Emma, by Jane Austen

Part 2 out of 9

"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too. Emma, this is
your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him."

"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should
not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable
young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am
rather surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her.
By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is
a pity that they were ever got over."

"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly;
and with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he
is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense
as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.
What are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education,
to any connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural
daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision
at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only
as parlour-boarder at a common school. She is not a sensible girl,
nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful,
and is too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself.
At her age she can have no experience, and with her little wit,
is not very likely ever to have any that can avail her.
She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that is all.
My only scruple in advising the match was on his account, as being
beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion for him. I felt that,
as to fortune, in all probability he might do much better; and that as
to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he could not do worse.
But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing
to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort
of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily led
aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt
to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now)
that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck.
Even _your_ satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately
that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the
sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to myself,
`Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a
good match.'"

"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say
any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all
his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate
friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying
a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I
wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings.
I assure you mine are very different. I must think your statement
by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet's claims.
They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself;
Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly
her inferior as to rank in society.--The sphere in which she moves
is much above his.--It would be a degradation."

"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married
to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!"

"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense
she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense.
She is not to pay for the offence of others, by being held below
the level of those with whom she is brought up.--There can scarcely
be a doubt that her father is a gentleman--and a gentleman of
fortune.--Her allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged
for her improvement or comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter,
is indubitable to me; that she associates with gentlemen's daughters,
no one, I apprehend, will deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."

"Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may
have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part
of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.
After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in
Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short,
in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance.
Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_
good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose
to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set,
nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the
Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then.
If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to
Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far,
if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him.
I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any
woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit,
he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he
had encouragement."

It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this
assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again.

"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before,
are unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not
so contemptible as you represent them. She is not a clever girl,
but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not
deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly.
Waiving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you
describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you, that in
the degree she possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations
to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl,
and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an hundred;
and till it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject
of beauty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall
in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl,
with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired
and sought after, of having the power of chusing from among many,
consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-nature, too, is not so very
slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough sweetness
of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great
readiness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken
if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper,
the highest claims a woman could possess."

"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have,
is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense,
than misapply it as you do."

"To be sure!" cried she playfully. "I know _that_ is the feeling
of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly
what every man delights in--what at once bewitches his senses
and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse.
Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.
And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning
to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first
offer she receives? No--pray let her have time to look about her."

"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley
presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now
perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet.
You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what
she has a claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her
reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head,
produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady
to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find
offers of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl.
Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.
Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves
with a girl of such obscurity--and most prudent men would be
afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in,
when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry
Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever;
but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach
her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence
and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's
all the rest of her life--or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a
girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she grow desperate,
and is glad to catch at the old writing-master's son."

"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley,
that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making
each other more angry. But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin,
it is impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think,
as must prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil
of having refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself,
I will not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little;
but I assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do.
His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad,
that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now.
I can imagine, that before she had seen any body superior,
she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her friends,
and he took pains to please her; and altogether, having seen
nobody better (that must have been his great assistant)
she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable.
But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are;
and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance
with Harriet."

"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!" cried Mr. Knightley.--"Robert
Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend
them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand."

Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was
really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone.
She did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself
a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he
could be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment
in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly against her;
and to have him sitting just opposite to her in angry state,
was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence,
with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the weather,
but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts
appeared at last in these words.

"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I
hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet
are best known to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love
of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans,
and projects you have;--and as a friend I shall just hint to you
that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain."

Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,

"Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man,
and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely
to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income
as well as any body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will
act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as you
can be with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man,
and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way
of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present,
I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away.
I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family
of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all
twenty thousand pounds apiece."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again.
"If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would
have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want
to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-making indeed.
I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave
off while I am well."

"Good morning to you,"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly.
He was very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man,
and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the
sanction he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had
taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.

Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more
indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his. She did not always
feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that
her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley.
He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her.
She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little
time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives.
Harriet's staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy.
The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's
that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause,
gave alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the
prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits,
and without having any such reason to give for her long absence,
she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind,
and convinced her, that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would,
she had done nothing which woman's friendship and woman's feelings
would not justify.

He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered
that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done,
neither with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself,
in spite of Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such
an observer on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it
hastily and in anger, she was able to believe, that he had rather
said what he wished resentfully to be true, than what he knew
any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak
with more unreserve than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not
be of an imprudent, inconsiderate disposition as to money matters;
he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them;
but then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence
of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr. Knightley
saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its effects;
but she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any
hesitations that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest;
and more than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was very
sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.

Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back,
not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash
had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately
with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend
a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash,
that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met
Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was
actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till
the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been
never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him
about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player,
to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off
his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been
determined to go on, and had said in a _very_ _particular_ way indeed,
that he was going on business which he would not put off for any
inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission,
and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry
could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must
be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only
looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits.
Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more
about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,
"that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be,
but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer,
she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt,
Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness."

CHAPTER IX

Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel
with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than
usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet,
his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry,
but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings
were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general
appearances of the next few days.

The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after
Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common
sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences
of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were
visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment
as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly
satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as
he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.

Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal
of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than
a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow.
It was much easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let
her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be
labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts;
and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present,
the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life,
was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort
that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper,
made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.

In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale
are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's,
had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken
the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help,
to get a great many more. Emma assisted with her invention,
memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand,
it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form
as well as quantity.

Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls,
and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in.
"So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he
wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time."
And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."

His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject,
did not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind;
but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about
so much, something, he thought, might come from that quarter.

It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of
Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton
was the only one whose assistance she asked. He was invited
to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums
that he might recollect; and she had the pleasure of seeing him
most intently at work with his recollections; and at the same time,
as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing ungallant,
nothing that did not breathe a compliment to the sex should pass
his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles;
and the joy and exultation with which at last he recalled,
and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade,

My first doth affliction denote,
Which my second is destin'd to feel
And my whole is the best antidote
That affliction to soften and heal.--

made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it
some pages ago already.

"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she;
"that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be
easier to you."

"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind
in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss
Woodhouse"--he stopt a moment--"or Miss Smith could inspire him."

The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration.
He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the
table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had
addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which,
from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.

"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he.
"Being my friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree
to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."

The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma
could understand. There was deep consciousness about him,
and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friend's.
He was gone the next moment:--after another moment's pause,

"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
Harriet--"it is for you. Take your own."

But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma,
never loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.

To Miss--

CHARADE.

My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
Another view of man, my second brings,
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

But ah! united, what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
May its approval beam in that soft eye!

She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then
passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,
while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion
of hope and dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed.
I have read worse charades. _Courtship_--a very good hint. I give
you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying very
plainly--`Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you.
Approve my charade and my intentions in the same glance.'

May its approval beam in that soft eye!

Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets,
the justest that could be given.

Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.

Humph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better. A man must be very much
in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish
you had the benefit of this; I think this would convince you.
For once in your life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken.
An excellent charade indeed! and very much to the purpose.
Things must come to a crisis soon now.

She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the
eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.

"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I
cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try
to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw any thing
so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could
be the young lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?

And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Can it be Neptune?

Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only
one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it.
Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"

"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you
thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made
by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.

For Miss ----------, read Miss Smith.

My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

That is _court_.

Another view of man, my second brings;
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

That is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.

But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application,
which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty
in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can
be no doubt of its being written for you and to you."

Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion.
She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness.
She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough
for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.

"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,"
said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions.
You are his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof
of it. I thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived;
but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided,
as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.
Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance
to happen what has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment
between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural.
Its probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each
other! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all
my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride
in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing but good.
It will give you every thing that you want--consideration, independence,
a proper home--it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends,
close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever.
This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either
of us."

"Dear Miss Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that Harriet,
with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when they
did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently
clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered
just as she ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgment.

"Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore
I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could
not have imagined it. It is so much beyond any thing I deserve.
Mr. Elton, who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions
about _him_. He is so very superior. Only think of those sweet
verses--`To Miss --------.' Dear me, how clever!--Could it really
be meant for me?"

"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that.
It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort
of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon
followed by matter-of-fact prose."

"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected. I am sure,
a month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do
take place!"

"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and
really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is
so evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement
of other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong
to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes.
Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randalls. There does
seem to be a something in the air of Hartfield which gives love
exactly the right direction, and sends it into the very channel
where it ought to flow.

The course of true love never did run smooth--

A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage."

"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he,
the very handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body
looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after,
that every body says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he
does not chuse it; that he has more invitations than there are days
in the week. And so excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down
all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury.
Dear me! When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little
did I think!--The two Abbots and I ran into the front room and
peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss
Nash came and scolded us away, and staid to look through herself;
however, she called me back presently, and let me look too,
which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked!
He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole."

"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be,
must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense;
and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they
are anxious to see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable
character gives every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you
settled in the same country and circle which they have chosen
to place you in, here it will be accomplished; and if their only
object is that you should, in the common phrase, be _well_ married,
here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment,
the rise in the world which must satisfy them."

"Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.
You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are one as clever
as the other. This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth,
I could never have made any thing like it."

"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining
it yesterday."

"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."

"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."

"It is as long again as almost all we have had before."

"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.
Such things in general cannot be too short."

Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.

"It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to
have very good sense in a common way, like every body else,
and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter,
and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write
verses and charades like this."

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose.

"Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But
how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found
it out?--Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?"

"Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening,
I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense
or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your
soft eyes shall chuse their own time for beaming. Trust to me."

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good."

"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you
should not write it into your book."

"Oh! but those two lines are"--

--"The best of all. Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private
enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does
its meaning change. But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases,
and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection.
Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted,
much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in
both capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down,
and then there can be no possible reflection on you."

Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts,
so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down
a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any
degree of publicity.

"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.

"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer
it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father
coming: you will not object to my reading the charade to him.
It will be giving him so much pleasure! He loves any thing of
the sort, and especially any thing that pays woman a compliment.
He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all!--You must
let me read it to him."

Harriet looked grave.

"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this
charade.--You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are
too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix more meaning,
or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it.
Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration.
If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper
while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards me than towards you.
Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement
enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade."

"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please."

Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again,
by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears,
how does your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?"

"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh.
A piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt,
we suppose, by a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we
have just copied it in."

She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read,
slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations
of every part as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and,
as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.

"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said.
Very true. `Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade,
my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody
could have written so prettily, but you, Emma."

Emma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking,
and a very tender sigh, he added,

"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I
can remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you
have heard me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza;
and there are several.

Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.

And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever
all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."

"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it
from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick's, you know."

"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.

Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.

The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near
being christened Catherine after her grandmama. I hope we shall
have her here next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you
shall put her--and what room there will be for the children?"

"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual,
you know. Why should there be any change?"

"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not
since last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's
being a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly
taken away from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes,
not to see Miss Taylor here!"

"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."

"I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprized
when I first heard she was going to be married."

"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella
is here."

"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she
is coming for only one week. There will not be time for any thing."

"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case
of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th,
and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole
of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days
are not to be taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises
to give up his claim this Christmas--though you know it is longer
since they were with him, than with us."

"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were
to be anywhere but at Hartfield."

Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on
his brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own.
He sat musing a little while, and then said,

"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back
so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade
her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well."

"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish,
and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay
behind her husband."

This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse
could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his spirits
affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband,
she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.

"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while
my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased
with the children. We are very proud of the children, are not we,
papa? I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?"

"Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they
will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."

"I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not."

"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama. Henry is the eldest,
he was named after me, not after his father. John, the second,
is named after his father. Some people are surprized, I believe,
that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry,
which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy,
indeed. They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many
pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair, and say,
`Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?' and once Henry asked me
for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grandpapas.
I think their father is too rough with them very often."

"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very
gentle yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas,
you would not think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy;
and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then;
but he is an affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley
is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him."

"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling
in a very frightful way!"

"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much.
It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down
the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way
to the other."

"Well, I cannot understand it."

"That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other."

Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate
in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero
of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away;
but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye
soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of
having thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it
might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether
Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him,
or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield.
If he were, every thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend
Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him--had made
such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come.

Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his
friend on their account; her father was sure of his rubber.
He re-urged--she re-declined; and he seemed then about to make
his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it--

"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;
thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I have
ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend
will not take it amiss I hope. Of course I have not transcribed
beyond the first eight lines."

Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say.
He looked rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about
"honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book
open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively.
With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade
must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's
approbation while he writes with such gallantry."

"I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating
a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at
least if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest
doubt that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it,
(looking at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he
would consider it as the proudest moment of his life."

After this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not
think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities,
there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt
to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination,
leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.

CHAPTER X

Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather
to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise;
and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor
sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury.

Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street
of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode
of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed,
and then, about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage,
an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it
could be. It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much
smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it was,
there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without
a slackened pace and observing eyes.--Emma's remark was--

"There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--
Harriet's was--

"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow
curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."

"I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded,
"but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get
intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards
of this part of Highbury."

Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the Vicarage,
and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors
and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love,
with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.

"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think
of any tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want
to inquire about of his housekeeper--no message from my father."

She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence
of some minutes, Harriet thus began again--

"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married,
or going to be married! so charming as you are!"--

Emma laughed, and replied,

"My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;
I must find other people charming--one other person at least.
And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have
very little intention of ever marrying at all."

"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it."

"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet,
to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,)
is out of the question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person.
I would rather not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better.
If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it."

"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"--

"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.
Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!
but I never have been in love; it is not my way, or my nature;
and I do not think I ever shall. And, without love, I am sure I
should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I
do not want; employment I do not want; consequence I do not want:
I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their
husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect
to be so truly beloved and important; so always first and always
right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."

"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!"

"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I
thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--
so smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--
and so apt to tell every thing relative to every body about me,
I would marry to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never
can be any likeness, except in being unmarried."

"But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!"

"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is
poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public!
A single woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous,
disagreeable old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls,
but a single woman, of good fortune, is always respectable,
and may be as sensible and pleasant as any body else. And the
distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common
sense of the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income
has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.
Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small,
and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and cross.
This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too good
natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very
much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor.
Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe,
if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely
to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her: that is a
great charm."

"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself
when you grow old?"

"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be
more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty.
Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then
as they are now; or with no important variation. If I draw less,
I shall read more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work.
And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections,
which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which
is really the great evil to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall
be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much,
to care about. There will be enough of them, in all probability,
to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need.
There will be enough for every hope and every fear; and though my
attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas
of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews
and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me."

"Do you know Miss Bates's niece? That is, I know you must have
seen her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"

"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes
to Highbury. By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out
of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! at least, that I should
ever bore people half so much about all the Knightleys together,
as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name
of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over;
her compliments to all friends go round and round again; and if she
does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair
of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month.
I wish Jane Fairfax very well; but she tires me to death."

They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics
were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses
of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention
and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse.
She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and
their temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary
virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered into
their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance
with as much intelligence as good-will. In the present instance,
it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit;
and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice,
she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene
as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,

"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they
make every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of
nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet,
who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?"

"Very true," said Harriet. "Poor creatures! one can think
of nothing else."

"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over,"
said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep
which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden,
and brought them into the lane again. "I do not think it will,"
stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place,
and recall the still greater within.

"Oh! dear, no," said her companion.

They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend
was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near
as to give Emma time only to say farther,

"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability
in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that
if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers,
it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched,
enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy,
only distressing to ourselves."

Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman
joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however,
were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call
on them. His visit he would now defer; but they had a very
interesting parley about what could be done and should be done.
Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them.

"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma;
"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase
of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring
on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were
anywhere else."

Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon
afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised
on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road.
But she had not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's
habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that,
in short, they would both be soon after her. This would not do;
she immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration
to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete
occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on,
and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired;
and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot,
she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken
by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders,
with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side
of this child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural
thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been
acting just then without design; and by this means the others were
still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her.
She gained on them, however, involuntarily: the child's pace was quick,
and theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it,
from their being evidently in a conversation which interested them.
Mr. Elton was speaking with animation, Harriet listening with a very
pleased attention; and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning
to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both
looked around, and she was obliged to join them.

Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;
and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he
was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's
party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for
the Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery,
the beet-root, and all the dessert.

"This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her
consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love;
and any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart.
If I could but have kept longer away!"

They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage
pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into
the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot,
and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace
off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently
obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to
put herself to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.

"Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am
to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both,
but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg
leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit
of ribband or string, or any thing just to keep my boot on."

Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing
could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into
his house and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage.
The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied,
and looking forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately
communicated; the door between them was open, and Emma passed
into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most
comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she
found it; but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it.
It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging
the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it
practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the adjoining room.
For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could
be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished,
and make her appearance.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a
most favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory
of having schemed successfully. But it would not do; he had not
come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful;
he had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely
followed them; other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt,
but nothing serious.

"Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch,
and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure."

Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished
by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself
that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both,
and must be leading them forward to the great event.

CHAPTER XI

Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's
power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures.
The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand,
that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth
her prime object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay
at Hartfield it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--
that any thing beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could
be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly
if they would, however; they must advance somehow or other whether
they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them.
There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will
do for themselves.

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual
absent from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the
usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their
marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey;
but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing
for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had
been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions, or seen at all
by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London,
even for poor Isabella's sake; and who consequently was now most
nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.

He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a
little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to
bring some of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms
were needless; the sixteen miles being happily accomplished,
and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, and a competent
number of nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety.
The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to,
welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of,
produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne
under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this;
but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were
so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal
solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones,
and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance,
all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,
which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay,
the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him,
either in themselves or in any restless attendance on them.

Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle,
quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate;
wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother,
and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for
these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible.
She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman
of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance
of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution;
was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children,
had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield
in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too,
in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard
for every old acquaintance.

Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his
private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being
generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour.
He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross
as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his
great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife,
it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not
be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his.
He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted,
and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.

He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing
wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little
injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself.
Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been
flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly
kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness;
but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her
regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes
fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father.
There he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking
him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed.
It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great
regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was
due to him; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as
there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured,
though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit
displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity
so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality.
They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse,
with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's
attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.

"Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business."

"Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must
miss her! And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--
I have been so grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could
possibly do without her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope
she is pretty well, sir."

"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know
but that the place agrees with her tolerably."

Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any
doubts of the air of Randalls.

"Oh! no--none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life--
never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret."

"Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply.

"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella
in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.

Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish."

"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since
they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day,
excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston,
and generally both, either at Randalls or here--and as you
may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very,
very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself.
Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving
Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss
Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured
that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any
means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which is the exact truth."

"Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped
it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could
not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it
all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea
of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended;
and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."

"Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny
that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--
but then--she is always obliged to go away again."

"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.--
You quite forget poor Mr. Weston."

"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston
has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part
of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife,
the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force.
As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience
of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can."

"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.--
"Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be,
a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been
for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought
of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world;
and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think
there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the
very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself
and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall
never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day
last Easter--and ever since his particular kindness last September
twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night,
on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham,
I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor
a better man in existence.--If any body can deserve him, it must be
Miss Taylor."

"Where is the young man?" said John Knightley. "Has he been here
on this occasion--or has he not?"

"He has not been here yet," replied Emma. "There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended
in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately."

"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father.
"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her,
and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me.
I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea
you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--"

"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes."

"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--
and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well,
time does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad. However, it was
an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston
a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth,
and dated Sept. 28th--and began, `My dear Madam,' but I forget
how it went on; and it was signed `F. C. Weston Churchill.'--
I remember that perfectly."

"How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley. "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father!
There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his
parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston
could part with him. To give up one's child! I really never
could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else."

"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,"
observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. "But you need not imagine
Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry
or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man,
than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them,
and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect,
much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is,
upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his
neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any
thing that home affords."

Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston,
and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let
it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was
something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits,
the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother's
disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse,
and those to whom it was important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.

CHAPTER XII

Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination
of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him
in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother,
she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late
disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him
the proper invitation.

She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it
was time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do. _She_ certainly
had not been in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had.
Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to appear
to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather
assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room
she had one of the children with her--the youngest, a nice little girl
about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield,
and very happy to be danced about in her aunt's arms. It did assist;
for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon
led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child
out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity.
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giving
her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness,
she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,

"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces.
As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different;
but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree."

"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men
and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your
dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned,
we might always think alike."

"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being
in the wrong."

"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good. I was sixteen years
old when you were born."

"A material difference then," she replied--"and no doubt you were
much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does
not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings
a good deal nearer?"

"Yes--a good deal _nearer_."

"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right,
if we think differently."

"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma,
let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma,
that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing
old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now."

"That's true," she cried--"very true. Little Emma, grow up
a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not
half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I
have done. As far as good intentions went, we were _both_ right,
and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet
proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very,
very bitterly disappointed."

"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.

"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."

This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
Knightley made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?" and "John,
how are you?" succeeded in the true English style, burying under
a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment
which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing
for the good of the other.

The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined
cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his
dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions;
on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys;
their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma
only occasionally joining in one or the other.

The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had
generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least,
some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand
the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear
next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail
of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been
the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong.
The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree,
and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn,
was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his
cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever
left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached
a tone of eagerness.

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying
a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.

"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand,
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one
of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you
were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must
go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you
before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel."

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did,
that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article
as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little
more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its
not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say,
with an air of grave reflection,

"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn
at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion
of the sea air."

"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we
should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children,
but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--
both sea air and bathing."

"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her
any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced,
though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very
rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once."

"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must
beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--
I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please.
My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about
Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you."

"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"

"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious,
and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has
not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is
always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man
in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man
any where."

"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon.
He will be so pleased to see my little ones."

"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."

"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly
any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest
service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent
embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying
at times ever since August."

"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been
of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation,
I would have spoken to--

"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma,
"I have not heard one inquiry after them."

"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you
mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well.
Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take
my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--
And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--
How are they, sir?"

"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates
had a bad cold about a month ago."

"How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them
more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."

"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree
you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general,
but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November.
Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season."

"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--

"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always
a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.
It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--
and the air so bad!"

"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is
very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London
in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square
is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy!
I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--
there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my
children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks
the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as
to air."

"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--
but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you
different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say,
that I think you are any of you looking well at present."

"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were
a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness
of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow;
for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe
he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust,
at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill,"
turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband.

"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John
Knightley very far from looking well."

"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.

"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you
looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued.
I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen
Mr. Wingfield before you left home."

"My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern
yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling
yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse."

"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,"
cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate. What will it answer?
Will not the old prejudice be too strong?"

And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced
to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax;
and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general,
she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising.

"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.--
"It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
accidentally in town! What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them!
I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot
be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all.
She would be such a delightful companion for Emma."

Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,

"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another
pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could
not have a better companion than Harriet."

"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be
so very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of
similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening
did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came
and supplied a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--
undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution,
and pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was
never met with tolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures
which the daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore
most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman
hired for the time, who never had been able to understand what she
meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin.
Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able
to get any thing tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.

"Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on
her with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed,
"Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to
South End. It does not bear talking of." And for a little while
she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination
might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel.
After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with,

"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here."

"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children
a great deal of good."

"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not
have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy place.
Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon South End."

"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is
quite a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there,
never found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield
says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy;
and I am sure he may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands
the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been
there repeatedly."

"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.--
Perry was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best
of all the sea-bathing places. A fine open sea, he says, and very
pure air. And, by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there
quite away from the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable.
You should have consulted Perry."

"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how
great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty."

"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much
to chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get
into a worse air. This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him
a very ill-judged measure."

Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he
had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law's breaking out.

"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure,
"would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for.
Why does he make it any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--
at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another?--I may
be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.--
I want his directions no more than his drugs." He paused--
and growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic dryness,
"If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children
a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense
or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to
prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself."

"True, true," cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition--
"very true. That's a consideration indeed.--But John, as to what I
was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning
it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows,
I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it,
if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people,
but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path. . . .
The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps.
I shall see you at the Abbey to-morrow morning I hope, and then we
will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion."

Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on
his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously,
been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--
but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed
the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother,
and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.

CHAPTER XIII

There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking
over what she had done every evening with her father and sister.
She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass
so swiftly. It was a delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.

In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than
their mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out
of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas.
Mr. Weston would take no denial; they must all dine at Randalls
one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible
thing in preference to a division of the party.

How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty
if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses
were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than
a simple question on that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt;
nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one
of the carriages find room for Harriet also.

Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set,
were the only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early,
as well as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination
being consulted in every thing.

The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event
that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been
spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed
with a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed
by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house.
Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed
with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad
sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry
was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist
the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement,
though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.

Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much
Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her
at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having
a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.
She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she
was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as
they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid--
of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going
to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield--
they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the
daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy,
glowing faces shewed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed
to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they
were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together.
Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint;--
"a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her,
a quick, low pulse, &c. and she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard
that Harriet was liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often
alarmed her with them." Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion,
as he exclaimed,

"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you should take care
of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run
no risks. Why does not Perry see her?"

Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience
and care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness
which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather
feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite
another subject,

"It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much
like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party,
I should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father
from venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem
to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it
would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon
my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself.
You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider
what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring,
I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home
and take care of yourself to-night."

Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of
her's, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--
but Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions
and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision,
was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its
being "very cold, certainly very cold," and walked on, rejoicing in
having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power
of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening.

"You do quite right," said she;--"we will make your apologies
to Mr. and Mrs. Weston."

But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's
only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much
prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go,
and never had his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than
at this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes
more exulting than when he next looked at her.

"Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I
had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave
Harriet ill behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe,
in many men, especially single men, such an inclination--
such a passion for dining out--a dinner engagement is so high in
the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities,
almost their duties, that any thing gives way to it--and this must
be the case with Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young
man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but still,
he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out wherever he is asked.
What a strange thing love is! he can see ready wit in Harriet,
but will not dine alone for her."

Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment
in his manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his
voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's
for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared
for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be
able to give a better report; and he sighed and smiled himself
off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour.

After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley
began with--

"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than
Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned.
With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies
to please, every feature works."

"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there
is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook
a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers,
he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is
such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot
but value."

"Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness,
"he seems to have a great deal of good-will towards you."

"Me!" she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining
me to be Mr. Elton's object?"

"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now."

"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!"

"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether
it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly.
I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend,
Emma. You had better look about you, and ascertain what you do,
and what you mean to do."

"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton
and I are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on,
amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often
arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes
which people of high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into;
and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind
and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.

Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit,
that in spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea
of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually
with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent
consciousness of the weather than either of the others; too full
of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at
Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it.
The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the second carriage
was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down,
and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only
a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time.

Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour.
The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice
of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,
which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase;
and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in
expressing his discontent.

"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when
he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such
a day as this, for the sake of coming to see him. He must think
himself a most agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing.
It is the greatest absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!--
The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home--and the
folly of people's not staying comfortably at home when they can!
If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of
duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it;--and here are we,
probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward
voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature,
which tells man, in every thing given to his view or his feelings,
to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;--
here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in another
man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses
and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle,
shivering creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they
might have had at home."

Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt
he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my love,"
which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion;
but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer
at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome;
her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk,
and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening
her lips.

They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down,
and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly.
Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton
was all obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful
in his civilities indeed, that she began to think he must have
received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her.
She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--
not better."

"_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not
so pleasant as I had hoped--`Not better' was _my_ answer."

His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice
of sentiment as he answered.

"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing
before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,
by no means better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned--
I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial
as I knew had been given her in the morning."

Emma smiled and answered--"My visit was of use to the nervous part
of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat;
it is a most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her,
as you probably heard."

"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--"

"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is
impossible not to feel uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!"

"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment."

This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable;
but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when
only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,
and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.

"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin
for carriages. How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to
feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days
indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete.
One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath
of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely
of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon--but in this carriage
we know nothing of the matter.--Ha! snows a little I see."

"Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal
of it."

"Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton. "Quite seasonable;
and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not
begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very
possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had
there been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence.
This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas
every body invites their friends about them, and people think little
of even the worst weather. I was snowed up at a friend's house once
for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night,
and could not get away till that very day se'nnight."

Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure,
but said only, coolly,

"I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls."

At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too
much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings.
Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.

"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing
in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--
Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly
what one values, so hospitable, and so fond of society;--
it will be a small party, but where small parties are select,
they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room
does not accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part,
I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than
exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, (turning with a soft
air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your approbation,
though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties
of London, may not quite enter into our feelings."

"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine
with any body."

"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the
law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come
when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little
labour and great enjoyment."

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