made no objection, i never did it again.”“and cannot you call me ‘george’ now?” “impossible!—i never can call you anything but ‘mr. knightley.’ i will not promise even to equal the elegant tersenessof mrs. elton, by calling you mr. k.—but i will promise,” she added presently, laughingand blushing—“i will promise to call you once by your christian name. i do not saywhen, but perhaps you may guess where;—in the building in which n. takes m. for better,for worse.” emma grieved that she could not be more openlyjust to one important service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the advicewhich would have saved her from the worst

of all her womanly follies—her wilful intimacywith harriet smith; but it was too tender a subject.—she could not enter on it.—harrietwas very seldom mentioned between them. this, on his side, might merely proceed from hernot being thought of; but emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, anda suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were declining. she was aware herself,that, parting under any other circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more,and that her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on isabella’sletters. he might observe that it was so. the pain of being obliged to practise concealmenttowards him, was very little inferior to the pain of having made harriet unhappy.isabella sent quite as good an account of

her visitor as could be expected; on her firstarrival she had thought her out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as therewas a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had been over, she did not appearto find harriet different from what she had known her before.—isabella, to be sure,was no very quick observer; yet if harriet had not been equal to playing with the children,it would not have escaped her. emma’s comforts and hopes were most agreeably carried on,by harriet’s being to stay longer; her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. mr. andmrs. john knightley were to come down in august, and she was invited to remain till they couldbring her back. “john does not even mention your friend,”said mr. knightley. “here is his answer,

if you like to see it.”it was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. emma accepted it witha very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it,and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.“john enters like a brother into my happiness,” continued mr. knightley, “but he is no complimenter;and though i well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he isso far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool inher praise. but i am not afraid of your seeing what he writes.”“he writes like a sensible man,” replied emma, when she had read the letter. “i honourhis sincerity. it is very plain that he considers

the good fortune of the engagement as allon my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of youraffection, as you think me already. had he said any thing to bear a different construction,i should not have believed him.” “my emma, he means no such thing. he onlymeans—” “he and i should differ very little in ourestimation of the two,” interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—“much less,perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject.”“emma, my dear emma—” “oh!” she cried with more thorough gaiety,“if you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father isin the secret, and hear his opinion. depend

upon it, he will be much farther from doingyou justice. he will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question;all the merit on mine. i wish i may not sink into ‘poor emma’ with him at once.—histender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.”“ah!” he cried, “i wish your father might be half as easily convinced as johnwill be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. i amamused by one part of john’s letter—did you notice it?—where he says, that my informationdid not take him wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing somethingof the kind.” “if i understand your brother, he only meansso far as your having some thoughts of marrying.

he had no idea of me. he seems perfectly unpreparedfor that.” “yes, yes—but i am amused that he shouldhave seen so far into my feelings. what has he been judging by?—i am not conscious ofany difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for mymarrying any more than at another.—but it was so, i suppose. i dare say there was adifference when i was staying with them the other day. i believe i did not play with thechildren quite so much as usual. i remember one evening the poor boys saying, ‘uncleseems always tired now.’” the time was coming when the news must spreadfarther, and other persons’ reception of it tried. as soon as mrs. weston was sufficientlyrecovered to admit mr. woodhouse’s visits,

emma having it in view that her gentle reasoningsshould be employed in the cause, resolved first to announce it at home, and then atrandalls.—but how to break it to her father at last!—she had bound herself to do it,in such an hour of mr. knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her heart wouldhave failed her, and she must have put it off; but mr. knightley was to come at sucha time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.—she was forced to speak, and tospeak cheerfully too. she must not make it a more decided subject of misery to him, bya melancholy tone herself. she must not appear to think it a misfortune.—with all the spiritsshe could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a fewwords, said, that if his consent and approbation

could be obtained—which, she trusted, wouldbe attended with no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all—sheand mr. knightley meant to marry; by which means hartfield would receive the constantaddition of that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next to his daughters and mrs.weston, best in the world. poor man!—it was at first a considerableshock to him, and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. she was reminded, more than once,of having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be a great dealbetter for her to remain single; and told of poor isabella, and poor miss taylor.—butit would not do. emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and thathe must not class her with isabella and mrs.

weston, whose marriages taking them from hartfield,had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not going from hartfield; she shouldbe always there; she was introducing no change in their numbers or their comforts but forthe better; and she was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for havingmr. knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.—did he not lovemr. knightley very much?—he would not deny that he did, she was sure.—whom did he everwant to consult on business but mr. knightley?—who was so useful to him, who so ready to writehis letters, who so glad to assist him?—who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached tohim?—would not he like to have him always on the spot?—yes. that was all very true.mr. knightley could not be there too often;

he should be glad to see him every day;—butthey did see him every day as it was.—why could not they go on as they had done?mr. woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given;time and continual repetition must do the rest.—to emma’s entreaties and assurancessucceeded mr. knightley’s, whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome;and he was soon used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.—they had all theassistance which isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation; and mrs. westonwas ready, on the first meeting, to consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first,as a settled, and, secondly, as a good one—well aware of the nearly equal importance of thetwo recommendations to mr. woodhouse’s mind.—it

was agreed upon, as what was to be; and everybody by whom he was used to be guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; andhaving some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some timeor other—in another year or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the marriage didtake place. mrs. weston was acting no part, feigning nofeelings in all that she said to him in favour of the event.—she had been extremely surprized,never more so, than when emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it onlyincrease of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging him to the utmost.—she had sucha regard for mr. knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest emma; and it wasin every respect so proper, suitable, and

unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect,one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that nowit seemed as if emma could not safely have attached herself to any other creature, andthat she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wishedit long ago.—how very few of those men in a rank of life to address emma would haverenounced their own home for hartfield! and who but mr. knightley could know and bearwith mr. woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement desirable!—the difficulty ofdisposing of poor mr. woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans and her own,for a marriage between frank and emma. how to settle the claims of enscombe and hartfieldhad been a continual impediment—less acknowledged

by mr. weston than by herself—but even hehad never been able to finish the subject better than by saying—“those matters willtake care of themselves; the young people will find a way.” but here there was nothingto be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. it was all right, all open, allequal. no sacrifice on any side worth the name. it was a union of the highest promiseof felicity in itself, and without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.mrs. weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections as these, was one of thehappiest women in the world. if any thing could increase her delight, it was perceivingthat the baby would soon have outgrown its first set of caps.the news was universally a surprize wherever

it spread; and mr. weston had his five minutesshare of it; but five minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his quickness ofmind.—he saw the advantages of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancyof his wife; but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour hewas not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.“it is to be a secret, i conclude,” said he. “these matters are always a secret,till it is found out that every body knows them. only let me be told when i may speakout.—i wonder whether jane has any suspicion.” he went to highbury the next morning, andsatisfied himself on that point. he told her the news. was not she like a daughter, hiseldest daughter?—he must tell her; and miss

bates being present, it passed, of course,to mrs. cole, mrs. perry, and mrs. elton, immediately afterwards. it was no more thanthe principals were prepared for; they had calculated from the time of its being knownat randalls, how soon it would be over highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the eveningwonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.in general, it was a very well approved match. some might think him, and others might thinkher, the most in luck. one set might recommend their all removing to donwell, and leavinghartfield for the john knightleys; and another might predict disagreements among their servants;but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation,the vicarage.—there, the surprize was not

softened by any satisfaction. mr. elton caredlittle about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped “the young lady’s pride wouldnow be contented;” and supposed “she had always meant to catch knightley if she could;”and, on the point of living at hartfield, could daringly exclaim, “rather he thani!”—but mrs. elton was very much discomposed indeed.—“poor knightley! poor fellow!—sadbusiness for him.”—she was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousandgood qualities.—how could he be so taken in?—did not think him at all in love—notin the least.—poor knightley!—there would be an end of all pleasant intercourse withhim.—how happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! but thatwould be all over now.—poor fellow!—no

more exploring parties to donwell made forher. oh! no; there would be a mrs. knightley to throw cold water on every thing.—extremelydisagreeable! but she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the otherday.—shocking plan, living together. it would never do. she knew a family near maplegrove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter. time passed on. a few more to-morrows, andthe party from london would be arriving. it was an alarming change; and emma was thinkingof it one morning, as what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her, when mr. knightleycame in, and distressing thoughts were put by. after the first chat of pleasure he wassilent; and then, in a graver tone, began

with,“i have something to tell you, emma; some news.”“good or bad?” said she, quickly, looking up in his face.“i do not know which it ought to be called.” “oh! good i am sure.—i see it in yourcountenance. you are trying not to smile.” “i am afraid,” said he, composing hisfeatures, “i am very much afraid, my dear emma, that you will not smile when you hearit.” “indeed! but why so?—i can hardly imaginethat any thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and amuse me too.”“there is one subject,” he replied, “i hope but one, on which we do not think alike.”he paused a moment, again smiling, with his

eyes fixed on her face. “does nothing occurto you?—do not you recollect?—harriet smith.”her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of something, though she knew not what.“have you heard from her yourself this morning?” cried he. “you have, i believe, and knowthe whole.” “no, i have not; i know nothing; pray tellme.” “you are prepared for the worst, i see—andvery bad it is. harriet smith marries robert martin.”emma gave a start, which did not seem like being prepared—and her eyes, in eager gaze,said, “no, this is impossible!” but her lips were closed.“it is so, indeed,” continued mr. knightley;

“i have it from robert martin himself. heleft me not half an hour ago.” she was still looking at him with the mostspeaking amazement. “you like it, my emma, as little as i feared.—iwish our opinions were the same. but in time they will. time, you may be sure, will makeone or the other of us think differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk muchon the subject.” “you mistake me, you quite mistake me,”she replied, exerting herself. “it is not that such a circumstance would now make meunhappy, but i cannot believe it. it seems an impossibility!—you cannot mean to say,that harriet smith has accepted robert martin. you cannot mean that he has even proposedto her again—yet. you only mean, that he

intends it.”“i mean that he has done it,” answered mr. knightley, with smiling but determineddecision, “and been accepted.” “good god!” she cried.—“well!”—thenhaving recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down her face, and concealingall the exquisite feelings of delight and entertainment which she knew she must be expressing,she added, “well, now tell me every thing; make this intelligible to me. how, where,when?—let me know it all. i never was more surprized—but it does not make me unhappy,i assure you.—how—how has it been possible?” “it is a very simple story. he went to townon business three days ago, and i got him to take charge of some papers which i waswanting to send to john.—he delivered these

papers to john, at his chambers, and was askedby him to join their party the same evening to astley’s. they were going to take thetwo eldest boys to astley’s. the party was to be our brother and sister, henry, john—andmiss smith. my friend robert could not resist. they called for him in their way; were allextremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which hedid—and in the course of that visit (as i understand) he found an opportunity of speakingto harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—she made him, by her acceptance, ashappy even as he is deserving. he came down by yesterday’s coach, and was with me thismorning immediately after breakfast, to report his proceedings, first on my affairs, andthen on his own. this is all that i can relate

of the how, where, and when. your friend harrietwill make a much longer history when you see her.—she will give you all the minute particulars,which only woman’s language can make interesting.—in our communications we deal only in the great.—however,i must say, that robert martin’s heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; andthat he did mention, without its being much to the purpose, that on quitting their boxat astley’s, my brother took charge of mrs. john knightley and little john, and he followedwith miss smith and henry; and that at one time they were in such a crowd, as to makemiss smith rather uneasy.” he stopped.—emma dared not attempt any immediatereply. to speak, she was sure would be to betray a most unreasonable degree of happiness.she must wait a moment, or he would think

her mad. her silence disturbed him; and afterobserving her a little while, he added, “emma, my love, you said that this circumstancewould not now make you unhappy; but i am afraid it gives you more pain than you expected.his situation is an evil—but you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and i willanswer for your thinking better and better of him as you know him more. his good senseand good principles would delight you.—as far as the man is concerned, you could notwish your friend in better hands. his rank in society i would alter if i could, whichis saying a great deal i assure you, emma.—you laugh at me about william larkins; but i couldquite as ill spare robert martin.” he wanted her to look up and smile; and havingnow brought herself not to smile too broadly—she

did—cheerfully answering,“you need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the match. i think harriet is doingextremely well. her connexions may be worse than his. in respectability of character,there can be no doubt that they are. i have been silent from surprize merely, excessivesurprize. you cannot imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly unpreparedi was!—for i had reason to believe her very lately more determined against him, much more,than she was before.” “you ought to know your friend best,”replied mr. knightley; “but i should say she was a good-tempered, soft-hearted girl,not likely to be very, very determined against any young man who told her he loved her.”emma could not help laughing as she answered,

“upon my word, i believe you know her quiteas well as i do.—but, mr. knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has absolutelyand downright accepted him. i could suppose she might in time—but can she already?—didnot you misunderstand him?—you were both talking of other things; of business, showsof cattle, or new drills—and might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects, mistakehim?—it was not harriet’s hand that he was certain of—it was the dimensions ofsome famous ox.” the contrast between the countenance and airof mr. knightley and robert martin was, at this moment, so strong to emma’s feelings,and so strong was the recollection of all that had so recently passed on harriet’sside, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken

with such emphasis, “no, i hope i know betterthan to think of robert martin,” that she was really expecting the intelligence to prove,in some measure, premature. it could not be otherwise.“do you dare say this?” cried mr. knightley. “do you dare to suppose me so great a blockhead,as not to know what a man is talking of?—what do you deserve?”“oh! i always deserve the best treatment, because i never put up with any other; and,therefore, you must give me a plain, direct answer. are you quite sure that you understandthe terms on which mr. martin and harriet now are?”“i am quite sure,” he replied, speaking very distinctly, “that he told me she hadaccepted him; and that there was no obscurity,

nothing doubtful, in the words he used; andi think i can give you a proof that it must be so. he asked my opinion as to what he wasnow to do. he knew of no one but mrs. goddard to whom he could apply for information ofher relations or friends. could i mention any thing more fit to be done, than to goto mrs. goddard? i assured him that i could not. then, he said, he would endeavour tosee her in the course of this day.” “i am perfectly satisfied,” replied emma,with the brightest smiles, “and most sincerely wish them happy.”“you are materially changed since we talked on this subject before.”“i hope so—for at that time i was a fool.” “and i am changed also; for i am now verywilling to grant you all harriet’s good

qualities. i have taken some pains for yoursake, and for robert martin’s sake, (whom i have always had reason to believe as muchin love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. i have often talked to her a gooddeal. you must have seen that i did. sometimes, indeed, i have thought you were half suspectingme of pleading poor martin’s cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations,i am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriouslygood principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domesticlife.—much of this, i have no doubt, she may thank you for.”“me!” cried emma, shaking her head.—“ah! poor harriet!”she checked herself, however, and submitted

quietly to a little more praise than she deserved.their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. she was notsorry. she wanted to be alone. her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which madeit impossible for her to be collected. she was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits;and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she couldbe fit for nothing rational. her father’s business was to announce james’sbeing gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to randalls; andshe had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.the joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. the solegrievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect

of harriet’s welfare, she was really indanger of becoming too happy for security.—what had she to wish for? nothing, but to growmore worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. nothing,but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future.serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there wasno preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. she must laugh at such a close!such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! such a heart—such aharriet! now there would be pleasure in her returning—everything would be a pleasure. it would be a great pleasure to know robert martin.high in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt

felicities, was the reflection that all necessityof concealment from mr. knightley would soon be over. the disguise, equivocation, mystery,so hateful to her to practise, might soon be over. she could now look forward to givinghim that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcomeas a duty. in the gayest and happiest spirits she setforward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and,whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obligedto go to randalls every day, or poor mrs. weston would be disappointed.they arrived.—mrs. weston was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had they been toldof the baby, and mr. woodhouse received the

thanks for coming, which he asked for, whena glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.“it is frank and miss fairfax,” said mrs. weston. “i was just going to tell you ofour agreeable surprize in seeing him arrive this morning. he stays till to-morrow, andmiss fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—they are coming in, i hope.”in half a minute they were in the room. emma was extremely glad to see him—but therewas a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. they met readilyand smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and havingall sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that emma beganto doubt whether the wish now indulged, which

she had long felt, of seeing frank churchillonce more, and of seeing him with jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. when mr.weston joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longera want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for frank churchill to drawnear her and say, “i have to thank you, miss woodhouse, fora very kind forgiving message in one of mrs. weston’s letters. i hope time has not madeyou less willing to pardon. i hope you do not retract what you then said.”“no, indeed,” cried emma, most happy to begin, “not in the least. i am particularlyglad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy in person.”he thanked her with all his heart, and continued

some time to speak with serious feeling ofhis gratitude and happiness. “is not she looking well?” said he, turninghis eyes towards jane. “better than she ever used to do?—you see how my father andmrs. weston doat upon her.” but his spirits were soon rising again, andwith laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the campbells, he named the nameof dixon.—emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.“i can never think of it,” she cried, “without extreme shame.”“the shame,” he answered, “is all mine, or ought to be. but is it possible that youhad no suspicion?—i mean of late. early, i know, you had none.”“i never had the smallest, i assure you.”

“that appears quite wonderful. i was oncevery near—and i wish i had—it would have been better. but though i was always doingwrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—it wouldhave been a much better transgression had i broken the bond of secrecy and told youevery thing.” “it is not now worth a regret,” said emma.“i have some hope,” resumed he, “of my uncle’s being persuaded to pay a visitat randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. when the campbells are returned, we shallmeet them in london, and continue there, i trust, till we may carry her northward.—butnow, i am at such a distance from her—is not it hard, miss woodhouse?—till this morning,we have not once met since the day of reconciliation.

do not you pity me?”emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,“ah! by the bye,” then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment—“i hopemr. knightley is well?” he paused.—she coloured and laughed.—“i know you sawmy letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favour. let me return your congratulations.—iassure you that i have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—heis a man whom i cannot presume to praise.” emma was delighted, and only wanted him togo on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and withhis own jane, and his next words were, “did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness!such delicacy!—and yet without being actually

fair.—one cannot call her fair. it is amost uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most distinguishing complexion!so peculiarly the lady in it.—just colour enough for beauty.”“i have always admired her complexion,” replied emma, archly; “but do not i rememberthe time when you found fault with her for being so pale?—when we first began to talkof her.—have you quite forgotten?” “oh! no—what an impudent dog i was!—howcould i dare—” but he laughed so heartily at the recollection,that emma could not help saying, “i do suspect that in the midst of yourperplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.—i am sureyou had.—i am sure it was a consolation

to you.”“oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? i was the most miserablewretch!” “not quite so miserable as to be insensibleto mirth. i am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you weretaking us all in.—perhaps i am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth,i think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. i think thereis a little likeness between us.” he bowed.“if not in our dispositions,” she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, “thereis a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two charactersso much superior to our own.”

“true, true,” he answered, warmly. “no,not true on your side. you can have no superior, but most true on mine.—she is a completeangel. look at her. is not she an angel in every gesture? observe the turn of her throat.observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—you will be glad to hear (inclininghis head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s jewels.they are to be new set. i am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. will notit be beautiful in her dark hair?” “very beautiful, indeed,” replied emma;and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,“how delighted i am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!—i wouldnot have missed this meeting for the world.

i should certainly have called at hartfield,had you failed to come.” the others had been talking of the child,mrs. weston giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before,from the infant’s appearing not quite well. she believed she had been foolish, but ithad alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for mr. perry. perhapsshe ought to be ashamed, but mr. weston had been almost as uneasy as herself.—in tenminutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again. this was her history; and particularlyinteresting it was to mr. woodhouse, who commended her very much for thinking of sending forperry, and only regretted that she had not done it. “she should always send for perry,if the child appeared in the slightest degree

disordered, were it only for a moment. shecould not be too soon alarmed, nor send for perry too often. it was a pity, perhaps, thathe had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering,it would probably have been better if perry had seen it.”frank churchill caught the name. “perry!” said he to emma, and trying,as he spoke, to catch miss fairfax’s eye. “my friend mr. perry! what are they sayingabout mr. perry?—has he been here this morning?—and how does he travel now?—has he set up hiscarriage?” emma soon recollected, and understood him;and while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from jane’s countenance that shetoo was really hearing him, though trying

to seem deaf.“such an extraordinary dream of mine!” he cried. “i can never think of it withoutlaughing.—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 verypassage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that thewhole blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though pretendingto listen to the others?” jane was forced to smile completely, for amoment; 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, isastonishing to me!—they will sometimes obtrude—but

how you can court them!”he had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but emma’s feelingswere chiefly with jane, in the argument; and on leaving randalls, and falling naturallyinto a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to see frankchurchill, and really regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been moresensible of mr. knightley’s high superiority of character. the happiness of this most happyday, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparisonproduced. chapter xix if emma had still, at intervals, an anxiousfeeling for harriet, a momentary doubt of

its being possible for her to be really curedof her attachment to mr. knightley, and really able to accept another man from unbiased inclination,it was not long that she had to suffer from the recurrence of any such uncertainty. avery few days brought the party from london, and she had no sooner an opportunity of beingone hour alone with harriet, than she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable as itwas!—that robert martin had thoroughly supplanted mr. knightley, and was now forming all herviews of happiness. harriet was a little distressed—did looka little foolish at first: but having once owned that she had been presumptuous and silly,and self-deceived, before, her pain and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and leaveher without a care for the past, and with

the fullest exultation in the present andfuture; for, as to her friend’s approbation, emma had instantly removed every fear of thatnature, by meeting her with the most unqualified congratulations.—harriet was most happyto give every particular of the evening at astley’s, and the dinner the next day; shecould dwell on it all with the utmost delight. but what did such particulars explain?—thefact was, as emma could now acknowledge, that harriet had always liked robert martin; andthat 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 thinkingso.—harriet’s parentage became known. she proved to be the daughter of a tradesman,rich enough to afford her the comfortable

maintenance which had ever been hers, anddecent enough to have always wished for concealment.—such was the blood of gentility which emma hadformerly been so ready to vouch for!—it was likely to be as untainted, perhaps, asthe blood of many a gentleman: but what a connexion had she been preparing for mr. knightley—orfor the churchills—or even for mr. elton!—the stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobilityor wealth, would have been a stain indeed. no objection was raised on the father’sside; the young man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as emma becameacquainted with robert martin, who was now introduced at hartfield, she fully acknowledgedin him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid fairest for her little friend.she had no doubt of harriet’s happiness

with any good-tempered man; but with him,and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of more, of security, stability,and improvement. she would be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who hadbetter sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and occupied enough for cheerfulness.she would be never led into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. she would berespectable and happy; and emma admitted her to be the luckiest creature in the world,to have created so steady and persevering an affection in such a man;—or, if not quitethe luckiest, to yield only to herself. harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagementswith the martins, was less and less at hartfield; which was not to be regretted.—the intimacybetween her and emma must sink; their friendship

must change into a calmer sort of goodwill;and, fortunately, what ought to be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the mostgradual, natural manner. before the end of september, emma attendedharriet to church, and saw her hand bestowed on robert martin with so complete a satisfaction,as no remembrances, even connected with mr. elton as he stood before them, could impair.—perhaps,indeed, at that time she scarcely saw mr. elton, but as the clergyman whose blessingat the altar might next fall on herself.—robert martin and harriet smith, the latest coupleengaged of the three, were the first to be married.jane fairfax had already quitted highbury, and was restored to the comforts of her belovedhome with the campbells.—the mr. churchills

were also in town; and they were only waitingfor november. the intermediate month was the one fixed on,as far as they dared, by emma and mr. knightley.—they had determined that their marriage ought tobe concluded while john and isabella were still at hartfield, to allow them the fortnight’sabsence in a tour to the seaside, which was the plan.—john and isabella, and every otherfriend, were agreed in approving it. but mr. woodhouse—how was mr. woodhouse to be inducedto consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage but as a distant event.when first sounded on the subject, he was so miserable, that they were almost hopeless.—asecond allusion, indeed, gave less pain.—he began to think it was to be, and that he couldnot prevent it—a very promising step of

the mind on its way to resignation. still,however, he was not happy. nay, he appeared so much otherwise, that his daughter’s couragefailed. she could not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying himself neglected; andthough her understanding almost acquiesced in the assurance of both the mr. knightleys,that when once the event were over, his distress would be soon over too, she hesitated—shecould not proceed. in this state of suspense they were befriended,not by any sudden illumination of mr. woodhouse’s mind, or any wonderful change of his nervoussystem, but by the operation of the same system in another way.—mrs. weston’s poultry-housewas robbed one night of all her turkeys—evidently by the ingenuity of man. other poultry-yardsin the neighbourhood also suffered.—pilfering

was housebreaking to mr. woodhouse’s fears.—hewas very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-in-law’s protection, would havebeen under wretched alarm every night of his life. the strength, resolution, and presenceof mind of the mr. knightleys, commanded his fullest dependence. while either of them protectedhim and his, hartfield was safe.—but mr. john knightley must be in london again bythe end of the first week in november. the result of this distress was, that, witha much more voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever presumed to hope forat the moment, she was able to fix her wedding-day—and mr. elton was called on, within a month fromthe marriage of mr. and mrs. robert martin, to join the hands of mr. knightley and misswoodhouse.

the wedding was very much like other weddings,where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and mrs. elton, from the particularsdetailed by her husband, thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her own.—“verylittle white satin, very few lace veils; a most pitiful business!—selina would starewhen 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.

Subscribe to receive free email updates: