 Volume 3, Chapter 4 of Emma by Jane Austen. Red for LibriVox.org into the public domain. A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus began. Miss Woodhouse, if you are at leisure, I have something that I should like to tell you, a sort of confession to make, and then, you know, it will be over. Emma was a good deal surprised, but begged her to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's manner, which prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something more than ordinary. It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish, she continued, to have no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is necessary. I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I dare say you understand me. Yes, said Emma, I hope I do. How I could so long a time be fancying myself, cried Harriet warmly. It seems like madness. I can see nothing at all extraordinary in him now. I do not care whether I meet him or not, except that of the two I had rather not see him, and indeed I would go any distance round to avoid him. But I do not envy his wife in the least, neither admire nor envy her as I have done. She is very charming, I dare say, in all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable. I shall never forget her look the other night. However I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil. No, let them be ever so happy together. It will not give me another moment's paying, and to convince you that I have been speaking the truth, I am now going to destroy what I ought to have destroyed long ago, what I ought never to have kept. I know that very well, blushing, as she spoke. However, now I will destroy it, and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence that you may see how rational I am grown. Can not you guess what this parcel holds, said she, with a conscious look? Not the least in the world. Did he ever give you anything? No, I cannot call them gifts, but they are things that I have valued very much. She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words, Most Precious Treasures, on top. Her curiosity was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience, and an abundance of silver paper was a pretty little ton bridge-ware box, which Harriet opened. It was well lined with the softest cotton, but accepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaster. Now, said Harriet, you must recollect. No indeed, I do not. Dear me, I should not have thought it possible that you could forget what passed in this very room about court-plaster one of the very last times we ever met in it. It was but a very few days before I had my sore throat. Just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came, I think the very evening. Do you not remember his cutting his finger with your new pen-knife, and your recommending court-plaster? But as you had none about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him, and so I took mine out and cut him a piece. But it was a great deal too large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left before he gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure of it. So I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now and then as a great treat. "'My dearest Harriet,' cried Emma, putting her hand before her face, and jumping up, you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it. I remember it all now, except you're saving this relic. I knew nothing of that till this moment. But the cutting the finger, and my recommending court-plaster, and saying I had none about me—oh, my sins, my sins!—and I had plenty all the while in my pocket. One of my senseless tricks. I deserved to be under a continual blush all the rest of my life. Well, sitting down again, go on, what else? And you had really some at hand yourself. I am sure I never suspected it. You did it so naturally. And so you actually put this piece of court-plaster by for his sake, said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, Lord bless me, when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a piece of court-plaster that Frank Churchill had been pulling about? I never was equal to this. Here, resumed Harriet, turning her box again, here is something still more valuable. I mean, that has been more valuable, because this is what really did once belong to him, which the court-plaster never did. Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil, the part without any lead. This was really his, said Harriet. Do you not remember one morning—no, I dare say you do not. But one morning, I forget exactly the day, but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book. It was about spruce beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about brewing spruce beer, and he wanted to put it down. But when he took out his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would not do. So he lent him another, and this was left upon the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it, and as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment. I do remember it, cried Emma. I perfectly remember it. Talking about spruce beer—oh yes, Mr. Knightley and I both saying that we liked it, and Mr. Elton seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly remember it. Stop! Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was he not? I have an idea he was standing just here. Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect. It is very odd, but I cannot recollect. Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I am now. Well go on. Oh! That's all. I have nothing more to show you, or to say, except that I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it. My poor dear Harriet, and have you actually found happiness in treasuring up these things? Yes, simpleton that I was, but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any remembrances after he was married. I knew it was, but I had not resolution enough to part with them. But Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaster? I have not a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaster might be useful. I shall be happier to burn it, replied Harriet. It has a disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of everything. There it goes, and there is an end, thank heaven, of Mr. Elton. And when, thought Emma, will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill? She had soon afterwards reasoned to believe that the beginning was already made, and could not but hope that the gypsy, though she had told no fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's. About a fortnight after the alarm they came to a sufficient explanation and quite undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial chat, Well Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and so, and thought no more of it, till after a minute's silence she heard Harriet say, in a very serious tone, I shall never marry. Emma then looked up and immediately saw how it was, and after a moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied, Never, Mary, this is a new resolution. It is one that I shall never change, however. After another short hesitation, I hope it does not proceed from—I hope it is not in complement to Mr. Elton. Mr. Elton, indeed, cried Harriet indignantly, Oh no! and Emma could just catch the words, so superior to Mr. Elton. She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no farther? Should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing? Perhaps Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did, or perhaps if she were totally silent it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too much. And against anything like such an unreserve as had been such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances she was perfectly resolved. She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at once all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed on any application of the sort, and it would be safer for both to have the judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed. She was decided, and thus spoke, Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom you might prefer would be too greatly your superior in situation to think of you. Is it not so? Oh, Miss Woodhouse, believe me, I have not the presumption to suppose—indeed, I am not so mad, but it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance, and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration which are so proper in me especially. I am not surprised at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you was enough to warm your heart. Service! Oh! It was such an inexpressible obligation—the very recollection of it and all that I felt at the time when I saw him coming, his noble look, and my wretchedness before. Such a change, in one moment such a change, from perfect misery to perfect happiness. It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable. Yes, honourable, I think, to choose so well and so gratefully. But that it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be wisest in you to check your feelings while you can, or at any rate do not let them carry you far unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before. We will be cautious now. He is your superior, no doubt, and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature. But yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place. There have been matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not have you to sanguine, though, however it may end. Be assured your raising your thoughts to him is a mark of good taste, which I shall always know how to value. Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind, and it must be saving her from the danger of degradation. End of Volume 3, Chapter 4. Read by Cibella Denton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 3, Chapter 5 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. In this state of schemes and hopes and connivance, June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking of a visit from the Sucklings, and the use to be made of their Baruch Landau, and Jane Fairfax was still at her grandmothers, and as the return of the Campbells from Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there full two months longer, provided at least she were able to defeat Mrs. Elton's activity in her service, and save herself from being hurried into a delightful situation against her will. Mr. Knightley, who for some reason best known to himself, hath certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared indisputable. Everything declared it. His own attentions, his father's hints, his mother-in-law's guarded silence, it was all in unison. Words, conduct, discretion, and indiscretion told the same story. But while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not understand it, but there were symptoms of intelligence between them. He thought so, at least. Symptoms of admiration on his side, which having been once observed, he could not persuade himself to think entirely void of meaning. However, he might wish to escape any of Emma's errors of imagination. She was not present when the suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randall's family and Jane at the Elton's, and he had seen a look, more than a single look at Miss Fairfax, which from the admirer of Miss Woodhouse seemed somewhat out of place. When he was again in their company he could not help remembering what he had seen, nor could he avoid observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at twilight, myself creating what I saw, brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a something of private liking, of private understanding even, between Frank Churchill and Jane. He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and Harriet were going to walk. He joined them, and on returning they fell in with a larger party, who like themselves judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threatened rain. Mr. and Mrs. Weston and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally met. They all united, and on reaching Hartfield Gates, Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it immediately, and after a pretty long speech from Miss Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse's most obliging imitation. As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentleman spoke of his horse. By the by, said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston presently, what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage? Mrs. Weston looked surprised, and said, I did not know that he ever had such a plan. Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months ago. Me? Impossible. Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it, as what was certain to be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being out of bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must remember it now. Upon my word, I never heard of it till this moment. Never. Really, never. Bless me, how could it be? Then I must have dreamt it. But I was completely persuaded. Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find yourself at home. What is this? What is this? cried Mr. Weston, about Perry and a carriage. Is Perry going to set up his carriage, Frank? I'm glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you? No, sir! replied his son, laughing. I seem to have had it from nobody. Very odd. I really was persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe many weeks ago, with all these particulars, but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must have been a dream. I'm a great dreamer. I dream of everybody at Highbury when I'm away, and when I have gone through my particular friends, then I began dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry. It is odd, though, observed his father, that you should have had such a regular connected dream about people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry setting up his carriage, and his wife persuading him to do it, out of care for his health. Just what will happen I have no doubt some time or other, only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs through a dream. And at others what a heap of absurdities it is. Well, Frank, your dream certainly shows that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think. Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston's hint. Why, to own the truth, cried Miss Bates, who had been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, if I must speak on the subject there is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not dream it. I am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world. But if I am questioned about it, I must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring, for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the calls knew of it as well as ourselves. But it was quite a secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane, don't you remember Grand Mamas telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had been walking to—very likely to Randalls. Yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always particularly fond of my mother. Indeed, I do not know who is not, and she had mentioned it to her in confidence. She had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond. And from that day to this I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time I will not positively answer for my never having dropped a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know, I am rather a talker, and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane. I wish I were. I will answer for it. She never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is she? Oh, just behind—perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming. Extraordinary dream, indeed. They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley's eyes had preceded Miss Bates's in a glance at Jane. From Frank Churchill's face, where he thought he saw confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to hers, but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. After Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination of catching her eye, he seemed watching her intently, in vain, however, if it were so. Jane passed between them into the hall and looked at neither. There was no time for farther remark or explanation. The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which none but Emma could have had power to place there and persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized pembroke on which two of his daily meals had, for forty years, been crowded. T. passed pleasantly, and nobody seemed in hurry to move. Miss Woodhouse, said Frank Churchill, after examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he sat. Have your nephews taken away their alphabets, their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a sort of dull-looking evening that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again. Emma was pleased with the thought, and, producing the box, the table was quickly scattered over with alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming words for each other, or for anybody else who would be puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the departure of the poor little boys, or in fondly pointing out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how beautifully Emma had written it. Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance round the table and applied herself to it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them, and Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all, and it was his object to see as much as he could, Miss Aslittle apparent observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint smile pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed with the others, and buried from sight, she should have looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it was not mixed, and Harriet, eager after every fresh word, and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work. She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for help. The word was blunder, and as Harriet exultingly proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane's cheek, which gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley connected it with the dream, but how it could all be was beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the discretion of his favourite, could have been so late asleep. He feared there must be some decided involvement. Disingenuousness and double-dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and trick. It was a child's play chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part. With great indignation did he continue to observe him, with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma, and given to her with a look, sly, and demure. He saw what Emma had soon made out, and found it highly entertaining. Though it was something which she judged it proper to appear to censure, for she said, nonsense, for shame! He heard Frank Churchill say, with a glance towards Jane, I will give it to her, shall I? And has clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager, laughing warmth. No, no, you must not. You shall not, indeed. It was done, however. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling and to recommend himself without complacence, directly handed over the word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley's excessive curiosity to know what this word might be made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be Dixon. Jane Fairfax's perception seemed to accompany his. Her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert meeting, the superior intelligence of those five letters so arranged. She was evidently displeased, looked up, and seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had ever perceived her, and saying only, I did not know that proper names were allowed, pushed away the letters with even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted from those who had made the attack, and turned towards her aunt. I, very true, my dear, cried the latter, though Jane had not spoken a word. I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going, indeed. The evening is closing in, and Grand Mama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you a good night. Jane's alertness and moving proved her as ready as her aunt at preconceived. She was immediately up and wanting to quit the table, but so many were also moving that she could not get away, and Mr. Knightley thought he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl. Frank Churchill was looking also. It was growing dusk, and the room was in confusion, and how they parted Mr. Knightley could not tell. He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen, so full that when the candles came to assist his observations he must, yes he certainly must, as a friend, an anxious friend, give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of such danger without trying to preserve her. It was his duty. Pray, Emma, said he, may I ask, in what lay the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and misfair facts? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other. Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure to give him the true explanation, for though her suspicions were by no means removed she was really ashamed of having ever imparted them. Oh! she cried an evident embarrassment. It all meant nothing, a mere joke among ourselves. The joke, he replied gravely, seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill. He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not. She would rather busy herself about anything than speak. He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his mind. Interference, fruitless interference. Emma's confusion and the acknowledged intimacy seemed to declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He owed it to her, to risk anything that might be involved in an unwelcome interference rather than her welfare, to encounter anything rather than the remembrance of neglect in such a cause. My dear Emma, said he at last, with earnest kindness, do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and the lady we have been speaking of? Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax. Oh! yes, perfectly. Why do you make a doubt of it? Have you never, at any time, had reason to think that he admired her or that she admired him? Never! never! she cried with a most open eagerness. Never! for the twentieth part of a moment did such an idea occur to me, and how could it possibly come into your head? I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of an attachment between them, certain expressive looks which I did not believe meant to be public. Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find that you can vouch safe to let your imagination wander, but it will not do. Very sorry to check you in your first essay. But indeed it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you, and the appearances which have caught you have arisen from some peculiar circumstances, feelings rather of a totally different nature. It is impossible exactly to explain. There is a good deal of nonsense in it, but the part which is capable of being communicated, which is sense, is that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another as any two beings in the world can be. That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on his. I will answer for the gentleman's indifference. She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a satisfaction which silenced Mr. Knightley. She was in gay spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation, wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every look described and all the wares and towels of a circumstance which highly entertained her, but his gaiety did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he might not be irritated into an absolute fever by the fire which Mr. Woodhouse's tender habits required almost every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey. End of Volume 3, TITURE V. Read for LibriVox.org. After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In the daily interchange of news they must be again restricted to the other topics, with which for a while the Suckling's coming had been united, such as the last accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs. Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped, might eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child as that of all her neighbors was by the approach of it. Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her introductions and recommendations must all wait, and every projected party be still only talked of. So she thought at first, but a little consideration convinced her that everything need not be put off. Why should they not explore to Box Hill, though the Suckling's did not come? They could go there again with them in the autumn. It was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long generally known. It had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill. She wished to see what everybody found so well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to choose some fine morning and drive dither. Two or three more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending, elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and preparation, the regular eating and drinking and picnic parade of the Elton's and the Suckling's. This was so very well understood between them that Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little displeasure on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had failed her, that the two parties should unite and go together, and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded to it, so it was to be if she had no objection. Now as her objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs. Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly aware, it was not worth bringing forward again. It could not be done without a reproof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife, and she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would have done a great deal to avoid, an arrangement which would probably expose her even to the degradation of being said to be if Mrs. Elton's party. Every feeling was offended, and the forbearance of her outward submission left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston's temper. I am glad you approve of what I have done, said he very comfortably, but I thought you would. Such schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own amusement, and she is a good-natured woman after all. One could not leave her out. Emma denied none of it allowed, and agreed to none of it in private. It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine, and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day, and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon pies and cold lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw everything into sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few days, before the horse were usable, but no preparations could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy stagnation. Mrs. Elton's resources were inadequate to such an attack. It's not this most vexatious nightly, she cried, and such weather for exploring. These delays and disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do? The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done. Before this time last year I assure you we had had a delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to King's Weston. You had better explore to Donwell, replied Mr. Nightley. That may be done without horses. Come and eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast. If Mr. Nightley did not begin seriously he was obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with delight, and the—oh, I should like it of all things—was not plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its strawberry beds, which seemed a plea for the imitation, but no plea was necessary. Cabbage beds would have been enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going somewhere. She promised him again and again to come, much oftener than he doubted, and was extremely gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing compliment as she chose to consider it. You may depend upon me, she said. I certainly will come. Name your day and I will come. You will allow me to bring Jane Fairfax? I cannot name a day, said he, till I have spoken to some others whom I would wish to meet you. Oh! Leave all that to me. Only give me a carte blanche. I am Lady Patrinesse, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends with me. I hope you will bring Elton, said he, but I will not trouble you to give any other invitations. Oh! Now you are looking very sly! But consider! You need not be afraid of delegating power to me. I am no young lady on her preferment. Married women, you know, may be safely authorized. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests. No! he calmly replied. There is but one married woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite what guest she pleases to Donwell. And that one is— Mrs. Weston, I suppose, interrupted Mrs. Elton, rather mortified. No, Mrs. Knightley, until she is in being I will manage such matters myself. Ah! You are an odd creature, she cried, satisfied to have no one preferred to herself. You are a humorist and may say what you like. Quite a humorist. Well, I shall bring Jane with me, Jane and her aunt, the rest I leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the Hartfield family. Don't scruple. I know you are attached to them. You certainly will meet them if I can prevail, and I shall call on Miss Bates on my way home. That's quite unnecessary. I see Jane every day. But as you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know, Knightley, quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large bonnet and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my arm. Here probably this basket with pink ribbon. Nothing can be more simple, you see, and Jane will have such another. There is to be no form or parade, a sort of gypsy party. We are to walk about your gardens and gather the strawberries ourselves and sit under trees and whatever else you may like to provide. It is to be all out of doors, a table spread in the shade, you know, everything is natural and as simple as possible. It's not that your idea. Not quite. My idea of the simple and natural will be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors. When you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the house. Well, as you please, only don't have a great set-out. And by the by, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion? Pray be sincere, Knightley, if you whisk me to talk to Mrs. Hodges or to inspect anything. I have not the least wish for it, I thank you. Well, but if any difficulties should arise, my housekeeper is extremely clever. I will answer for it that mine thinks herself full is clever and would spurn anybody's assistance. I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us to all come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates and me, and my carousel-spozo walking by. I really must talk to him about purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a sort of necessary, for let a woman have ever so many resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home. And very long walks, you know, in summer there is dust, and in winter there is dirt. You will not find either between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer it. You can borrow Mrs. Coles. I would wish everything to be as much to your taste as possible. That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice, my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt manner I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr. E., you are a thorough humorist. Yes, believe me, Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in the whole of the scheme. You have hit upon the very thing to please me. Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse as well as Emma to join the party, and he knew that to have any of them sitting out of doors to eat would inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under the specious portents of a morning drive, and an hour or two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery. He was invited on good faith. No lurking whores were to abrade him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He had not been at Donwell for two years. Some very fine morning he and Emma and Harriet could go very well. He could sit still with Mrs. Weston while the dear girls walked about in the gardens. He did not suppose they could be damp now in the middle of the day. He should like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton and any other of his neighbours. He could not see an objection at all to his and Emma's and Harriet's going there some very fine morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley to invite them, very kind and sensible, much cleverer than dining out. He was not fond of dining out. Mr. Knightley was fortunate in everybody's most ready concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well received that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all taking the scheme as a particular complement to themselves. Emma and Harriet professed very high expectations of pleasure from it, and Mr. Weston, unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them if possible, a proof of approbation and gratitude which could have been dispensed with. Mr. Knightley was then obliged to say that he should be glad to see him, and Mr. Weston engaged to lose no time in writing and no spare arguments to induce him to come. In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast that the party to Box Hill was again under happy consideration, and at last Donwell was settled for one day and Box Hill for the next, the weather appearing exactly right. Under a bright midday sun, almost at mid-summer, Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with one window down to partake of this alfresco party, and in one of the most comfortable rooms in the abbey, especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with pleasure of what had been achieved, and advised everybody to come and sit down and not to heat themselves. Mrs. Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, while all the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient listener and sympathizer. It was so long since Emma had been at the abbey that as soon as she was satisfied of her father's comfort she was glad to leave him and look around her, eager to refresh and correct her memory with more particular observation, more exact understanding of a house and grounds which must ever be so interesting to her and all her family. She felt all the honest pride and complacency which her alliance with the present and future proprietor could fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of the building, its suitable becoming characteristic situation, low and sheltered, its ample gardens stretching down to meet meadows washed by a stream, of which the abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a sight, and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues, which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up. The house was larger than Hartfield and totally unlike it, covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many comfortable and one or two handsome rooms. It was just what it ought to be, and it looked what it was, and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as the residents of a family of such true gentility, untainted in blood and understanding. Some faults of temper John Knightley had, but Isabella had connected herself unexceptionably. She had given them neither men nor names nor places that could raise a blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect round the strawberry beds. The whole party were assembled, accepting Frank Churchill, who was expected every moment from Richmond, and Mrs. Elton, in all her apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket, was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or talking. Strawberries and only strawberries could now be thought or spoken of. The best fruit in England, everybody's favourite, always wholesome. These the finest beds and finest sorts, delighted to gather for oneself, the only way of really enjoying them. Morning decidedly the best time, never tired, every sort good, up boy infinitely superior, no comparison, the others hardly edible, out boys very scarce, chilly preferred, whitewood, finest flavour of all, price of strawberries in London, abundance about Bristol, maple grove, cultivation, beds, when to be renewed, gardeners thinking exactly different, no general rule, gardeners never to be put out of their way, delicious fruit, only too rich to be eaten much of, inferior to cherries, currents more refreshing, only objection to gathering strawberries this stooping, glaring sun, tired to death, could bear it no longer, must go and sit in the shade. Such for half an hour was the conversation, interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out in her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were come, and she was a little uneasy. She had some fears of his horse. Seats tolerably in the shade were found, and now Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane Fairfax were talking of. A situation, a most desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragg, but in felicity and splendour it fell short only of them. It was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragg, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady known at Maple Grove. Delighted, charming, superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, everything, and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with immediately. On her side all was warmth, energy, and triumph, and she positively refused to take her friend's negative, though Mrs. Fairfax continued to assure her that she would not at present engage in anything, repeating the same motives which she had been heard to urge before. Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to write an acquiescence by the morrow's post. How Jane could bear it all was astonishing to Emma. She did look vexed, she did speak pointedly, and at last with a decision of action unusual to her proposed a removal. Should the knot walk, would not Mr. Knightley show them the gardens, all the gardens? She wished to see the whole extent. The pertinacity of her friend seemed more than she could bear. It was hot, and after walking some time over the gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three together, they insensibly followed one another to the delicious shade of a broad, short avenue of limes, which, stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds. It led to nothing, nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high pillars, which seemed intended in their erection to give the appearance of an approach to the house which had never been there. Disputable, however, as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely pretty. The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of which the abbey stood, gradually acquired a steep reform beyond its grounds, and at half a mile distance was a bank of considerable abruptness in grandeur, well clothed with wood, and at the bottom of this bank, favorably placed in sheltered, rose the abbey mill farm, with meadows in front, and the river making a close and handsome curve around it. It was a sweet view, sweet to the eye and the mind, English verger, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright without being oppressive. In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the others assembled, and towards this view she immediately perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest, quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet! It was an odd tete-tete, but she was glad to see it. There had been a time when he would have scorned her as a companion and turned from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the abbey mill farm, but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light column of smoke ascending. She joined them at the wall and found them more engaged in talking than in looking round. He was giving Harriet information as to modes of agriculture, etc., and Emma received a smile which seemed to say, These are my own concerns. I have a right to talk on such subjects without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin. She did not suspect him. It was too old a story. Robert Martin had probably ceased to think of Harriet. They took a few turns together along the walk. The shade was most refreshing, and Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day. The next remove was to the house. They must all go in and eat, and now they were all seated in busy, and still Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked and looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy and laughed at her fears, but she could not be cured of wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had expressed himself as to coming with more than common certainty. His aunt was so much better that he had not a doubt of getting over to them. Mrs. Churchill's state, however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence, and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming. Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under consideration. She behaved very well and betrayed no emotion. The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old abbey fishponds, perhaps to get as far as the clover, which was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or at any rate have the pleasure of being hot and growing cool again. Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where no dams from the river were imagined even by him, stirred no more, and his daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise and variety which her spirits seemed to need. Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr. Woodhouse's entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of metals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection within his cabinets had been prepared for his old friend, to wile away the morning, and the kindness had been perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been exceedingly well amused. Miss Weston had been showing them all to him, and now he would show them all to Emma, fortunate in having no other resemblance to a child than in total want of taste for what he saw, for he was slow, constant, and methodical. Before this second looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the hall for the sake of a few moments' free observation of the entrance and ground plot of the house, and was hardly there when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in from the garden and with a look of escape. Still expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a start at first, but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she was in quest of. "'Will you be so kind,' said she, when I am missed, as to say that I am gone home? I am going this moment. My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have been absent, but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am determined to go directly. I have said nothing about it to anybody. It would only be giving trouble and distress. Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the line-walk. Till they all come in I shall not be missed, and when they do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone? Certainly if you wish it. But you are not going to walk to Highbury alone.' "'Yes. What should hurt me? I walk fast. I shall be at home in twenty minutes.' "'But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone. Let my father's servant go with you. Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five minutes.' "'Thank you. Thank you. But on no account. I would rather walk. And for me to be afraid of walking alone, I, who may so soon, have to guard others.' She spoke with great agitation, and Emma very feelingly replied, "'That can be no reason for your being exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The heat even would be danger. You are fatigued already.' "'I am,' she answered, "'I am fatigued. But it is not the sort of fatigue. Quick walking will refresh me. Miss Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied in spirits. Mine I confess are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me will be to let me have my own way and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.' Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all, and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the house immediately, and watched her safely off with the zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful, and her parting words, "'Oh, Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being sometimes alone,' seemed to burst from an overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the continual endurance to be practiced by her, even towards some of those who loved her best. Such a home, indeed, such an aunt,' said Emma, as she turned back into the hall again, "'I do pity you, and the more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more I shall like you.' Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they had only accomplished some views of St. Mark's Place, Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma had not been thinking of him. She had forgotten to think of him. But she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston would be at ease. The black mare was blameless. They were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause. He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in her, a nervous seizure which had lasted some hours, and he had quite given up every thought of coming till very late, and he had known how hot a ride he should have, and how late, with all his hurry he must be. He believed he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive. He had never suffered anything like it. Almost wished he had stayed at home. Nothing killed him like heat. He could bear any degree of cold, et cetera, but heat was intolerable, and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse's fire, looking very deplorable. You will soon be cooler, if you sit still, said Emma. As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could very ill be spared, but such a point had been made of my coming. You will all be going soon, I suppose, the whole party breaking up. I met one, as I came, madness in such weather, absolute madness. Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that Frank Churchill's state might be best defined by the expressive phrase of being out of humor. Some people were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his constitution, and as she knew that eating and drinking were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she recommended his taking some refreshment. He would find abundance of everything in the dining-room, and she humanely pointed out the door. No, he should not eat. He was not hungry. It would only make him hotter. In two minutes, however, he relented in his own favor, and muttering something about spruce beer walked off. Emma returned all her attention to her father, saying in secret, I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet, easy temper will not mind it. He was gone long enough to have had a very comfortable meal, and came back all the better, grown quite cool, and with good manners like himself, able to draw a chair close to them, make an interest in their employment and regret, in a reasonable way, that he should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but seemed trying to improve them, and at last made himself talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over views in Switzerland. As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad, said he, I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these places. You will have my sketches some time or other to look at, or my tour to read, or my poem. I shall do something to expose myself. That may be, but not by sketches in Switzerland. You will never go to Switzerland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England. They may be induced to go. A warm climate may be prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong persuasion this morning that I shall soon be abroad. I ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want to change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse. Whatever your penetrating eyes may fancy. I am sick of England, and would leave it tomorrow if I could. You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to stay? I, sick of prosperity and indulgence. You are quite mistaken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous or indulged. I am thwarted in everything material. I do not consider myself at all a fortunate person. You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you first came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will do very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draft of madera and water, will make you nearly on a par with the rest of us. No, I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best cure. We are going to Box Hill to-morrow. You will join us. It is not Switzerland, but it will be something for a young man, so much in want of a change. You will stay and go with us? No, certainly not. I shall go home in the cool of the evening. But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morning. No, it will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be cross. Then pray, stay at Richmond. But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to think of you all there without me. These are difficulties which you must settle for yourself. Choose your own degree of crossness. I shall press you no more. The rest of the party were now returning, and all were soon collected. With some there was a great joy at the side of Frank Churchill. Others took it very composedly, but there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss Fairfax's disappearance being explained. That it was time for everybody to go concluded the subject, and with a short final arrangements for the next day's scheme they parted. Frank Churchill's little inclination to exclude himself increased so much that his last words to Emma were, Well, if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will. She smiled her acceptance, and nothing less than a summons from Richmond was to take him back before the following evening. End of Volume 3, Chapter 6. They had a very fine day for Box Hill, and all the other outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation, and punctuality were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr. Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between Hartfield and the Vickridge, and everybody was in good time. Emma and Harriet went together, Miss Bates and her niece, with the Eltons, the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing was wanting, but to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and everybody had a burst of admiration on first arriving, but in the general account of the day there was deficiency. There was a langer, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over. They separated too much into parties. The Eltons walked together, Mr. Knightley took charge of Miss Bates and Jane, and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, showed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could. But during the whole two hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston to remove. At first it was downright dullness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing, looked without seeing, admired without intelligence, listened without knowing what she said. While he was so dull it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise, and they were both insufferable. When they all sat down it was better, to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid was paid to her. To amuse her and be agreeable in her eyes seemed all that he cared for, and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement. The admission to be gallant, which she had never given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance, but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively. They were laying themselves open to that very phrase, and having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless for many real felicity, it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed, and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend. How much I am obliged to you, said he, for telling me to come to-day. If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again. Yes you were very cross, and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble, you begged hard to be commanded to come. Don't say I was cross, I was fatigued, the heat overcame me. It is hotter to-day. Not to my feelings, I am perfectly comfortable to-day. You are comfortable because you are under command. Your command? Yes. Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had somehow or other broken bounds yesterday and run away from your own management. But today you are got back again. And as I cannot be always with you, it is best to believe your temper under your own command, rather than mine. It comes to the same thing. I can have no self-command without a motive. You order me whether you speak or not, and you can always be with me. You are always with me. Dating from three o'clock yesterday, my perpetual influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have been so much out of humor before. Three o'clock yesterday, that is your date. I thought I had seen you first in February. Your gallantry is really unanswerable, but, lowering her voice, nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is rather too much to be talking nonsense for the entertainment of seven silent people. I say nothing of which I am ashamed, replied he with lively impudence. I saw you first in February. Let everybody on the hill hear me if they can. Let my accent swell to pickle him on one side and dorking on the other. I saw you first in February. And then, whispering, our companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse, who, wherever she is, presides, to say that she desires to know what you are all thinking of. Some laughed, and answered good-humoredly. Miss Bates said a great deal. Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of Miss Woodhouse's presiding. Under Knightley's answer was the most distinct. Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of? Oh, no, no, cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she could, upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear anything rather than what you are all thinking of. I will not say quite all. There are one or two perhaps, glancing at Mr. Weston and Harriet, whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing. It is a sort of thing, cried Mrs. Elton emphatically, which I should not have thought myself privileged to inquire into, though perhaps as the chaperone of the party I never was in any circle. Exploring parties, young ladies, married women. Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband, and he murmured in reply, Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed, quite unheard of. But some ladies say anything. Better pass it off as a joke. Nobody knows what is due to you. It will not do, whispered Frank to Emma. They are most of them affronted. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of and only require something very entertaining from each of you in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already, and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse or original or repeated, or two things moderately clever, or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all. Oh, very well, exclaimed Miss Bates, then I need not be uneasy. Three things very dull indeed. That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as I ever open my mouth, shan't I? Looking round with the most good humor dependence on everybody's ascent. Do not you all think I shall? Miss Bates' humor could not resist. Ah, ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number, only three at once. Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning, but when it burst on her it could not anger, though a slight blush show that it could pain her. Ah, well, to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, turning to Mr. Knightley, and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have ever said such a thing to an old friend. I like your plan, cried Mr. Weston, agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a conundrum reckon? Low, I am afraid, sir, very low, answered his son, but we shall be indulgent, especially to any one who leads the way. No, no, said Emma, it will not reckon low. A conundrum of Mr. Weston shall clear him and his next neighbor. Come, sir, pray let me hear it. I doubt it's being very clever myself, said Mr. Weston. It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is. What two letters of the alphabet are there that express perfection? What two letters express perfection? I am sure I do not know. Ah, you will never guess. You, to Emma, I am certain will never guess. I will tell you M and A. Emma, do you understand? Understanding and gratification came together. It might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it. And so did Frank and Harriet. It did not seem to touch the rest of the party equally. Some looked very stupid about it, and Mr. Knightley gravely said, This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself. But he must have knocked up everybody else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon. Oh, for myself I protest I must be excused, said Mrs. Elton. I really cannot attempt. I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy. You know who I mean, nodding to her husband. These kinds of things are very well at Christmas when one is sitting round the fire, but quite out of place in my opinion when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at everybody's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of a vacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Passed Mr. E. Knightley, Jane, and myself. We have nothing clever to say, not one of us. Yes, yes, pray pass me," added her husband, with a sort of sneering consciousness. I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse or any other young lady. An old married man, quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Augusta? With all my heart I am really tired of exploring so long in one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm. Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife walked off. Happy couple! said Frank Churchill as soon as they were out of appearing. How well they suit one another! Very lucky, marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place. They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in bath, peculiarly lucky, for as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that bath, or any public place, can give, it is all nothing, there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, that you can form any just judgment. Out of that it is all guess and luck, and will generally be ill luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rude it all the rest of his life! Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except among her own confederates, spoke now. Such things do occur undoubtedly. She was stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her to listen. You were speaking, said he gravely. She recovered her voice. I was only going to observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur to both men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise, but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean that it could be only a weak, irresolute character whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance, who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be in inconvenience, or an oppression for ever. He made no answer, merely looked, and bowed in submission, and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone, Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment, that whenever I marry I hope somebody will choose my wife for me. Will you, turning to Emma, will you choose a wife for me? I am sure I should like anybody fixed on by you. You provide for the family you know, with a smile at his father. Find somebody for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her. Educate her. And make her like myself. By all means, if you can. Very well, I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife. She must be very lively and have haze lies. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years, and when I return I shall come to you for my wife. Remember, Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a commission to touch every favorite feeling. Would not Harriet be the very creature described? Haze lies accepted. Two years more might make her all that he wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at that moment, who could say it? Referring the education to her seemed to imply it. Now, ma'am, said Jane to her aunt, shall we join Mrs. Elton? If you please, my dear, with all my heart, I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is. No, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car-party, not at all like her. Well, I declare. They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr. Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma and Harriet, only remained, and the young man's spirits now rose to a pitch almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the servants looking out for them to give notice of the carriages was a joyful sight, and even the bustle of collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly endured, in the prospect of the quiet drive home, which was closed to the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure. Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again. While waiting for the carriage she found Mr. Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that no one were near, and then said, Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do, a privilege rather endured than allowed perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not thought it possible. Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off. Nay! How could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me. I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it, with what candor and generosity. I wish you could have hurt her honoring your forbearance and being able to pay her such attentions as she was forever receiving from yourself and your father when her society must be so irksome. Oh! cried Emma. I know there is not a better creature in the world, but you must allow that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her. They are blended, said he, I acknowledge, and were she prosperous, I could allow for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance. I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation? But Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor. She has sunk from the comfort she was born to, and if she lived to old age must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed. You whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honor, to have you now in thoughtless spirits and the pride of the moment laugh at her, humble her, and before her niece, too, and before others, many of whom, certainly some, would be entirely guided by your treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma, and it is very far from pleasant to me. But I must, I will, I will tell you truths while I can, satisfied with proving myself your friend, by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now. While they talked they were advancing toward the carriage. It was ready, and before she could speak again he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification and deep concern. She had not been able to speak, and on entering the carriage sunk back for a moment overcome. Then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgement, parting in apparent sulleness, she looked out with a voice and hand eager to show a difference, but it was just too late. He had turned away and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back but in vain, and soon, with what appeared in unusual speed, they were half-way down the hill, and everything left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed, almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates? How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued, and how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness? Time did not compose her. As she reflected more she seemed but to feel it more. She had never been so depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself, fagged and very willing to be silent, and Emma felt the tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary as they were. End of Volume 3 Chapter 8 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill wasn't Emma's thoughts all the evening. How it might be considered by the rest of the parties she could not tell. They in their different homes, and their different ways, might be looking back on it with pleasure, but in her view it was a morning more completely misspent, more totally bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be abhorred in recollection than any she had ever passed. A whole evening of bat-gammon with her father was felicity to it. There indeed lay real pleasure, for there she was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his comfort, and feeling that, unmerited as might be the degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe reproach. As a daughter she hoped she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, How could you be so unfeeling to your father? I must, I will tell you truths while I can. Miss Bates should never again, no never, if attention in future could do away the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been often remiss, her conscience told her so, remiss perhaps more in thought than fact, scornful, ungracious. But it should be no more. In the warmth of true contrition she would call upon her the very next morning, and it should be the beginning on her side of a regular, equal, kindly intercourse. She was just as determined when the morrow came, and went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in her way, or perhaps he might come in while she were paying her visit. She had no objection, she would not be ashamed of the appearance of penitence, so justly and so truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked, but she saw him not. The ladies were all at home. She had never rejoiced at the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in subsequent ridicule. There was a bustle on her approach, a good deal of moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates's voice, something was to be done in a hurry, the maid looked frightened and awkward, hoped she would be pleased to wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking extremely ill, and before the door had shut them out, she heard Miss Bates saying, Well, my dear, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are Illena. Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked as if she did not quite understand what was going on. I am afraid Jane is not very well, said she, but I do not know. They tell me she is well. I daresay my daughter will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a chair. I wish Heddy had not gone. I am very little able. Of you a chair, ma'am. Do you sit where you like? I am sure she will be here presently. Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment's fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates soon came, very happy and obliged. But Emma's conscious told her there was not the same cheerful volubility as before, less of ease of look and manner. A very friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax she hoped might lead the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed immediate. Ah, Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are! I suppose you have heard, and are come to give us joy. There does not seem much like joy, indeed, in me, twinking away a tear or two, but it will be very trying for us to part with her after having had her so long. And she has had a dreadful headache just now, writing all the morning, such long letters you know to be written to Colonel Campbell and Mrs. Dixon. My dear, said I, you will blind yourself, for tears were in her eyes perpetually. One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great change, and though she is amazingly fortunate, such a situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met with on first going out, do not think us ungrateful, Miss Woodhouse, for such a surprising good fortune, again dispersing her tears. But poor dear soul, if you were to see what a headache she has! When one is in great pain you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her nobody would think how delighted and happy she is to have secured such a situation. She will excuse her not coming to you. She is not able. She has gone into her own room. I want her to lie down upon the bed. My dear, said I, I shall say you are laid down upon the bed. But however she is not, she is walking about the room. But now that she has written her letters, she says, she shall soon be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you, Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You were kept waiting at the door. I was quite ashamed, but somehow there was a little bustle, for it so happened that we had not heard the knock. Until you were on the stairs we did not know anybody was coming. It is only Mrs. Cole, said I, depend upon it. Nobody else would come so early. Well said she, it must be borne some time or other, and it may as well be now. But then Patty came in and said it was you. Oh! said I, it is Miss Woodhouse. I am sure you will like to see her. I can see nobody, said she, and up she got and would go away, and that was what made us keep you waiting, and extremely sorry and ashamed we were. If you must go, my dear, said I, you must, and I will say you are laid down upon the bed. Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had long been growing kinder towards Jane, and this picture of her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity, and the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations of the past obliged her to admit that Jane might very naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole, or any other steady friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude, sincerely wishing that the circumstances which she collected for Miss Bates to be now actually determined on might be as much for Miss Fairfax's advantage and comfort as possible. It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell's return. So very kind, replied Miss Bates, but you were always kind. There was no bearing such and always, and to break through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct inquiry of, Where, may I ask, is Miss Fairfax going? To a Mrs. Smallridge, charming woman, most superior to have the charge of her three little girls, delightful children, impossible that any situation could be more replete with comfort if we accept, perhaps, Mrs. Suckling's own family and Mrs. Braves. But Mrs. Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same neighborhood, lives only four miles from Maple Grove, Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove. Miss Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom Miss Fairfax owes. Yes, our good, Mrs. Elton, the most indefatagable true friend. She would not take it an isle. She would not let Jane say no, for when Jane first heard of it, it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell. When Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you mention, exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to close with nothing till Colonel Campbell's return, and nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement at present. And so she told Mrs. Elton over and over again, and I am sure I had no more idea that she would change her mind. But that good Mrs. Elton, whose judgment never fails her, saw a farther than I did. It is not everybody that would have stood out in such a kind way as she did, and refused to take Jane's answer, but she positively declared she would not write any such denial yesterday, as Jane wished her. She would wait, and sure enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane should go. Quite a surprise to me. I had not the least idea. Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once, that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had come to the resolution of accepting it. I did not know a word of it till it was all settled. You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton? Yes, all of us. Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was settled so upon the hill while we were walking about with Mr. Knightley. You must all spend your evening with us, said she. I positively must have you all come. Mr. Knightley was there, too, was he? No, not Mr. Knightley. He declined it from the first, and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton declared that she would not let him off, he did not. But my mother, Jane and I, were all there, and a very agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though everybody seemed rather fagged after the morning's party. Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing, and I cannot say that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall always think in a very pleasant party, and feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included me in it. Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of it, had been making up her mind the whole day. I dare say she had. Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends, but I hope her engagement will have every alleviation that is possible, I mean as to the character and manners of the family. Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there is everything in the world that can make her happy in it. Except the succolents and brags, there is not such another nursery establishment so liberal and elegant in all Mrs. Elton's acquaintance. A smallridge, a most delightful woman, a style of living almost equal to Maple Grove, and as to the children, except the little succolents and little brags, there are not such elegant, sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such regard and kindness. It will be nothing but pleasure, a life of pleasure, and her salary. I really cannot venture to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you, used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so much could be given to a young person like Jane. Ah, madam, cried Jane, if other children are at all, like what I remembered have been myself, I should think five times the amount of what you have ever heard, yet, named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned. You are so noble in your ideas. And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you? Very soon, very soon, indeed, that's the worst of it. Within a fortnight Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then I try to put it out of her thoughts and say, Come, ma'am, do not let us think about it any more. Her friends must all be sorry to lose her, and will not Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has engaged herself before their return. Yes, Jane says she is sure they will, but yet this is such a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I was so astonished when she first told me that she had been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the same moment came congratulating me upon it. It was before tea—no, it could not be before tea, because we were just going to cards, and yet it was before tea because I remember thinking, Oh, no, now I recollect it, now I have it. Something happened before tea, but not that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea. Old John Abbey's son wanted to speak with him. Poor old John, I have a great regard for him. He was Clark to my poor father twenty-seven years ago, and now, poor old man, he is bedridden, and very poorly, with the rheumatic gout and his joints. I must go and see him today, and so will Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John's son came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish. He is very well to do himself, you know, being headman at the crown, Osler, and everything of that sort, but still he cannot keep his father without some help. And so, when Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John Osler had been telling him, and then it came out about the shays having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was after the tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton. Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how perfectly new this circumstance was to her, but as without supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill's going, she proceeded to give them all. It was of no consequence. What Mr. Elton had learned from the Osler on the subject, being the accumulation of the Osler's own knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls, was that a messenger had come over from Richmond soon after the return of the party from Box Hill. Which messenger, however, had been no more than was expected, and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a few lines, containing upon the whole a tolerable account of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay coming back beyond the next morning early, but that Mr. Frank Churchill, having resolved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the crown shays, and the Osler had stood out and seen it passed by, the boy going a good pace and driving very steady. There was nothing in all this, either to astonish or interest, and it caught Emma's attention only as it united with the subject which already engaged her mind. The contrast between Mrs. Churchill's importance in the world, and Jane Fairfax's struck her. One was everything, the other nothing, and she sat musing on the difference of women's destiny, and quite unconscious on what her eyes were fixed. Till roused by Miss Bates's saying, I, I see what you have been thinking of, the Piano Forte. What is to become of that? Very true. Dear Jane was talking of it just now. You must go, said she, you and I must part. You will have no business here. Let it stay, however, she said, give it house-room till Colonel Campbell comes back. I shall talk to him about it. He will settle for me. He will help me out of all my difficulties. And to this day I do believe she knows not whether it was his present or his daughter's. Now Emma was obliged to think of the Piano Forte, and the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair conjectures was so little pleasing that she soon allowed herself to believe her visit had been long enough, and with a repetition of everything that she could venture to save the good wishes which she really felt, took leave. End of Volume 3, Chapter 8, read by Cibela Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 3, Chapter 9 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Emma's pensive meditations, as she walked home, were not interrupted, but on entering the parlor she found those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her father. Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a manner decidedly graver than usual said, I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am going to London to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you anything to send or say besides the love which nobody carries? Nothing at all. But is this not a sudden scheme? Yes, rather, I have been thinking of it some little time. Emma was sure he had not forgiven her. He looked unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as if meaning to go, but not going, her father began his inquiries. Well, my dear, and did you get there safely, and how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter? I daresay they must have been very obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before. She is always so attentive to them. Emma's colour was heightened by this unjust praise, and with a smile and shake of the head, which spoke much, she looked at Mr. Knightley. It seemed as if there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that had passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and honoured. He looked at her now with a glow of regard. She was warmly gratified, and in another moment still more so, by a little movement of more than common friendliness on his part. He took her hand, whether she had not herself made the first motion she could not say. She might perhaps have rather offered it, but he took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point of carrying it to his lips, when from some fancy or other he suddenly let it go. Why he should feel such a scruple? Why he should change his mind when it was all but done she could not perceive? He would have judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped. His intention, however, was indubitable, and whether it was that his manners had, in general, so little gallantry, or however else it happened, but she thought nothing became him more. It was with him of so simple, yet so dignified a nature. She could not but recall the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity. He left them immediately afterwards, gone in a moment. He always moved with the alertness of a mind which could neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed more sudden than usual in his disappearance. Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier. It would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane Fairfax's situation with Mr. Knightley. Neither would she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square, for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed. But it might have happened at a better time, and to have had longer notice of it would have been pleasanter. They parted thorough friends, however. She could not be deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and in his unfinished gallantry it was all done to assure her that she had fully recovered his good opinion. He had been sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity that she had not come back earlier. In the hope of diverting her father's thoughts from the disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley's going to London, and going so suddenly, and going on horseback, which she knew would all be very bad, Emma communicated her news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect was justified. It supplied a very useful check, interested without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fairfax's going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley's going to London had been an unexpected blow. I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her health will be taking good care of. She ought to be a first object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor's always was with me. She is going to be, to this new lady, what Miss Taylor was to us, and I hope she will be better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away after it has been her home so long. The following day brought news from Richmond to throw everything else into the background, and Express arrived at Randall's to announce the death of Mrs. Churchill. Though her nephew had had no particular reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived above six and thirty hours after his return. A sudden seizure of a different nature from anything foreboded by her general state had carried her off after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Churchill was no more. It was felt as such things must be felt. Everybody had a degree of gravity and sorrow, tenderness towards the departed, solicitude for the surviving friends, and in a reasonable time curiosity to know where she would be buried. Old Smith tells us that when lovely woman stoops to folly she has nothing to do but to die, and when she stoops to be disagreeable it is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully justified. She had never been admitted before to be seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the little fancifulness and all the little selfishness of imaginary complaints. Before Mrs. Churchill, no doubt she had been suffering a great deal, more than anybody had ever supposed, and continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event, a great shock, with all her faults. What would Mr. Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill's loss would be dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it. Even Mr. Weston shook his head and looked solemn and said, Ah! Poor woman! Who would have thought it? And resolved that his mourning should be as handsome as possible, and his wife sat sighing and moralizing over her broad hymns with a commiseration and good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Churchill, the grief of her husband, her mind glanced over them both with awe and compassion, and then rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw in a moment all the possible good. Now an attachment to Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody, an easy, guideable man, to be persuaded into anything by his nephew. All that remained to be wished was that the nephew should form the attachment, as with all her goodwill in the cause Emma could feel no certainty of its being already formed. Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with great self-command. Whatever she might feel of brighter hope she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified to observe such a proof in her of strength into character, and refrained from any illusion that might endanger its maintenance. They spoke therefore of Mrs. Churchill's death with mutual forbearance. Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, communicating all that was immediately important of their state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be expected, and their first removal, on the departure of the funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been promising a visit the last ten years. At present there was nothing to be done for Harriet, good wishes for the future were all that could yet be possible on Emma's side. It was a more pressing concern to show attention to Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet's opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay in any one at Highbury, who wished to show her kindness, and with Emma it was grown into a first wish. She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past coldness, and the person whom she had been so many months neglecting was now the very one on whom she would have lavished every distinction of regard or sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her, wanted to show a value for her society, and testify of respect and consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. Miss Fairfax was not well enough to write, and when Mr. Perry called at Hartfield the same morning it appeared that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited, though against her own consent by himself, and that she was suffering under severe headaches and a nervous fever to a degree which made him doubt the possibility of her going to Mrs. Smallridge's at the time proposed. Her health seemed for the moment completely deranged, appetite quite gone, and though there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing touched the pulmonary complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the family. Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirit seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but observe, was unfavorable to a nervous disorder, confined always to one room. He could have wished it otherwise, and her good aunt, though his very old friend, he must acknowledge not to be the best companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and attention could not be questioned. They were, in fact, only too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the warmest concern, grieved for her more and more, and looked around, eager to discover some way of being useful. To take her, be it only an hour or two from her aunt, to give her change of air and scene, and quiet, rational conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her good. And the following morning she wrote again to say, in the most feeling language she could command, that she would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane would name, mentioning that she had Mr. Perry's decided opinion in favor of such exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note. Miss Fairfax's compliments and thanks, but is quite unequal to any exercise. Emma felt that her own note had deserved something better, but it was impossible to quarrel with words whose tremulous inequality showed in disposition so plainly, and she thought only of how she might best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer, therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs. Bates's, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join her. But it would not do. Miss Bates came to the carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most earnestly in thinking that an airing might be of the greatest service, and everything that message could do was tried, but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return without success. Jane was quite unpersuadable. The mere proposal of going out seemed to make her worse. Emma wished she could have seen her and tried her own powers, but almost before she could hint the wish, Miss Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. Indeed, the truth was that poor dear Jane could not bear to see anybody, anybody at all. Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be denied, and Mrs. Cole had made such a point, and Mrs. Perry had said so much, but except them, Jane would really see nobody. Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Elton's, the Mrs. Perry's, and the Mrs. Cole's, who would force themselves anywhere. Neither could she feel any right of preference herself. She submitted therefore, and only questioned Miss Bates further as to her niece's appetite and diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very communicative. Jane would hardly eat anything. Mr. Perry recommended nourishing food, but everything they could command, and never had anybody such good neighbors, was distasteful. Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper directly to an examination of her stores, and some arrow-root, a very superior quality, was speedily dispatched to Miss Bates with the most friendly note. In half an hour the arrow-root was returned, with a thousand thanks for Miss Bates, but dear Jane would not be satisfied without its being taken back. It was a thing she could not take, and moreover she insisted on her saying that she was not at all in want of anything. When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had been seen wandering about the meadows at some distance from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on which she had, under the plea of being unequal to exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt, putting everything together, that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness from her. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and inequality of powers, and it mortified her that she was given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so little worthy as a friend. But she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax? Could he even have seen into her heart? He would not, on this occasion, have found anything to reprove. End of Volume 3, Chapter 9, Read by Cibella Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 3, Chapter 10 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her. He met her at the parlor door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunken immediately to say, unheard by her father, Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning? Do if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you. Is she unwell? No, no, not at all, only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage and come to you, but she must see you alone, and that, you know, nodding towards her father. Hmm. Can you come? Certainly, this moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter? Is she really not ill? Depend upon me, but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business. But hush, hush. To guess what all this meant was impossible, even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks. But as her friend was well, she endeavored not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father that she would take her walk now. She and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls. Now, said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep-gates, now, Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened. No, no, he gravely replied. Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma, it will all come out too soon. Break it to me! cried Emma, standing still with terror. Good God! Mr. Weston, tell me at once. Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you to tell me this moment what it is. No, indeed, you are mistaken. Mr. Weston, do not trifle with me. Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it? I charge you, by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment. Upon my word, Emma, your word, why not your honour? Why not say upon your honour that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good heavens, what can be to be broke to me that does not relate to one of that family? Upon my honour, he said very seriously, it does not. It is not, in the smallest degree, connected with any human being of the name of Knightley. Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. I was wrong, he continued, in talking of its being broke to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you. It concerns only myself. That is, we hope—hmm. In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I do not say that it is not a disagreeable business, but things might be much worse. If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls. Emma found that she must await, and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money-concern, something just come to light of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family, something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps, and poor Frank cut off. This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. Who is that gentleman on horseback? said she as they proceeded, speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret than with any other view. I do not know. One of the outweighs—not Frank. It is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time. Has your son been with you, then? Oh, yes. Did you not know? Well—well, never mind. For a moment he was silent, and then added in a tone much more guarded and jamour. Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did. They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls. Well, my dear, said he as they entered the room, I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off if you want me. When Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room, I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea. Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased, and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, What is it, my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature I find has occurred. Do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both are poor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be. Have you indeed no idea, said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice? Cannot you, my dear Emma? Cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear? So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess. You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly. Resuming her work and seeming resolved against looking up, he has been here this very morning on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprise. He came to speak to his father on a subject to announce an attachment. She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. More than an attachment, indeed, resumed Mrs. Weston. An engagement, a positive engagement. What will you say, Emma? What will anybody say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged, nay, that they have been long engaged? Emma even jumped with surprise, and horror-struck exclaimed, Jane Fairfax, good God, you are not serious. You do not mean it. You may well be amazed, returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness that Emma might have time to recover. You may well be amazed, but it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October, formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from everybody. Not a creature knowing it but themselves. Neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his. It is so wonderful that, though perfectly convinced of the fact, is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it. I thought I knew him. Emma scarcely heard what was said. Her mind was divided between two ideas, her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax and poor Harriet, and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. Well, said she at last, trying to recover herself, this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. But engaged to her all the winter before either of them came to Highbury. Engaged since October, secretly engaged, it has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. Some part of his conduct we cannot excuse. Emma pondered a moment and then replied, I will not pretend not to understand you, and to give you all the relief in my power. Be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of. Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe, but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference, she continued, I will farther tell you that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him, nay, was attached, and how it came to cease is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really, for some time passed, for at least these three months cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston, this is the simple truth. Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy, and when she could find utterance assured her that this protestation had done her more good than anything else in the world could do. Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself, said she. On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other, and we were persuaded that it was so. Imagine what we have been feeling on your account. I have escaped, and that I should escape may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit him, Mrs. Weston, and I must say that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did, to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did, while he really belonged to another? How could he tell what mischief he might be doing? How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him? Very wrong, very wrong indeed. From something he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagined, and how could she bear such behaviour, composure with a witness, to look on while repeated attentions were offering to another woman before her face, and not resent it? That is a degree of placidity which I can neither comprehend nor respect. There were misunderstandings between them, Emma, he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in a state of agitation, which did not allow the full use, even of the time he could stay. But that there had been misunderstandings, he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed, seemed to be brought on by them, and those misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the impropriety of his conduct. Impropriety? Oh, Mrs. Weston, it is too calm a censure. Much, much beyond impropriety. It has sunk him. I cannot say how it has sunk him, in my opinion. So unlike what a man should be, none of that upright integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display in every transaction of his life. Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part, for though he has been wrong in this instance I have known him long enough to answer for his having many, very many good qualities, and good God, cried Emma, not attending to her, Mrs. Smallridge, too. Jane actually on the point of going as coverness. What could he mean by such horrible indelicacy to suffer her to engage herself, to suffer her even to think of such a measure? He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers, not communicated to him, or at least not communicated in a way to carry conviction. Till yesterday I know he said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him, I do not know how, but by some letter or message, and it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very project of hers which determined him to come forward at once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of concealment that had been carrying on so long. Emma began to listen better. I am to hear from him soon, continued Mrs. Weston. He told me at parting that he should soon write, and he spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many particulars that could not be given now. Let us therefore wait for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. It may make things intelligible and excusable, which are now not to be understood. Don't let us be severe. Don't let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have patience. I must love him, and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may. They must both have suffered a great deal under such a system of secrecy and concealment. His sufferings, replied Emma Dryley, do not appear to have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr. Churchill take it? Most favourably for his nephew gave his consent with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a week have done in that family. While poor Mrs. Churchill lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a chance, a possibility, but scarcely are her remains at rest in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a blessing it is when undue influence does not survive the grave. He gave his consent with very little persuasion. Ah! thought Emma, he would have done as much for Harriet. This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates's, I fancy, some time, and then came on hither, but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could stay with us but a quarter of an hour. He was very much agitated, very much indeed, to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from anything I had ever seen him before. In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of, and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal. And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secrecy? The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement? Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush. None, not one. He positively said that it had been known to know being in the world but their two selves. Well, said Emma, I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit, espionage and treachery, to come among us with professions of openness and simplicity, and such a league in secret to judge us all? Here have we been the whole winter and spring completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear. They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable. I am quite easy on that head, replied Mrs. Weston, I am very sure that I never said anything of either to the other which both might not have heard. You are in luck. Your only blunder was confined to my ear when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady. True, but as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her, and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe. At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in, and while he was coming round, added, Now, dearest Emma, let me entreat you to say and look everything that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it, and, indeed, almost everything may be fairly set in her favour. It is not a connection to gratify, but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? And it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment, as I have always given her credit for, and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right, and how much may be set in her situation for even that error. Much, indeed, cried Emma feelingly, if a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax's. Of such one may almost say that the world is not theirs, nor the world's law. She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smile and countenance, exclaiming, A very pretty trick you have played upon my word. This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my curiosity and exercise my talent of guessing. But you really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation. I congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the prospect of having one of the most lovely and accomplished young women in England for your daughter. A glance or two between him and his wife convinced him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed. And its happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and voice recovered their usual briskness. He shook her heartily and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a manner to prove that he now only wanted time and persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His companions suggested only what could palliate imprudence or smooth objections, and by the time they had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over again with Emma in their walk back to Hartfield, he was becoming more and more and more, and not far from thinking at the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done. End of Volume 3, Chapter 10, read by Isabella Denton.