 Volume 2 Chapter 10 of Emma. The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered was tranquillity itself. Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire. Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied about her spectacles. Jane Fairfax, standing with her back to them, intent on her piano forte. Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able to show a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again. "'This is a pleasure,' said he, in rather a low voice, coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. You find me trying to be useful. Tell me if you think I shall succeed.' "'What?' said Mrs. Weston. "'Have not you finished it yet? You would not earn a very good livelihood as a working silversmith at this rate.' "'I have not been working uninterruptedly,' he replied. "'I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her instrument stand steadily. It was not quite firm—an unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be hurrying home.' He contrived that she should be seated by him, and was sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the piano forte again. That she was not immediately ready, Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves. She had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to touch it without emotion. She must reason herself into the power of performance. And Emma could not but pity such feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve never to expose them to her neighbour again. At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and was delighted again. Emma joined her in all her praise, and the piano forte, with every proper discrimination, was pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise. "'Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,' said Frank Churchill with a smile at Emma, "'the person has not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell's taste in Weymouth, and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?' Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear. Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same moment. "'It is not fair,' said Emma in a whisper. Mine was a random guess. Do not distress her.' He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had very little doubt, and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he began again. "'How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax? I dare say they often think of you, and wonder which will be the day, the precise day, of the instruments coming to hand. Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to be going forward just at this time? Do you imagine it to be the consequence of an immediate commission from him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?' He paused. She could not, but here, she could not avoid answering. "'Til I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,' said she, in a voice of forced calmness. I can imagine nothing with any confidence. It must be all conjecture.' "'Conjecture?' I—sometimes one conjectures right, and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm. What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all. For real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues. But we gentlemen labourers, if we get hold of a word, Miss Fairfax had something about conjecturing. There it is done. I have the pleasure, madam,' to Mrs. Bates, of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.' He was very warmly thanked by both mother and daughter, to escape a little from the latter he went to the Piano Forte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting at it, to play something more. If you are very kind, said he, it will be one of the waltzes we danced last night. Let me live them over again. You did not enjoy them as I did. You appeared tired the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no longer. But I would have given worlds, all the worlds one ever has to give, for another half-hour.' She played. What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made one happy. If I mistake not, that was danced at Weymouth. She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply, and played something else. He took some music from a chair near the Piano Forte, and turning to Emma, said, Here is something quite new to me. Do you know it? Cramer. And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was it not? She knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly. It shows it have been so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done, nothing incomplete, true affection only could have prompted it. Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not help being amused. And when, on glancing her eye towards Jane Fairfax, she caught the remains of a smile, when she saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness there had been a smile of secret delight. She had less scruple in the amusement, and much less compunction with respect to her. This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings. He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over together. Emma took the opportunity of whispering, You speak too plain. She must understand you. I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I am not in the least ashamed of my meaning. But really I am half ashamed, and wish I had never taken up the idea. I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways. Leave shame to her, if she does wrong she ought to feel it. She is not entirely without it, I think. I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin and Dare at this moment—his favourite. Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window, described Mr. Knightley on horseback not far off. Mr. Knightley, I declare, I must speak to him, if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here. It will give you all cold. But I can go into my mother's room, you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you all meet so, our little room so honoured." She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke, and opening the casement there immediately called Mr. Knightley's attention, and every syllable of their conversation was as distinctly heard by the others as if it had passed within the same apartment. How do you do? How do you do? Oh, very well, I thank you! So obliged to you for the carriage last night! We were just in time! My mother just ready for us! Pray come in! Do come in! You will find some friends here!" So began Miss Bates, and Mr. Knightley seemed determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and commandingly did he say, "'How is your niece, Miss Bates? I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.'" And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before he would hear her in anything else. The listeners were amused, and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady scepticism. "'So obliged to you! So very much obliged to you for the carriage,' resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, "'I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for you?' "'Oh! Dear! Kingston! Are you?' Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston. "'Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do anything for you?' "'No, I thank you. But do come in! Who do you think is here? Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith! So kind as to call to hear the new Piano Forte. Do put up your horse at the crown, and come in!' "'Well,' said he, in a deliberating manner, "'for five minutes, perhaps. And here is Mrs. Weston and Frank Churchill, too! Quite delightful! So many friends!' "'No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.' "'Oh! Do come in! They will be so very happy to see you.' "'No, no, your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the Piano Forte.' "'Well, I am so sorry. Oh, Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night, and how extremely pleasant! Did you ever see such dancing? Was not it delightful? Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill, I never saw anything equal to it.' "'Oh! Very delightful indeed. I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing everything that passes. And,' raising his voice still more, "'I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be benched, too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well, and Mrs. Weston is the very best country dance player without exception in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return, but I cannot stay to hear it. "'Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more, something of consequence, so shocked! Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples. What is the matter now? To think of your sending us all your store-apples. You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left. We really are so shocked. Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it. Indeed you should not. Ah! He is off. He never can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have stayed now, and it would have been a pity not to have mentioned—' "'Well,' returning to the room, I have not been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do anything.' "'Yes,' said Jane. We heard his kind offers. We heard everything.' "'Oh! Yes, my dear! I daresay you might, because you know the door was open and the window was open, and Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard everything, to be sure. Can I do anything for you at Kingston?' said he. So I just mentioned—'Oh! Miss Woodhouse, must you be going! You seem but just come! So very obliging of you!' Emma found it really time to be at home. The visit had already lasted long, and on examining watches so much of the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston and her companion, taking leave also, could allow themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield Gates, before they set off for Randalls. CHAPTER X It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind. But when a beginning is made, when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly felt, it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more. Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again, and the last half-hour of an evening which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people in schemes on the subject. Frank's was the first idea, and his the greatest zeal in pursuing it, for the lady was the best judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for accommodation and appearance. But still she had inclination enough for showing people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse danced, for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax, and even for simple dancing itself without any of the wicked aids of vanity. To assist him first in pacing out the room where they were in, to see what it could be made to hold, and then in taking the dimensions of the other parlor in the hope of discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could save their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest. His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole should be finished there, that the same party should be collected, and the same musician engaged, met with the readyest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston most willingly undertook to play as long as they could wish to dance, and the interesting employment had followed of reckoning up exactly who there would be, and apportioning out the indispensable division of space to every couple. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Cox's five, had been repeated many times over. There will be the two Gilbert's, young Cox, my father and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes, that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss Cox's five, and for five couple there will be plenty of room. But soon it came to be on one side. But will there be good room for five couple? I really do not think there will. On another. And after all, five couple are not enough to make it worthwhile to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when one thinks seriously about it. It will not do to invite five couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of the moment. Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother's, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody else believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other evening if she had been asked. A word was put in for a second young Cox, and at last Mr. Weston naming one family of cousins who must be included, and another of very old acquaintance who could not be left out. It became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible manner they could be disposed of. The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each other. Might not they use both rooms, and dance across the passage? It seemed the best scheme, and yet it was not so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma said it would be awkward. Mrs. Weston was in distress about the supper, and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it earnestly on the score of health. It made him so very unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in. Oh, no! said he. It would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma. Emma is not strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Harriet. So would you all. Mrs. Weston, you would be quite laid up. Do not let them talk of such a wild thing. Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man, speaking lower, is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draft. I do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not quite the thing. Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the importance of it, and said everything in her power to do it away. Every door was now closed, the passage-plan given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room they were in resorted to again, and with such good will on Frank Churchill's part, that the space which a quarter of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for five-couple was now endeavored to be made out quite enough for ten. We were too magnificent, said he. We allowed on necessary room, ten-couple may stand here very well. It would be a crowd, a sad crowd, and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in? Very true, he gravely replied. It was very bad. But still he went on measuring, and still he ended with, I think there will be very tolerable room for ten-couple. No, no, said she, you are quite unreasonable. It would be dreadful to be standing so close. Dancing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd, and a crowd and little room. There is no denying it, he replied. I agree with you exactly, a crowd and little room. Miss Woodhouse, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite! Still, however, having proceeded so far, one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a disappointment to my father, and altogether, I do not know that. I am rather of opinion that ten-couple might stand here very well. Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose the pleasure of dancing with her. But she took the compliment and forgave the rest. Had she ever intended to marry him, it might have been worth while to pause and consider, and try to understand the value of his preference and the character of his temper. But for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable enough. For the middle of the next day he was at Hartfield, and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared that he came to announce an improvement. Well, Miss Woodhouse, he almost immediately began, your inclination for dancing has not been quite frightened way, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on that subject, a thought of my father's which waits only your approbation to be acted upon. May I hope, for the honour of your hand, for the first two dances of this little projected ball, to be given, not at Randall's, but at the crown in? The crown? Yes, and if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so kind as to visit him there, better accommodation, so he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randall's. It is his own idea, Mrs. Weston sees no objection in it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right. Ten couple in either of the Randall's rooms would have been insufferable, dreadful. I felt how right you were the whole time, but it was too anxious for securing anything to like to yield. Is it not a good exchange? You consent, I hope you consent. It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable, and as far as I can answer for myself shall be most happy. It seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you not think it an excellent improvement? She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was fully comprehended, and then, being quite new, far the representations were necessary to make it acceptable. No, he thought it very far from an improvement, a very bad plan, much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous, never properly aired or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randall's. He had never been in the room at the crown in his life, did not know the people who kept it by sight. Oh, no, a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds at the crown than anywhere. I was going to observe, sir," said Frank Churchill, that one of the great recommendations of this change would be the very little danger of any body's catching cold, so much less danger at the crown than at Randall's. Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could. Sir," said Mr. Woodhouse rather warmly, you are very much mistaken, if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill, but I do not understand how the room at the crown can be safer for you than your father's house. From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir, we shall have no occasion to open the windows at all, not once the whole evening, and it is that dreadful habit of opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated bodies, which as you well know, sir, does the mischief. Open the windows? But surely, Mr. Churchill, nobody would think of opening the windows at Randall's. Nobody could be so imprudent. I never heard of such a thing, dancing with open windows. I am sure neither your father nor Mrs. Weston, poor Miss Taylor that was, would suffer it. Ah, sir, but a thoughtless young person will sometimes step behind a window curtain and throw a passage, without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself. Have you indeed, sir? Bless me! I never could have supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often astonished at what I hear—however, this does make a difference—and perhaps when we come to talk it over. But these sort of things require a good deal of consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here one morning, we may talk it over and see what can be done. But unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited. Oh! interrupted, Emma. There will be plenty of time for talking everything over. There is no hurry at all. If it can be contrived to be at the crown, papa, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own stable. So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that James ever complains, but it is right to spare our horses when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being thoroughly aired, but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight. I can answer for everything of that nature, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Weston's care. Mrs. Weston undertakes to direct the whole. There, papa, now you must be satisfied. Our own dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself, do not you remember what Mr. Perry said so many years ago when I had the measles? If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss Emma up, you need not have any fear, sir. How often have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her? I. Very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never forget it. Poor little Emma, you were very bad with the measles. That is, you would have been very bad, but for Perry's great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said from the first it was a very good sort, which was our great comfort, but the measles are a dreadful complaint. I hope, whenever poor Isabella's little ones have the measles, she will send for Perry. My father and Mrs. Weston are at the crown at this moment," said Frank Churchill, examining the capabilities of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest pleasure to them if you could allow me to attend you there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you." Emma was most happy to be called to such a council, and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was gone, the two young people set off together without delay for the crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very busy and very happy in their different way. She in some little distress, and he finding everything perfect. Emma said she, this paper is worse than I expected. Look, in places you see it is dreadfully dirty, and the wane-skit is more yellow and forlorn than anything I could have imagined. My dear, you are too particular," said her husband. What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by candle-light. It will be as clean as a randles by candle-light. We never see anything of it on our club-nights." The ladies here probably exchanged looks which meant, men never know when things are dirty or not, and the gentleman perhaps thought each to himself, women will have their little nonsensees and needless cares. One perplexity, however, arose which the gentleman did not disdain. Which regarded a supper-room. At the time of the ball-rooms being built, suppers had not been in question, and a small card-room adjoining was the only addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be wanted as a card-room now, or if cards were conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still was it not too small for any comfortable supper. Another room of much better size might be secured for the purpose, but it was at the other end of the house, and a long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of drafts for the young people in that passage, and neither Emma nor the gentleman could tolerate the prospect of being miserably crowded at supper. Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper, merely sandwiches, etc., set out in the little room, but that was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance, without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women, and Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful room observed, �I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many, you know.� And Mr. Weston, at the same time, walking briskly with long steps through the passage, was calling out, �You talk a great deal of the length this passage, my dear. It is a mere nothing, after all, and not the least draft from the stairs.� �I wish,� said Mrs. Weston, �one could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do what would be most generally pleasing must be our object. If one could but tell what that would be.� �Yes, very true,� cried Frank, �very true. You want your neighbour's opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one could ascertain what the chief of them, the coals, for instance, they are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or Miss Bates? She is still nearer. And I do not know whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us? �Well, if you please�� said Mrs. Weston, rather hesitating, �if you think she will be of any use.� �You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,� said Emma. �She will be all delight and gratitude, but she will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates. But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing. I am very fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the whole family, you know.� Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what was proposed, gave it his decided approbation. �I do, Frank. Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am sure. And I do not know a properer person for showing us how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates! We are growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both. �Both, sir? Can the old lady? The old lady? No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece. Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately recollect. Undoubtedly, if you wish it, I will endeavour to persuade them both.� And away he ran. Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat, brisk moving aunt and her elegant niece, Mrs. Weston, like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much less than she had supposed before, indeed very trifling. And here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and supper, made themselves, or were left as mere trifles to be settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes. Everybody invited was certainly to come. Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be. Most cordially when Miss Bates arrived did she agree that it must, as a counsellor she was not wanted, but as an approver, a much safer character, she was truly welcome. Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and incessant, could not but please, and for another half-hour they were all walking to and fro, between the different rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up without Emma's being positively secured for the first two dances by the hero of the evening. Nor without her overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, he has asked her, my dear, That's right, I knew he would. CHAPTER XII. One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma. This being fixed for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill's stay in Surrey. For in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchels might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The preparations must take their time, nothing could be properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for a few days they must be planning, proceeding, and hoping in uncertainty, at the risk, in her opinion, the great risk of its being all in vain. Enscom, however, was gracious—gracious, in fact, if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please, but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous, and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley's provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not dance himself, or because the plan had been formed without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it should not interest him, determined against its exciting any present curiosity, or affording him any future amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma could get no more approving reply than. Very well, if the Westons think it worth while to be all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not choose pleasures for me. Oh, yes, I must be there, I could not refuse, and I will keep as much awake as I can. But I would rather be at home, looking over William Narkin's weak account, much rather I confess. Pleasure in seeing dancing, not I indeed. I never look at it, I do not know who does. Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. This was standing by, usually thinking of something very different. This Emma felt was aimed at her, and it made her quite angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax, however, that he was so indifferent or so indignant. He was not guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It made her animated, open-hearted. She voluntarily said, Oh, Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do look forward to it, I own with very great pleasure. It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax, therefore, that he would have preferred the society of William Narkin's. No, she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on his side, but no love. Alas! There was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the overthrow of everything. A letter arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew's instant return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell, far too unwell to do without him. She had been in a very suffering state, so said her husband, when writing to her nephew two days before. Though from her usual unwillingness to give pain, and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not mentioned it. But now she was too ill to trifle, and must entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay. The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in a note from Mrs. Weston instantly. As to his going, it was inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his repugnance. He knew her illnesses. They never occurred but for her own convenience. Mrs. Weston added that he could only allow himself time to hurry to Highbury after breakfast, and take leave of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel any interest in him, and that he might be expected at Hartfield very soon. This wretched note was the finale of Emma's breakfast, when once it had been read there was no doing anything but lament and exclaim, the loss of the ball, the loss of the young man, and all that the young man might be feeling. Emma's breakfast was too wretched, such a delightful evening as it would have been. Everybody so happy, and she and her partner the happiest. I said it would be so, was the only consolation. Her father's feelings were quite distinct. He thought principally of Mrs. Churchill's illness, and wanted to know how she was treated, and as for the ball, it was shocking to have dear Emma disappointed, but they would all be safer at home. Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he appeared, but if this reflected at all upon his impatience, his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident. He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes, and when rousing himself, it was only to say, "'Of all horrid things, leave taking is the worst.' "'But you will come again,' said Emma, "'this will not be your only visit to Randall's.'" Ah! shaking his head, the uncertainty of when I may be able to return. I shall try for it with a zeal. It will be the object of all my thoughts and cares, and if my uncle and aunt go to town this spring. But I am afraid they did not stir last spring. I am afraid it is a custom gone for ever. Our poor ball must be quite given up. Ah! that ball! Why did we wait for anything? Why not seize the pleasure at once? How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation? You told us it would be so. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you always so right? Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance, how it much rather have been merry than wise. If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement." Emma looked graciously. "'Such a fortnight, as it has been,' he continued, every day more precious and more delightful than the day before, every day making me less fit to bear any other place. Happy those who can remain at Highbury.' "'As you do us such ample justice now,' said Emma, laughing, "'I will venture to ask whether you did not come a little doubtfully at first. Do not we rather surpass your expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not much expect to like us. You would not have been so long in coming if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.' He laughed rather consciously, and though denying the sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so. "'And you must be off this very morning.' "'Yes. My father is to join me here. We shall walk back together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid that every moment will bring him.' "'Not five minutes to spare even for your friends, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Bates. How unlucky! Miss Bates's powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours.' "'Yes, I have called there. Passing the door, I thought it better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three minutes and was detained by Miss Bates as being absent. She was out, and I felt it impossible not to wait till she came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must, laugh at, but that one would not wish to slight. It was better to pay my visit, then.' He hesitated, guard up, walked to a window. "'In short,' said he, "'Perhaps, Miss Woodhouse, I think you can hardly be quite without suspicion.' He looked at her as if wanting to read her thoughts. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope of putting it by, she calmly said, "'You are quite in the right. It was most natural to pay your visit, then.' He was silent. She believed he was looking at her, probably reflecting on what she had said and trying to understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel that he had caused a sigh. He could not believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward moments passed, and he sat down again, and in a more determined manner said, "'It was something to feel that all the rest of my time might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is most warm.' He stopped again, rose again, and seemed quite embarrassed. He was more in love with her than Emma had supposed, and who can say how it might have ended if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse soon followed, and the necessity of exertion made him composed. A very few minutes more, however, completed the present trial. Mr. Weston always alert when business was to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful, said, "'It was time to go.' And the young man, though he might and did sigh, could not but agree to take leave. "'I shall hear about you all,' said he. "'That is my chief consolation. I shall hear of everything that is going on among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Ho! The blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really interested in the absent. She will tell me everything. In her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again.' A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest, good-bye. And the door had soon shut out, Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice, short their meeting. He was gone, and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence, as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and feeling it too much. It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randall's had given great spirit to the last two weeks, indescribable spirit. The idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners, it had been a very happy fortnight. And forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common course of Hartfield days. To complete every other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he might be subject to was another point. But at present she could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference of herself, and this persuasion, joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a little in love with him, in spite of every previous determination against it. I suddenly must, said she, this sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinconation to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of every things being dull and insipid about the house. I must be in love. I should be the oddest creature in the world if I were not—for a few weeks, at least. Well, evil to some is always good to others. I shall have many fellow mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Churchill, but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now, if he likes. Mr. Knightley, however, showed no triumphant happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own account. His very cheerful look would have contradicted him if he had. But he said, and very steadily, that he was sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with considerable kindness added, You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing, you are really out of luck. You are very much out of luck. It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax to judge of her honest regret and this woeful change, but when they did meet her composure was odious. She had been particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a degree which made her aunt declare that had the ball taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it, and it was charity to impute some for unbecoming indifference to the languor of ill health. CHAPTER XIII Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first she thought it was a good deal, and afterwards, but little. She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked of, and for his sake greater pleasure than ever in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weston. She was very often thinking of him, and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what was the chance of his coming to Randall's again this spring. But on the other hand she could not admit herself to be unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed for employment than usual. She was still busy and cheerful, and pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have faults, and farther, though thinking of him so much, and, as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand amusing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment, fancying interesting dialogues and inventing elegant letters, the conclusion of every imaginary declaration on his side was that she refused him. Their affection was always to subside into friendship. Everything tender and charming was to mark their parting, but still they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it struck her that she could not be very much in love, for in spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in her own feelings. "'I do not find myself making any use of the word sacrifice,' said she. "'In not one of all my clever replies, my delicate negatives, is there any illusion to making a sacrifice? I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough in love. I should be sorry to be more.' Beyond the whole she was equally contented with her view of his feelings. He is undoubtedly very much in love. Everything denotes it. Very much in love, indeed. And when he comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my guard not to encourage it. It would be most inexcusable to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him here, the two. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. As he have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language at parting would have been different. Still, however, I must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his attachment continuing what it now is. But I do not know that I expect it will. I do not look upon him to be quite the sort of man. I do not altogether build upon his steadiness or constancy. His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them rather changeable. Every consideration of the subject in short makes me thankful that my happiness is not more deeply involved. I shall do very well again after a little while. And then it will be a good thing over, for they say everybody is in love once in their lives, and I shall have been let off easily. When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the perusal of it, and she read it with a degree of pleasure and admiration which made her at first shake her head over her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and honourable, and describing everything exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourish is now of apology or concern. It was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston, and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe. The contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life was just enough touched on to show how keenly it was felt, and how much more might have been said but for the restraints of propriety. The charm of her own name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more than once, and never without a something of pleasing connection, either a compliment to her taste, or a remembrance of what she had said, and in the very last time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence, and acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Just into the very lowest vacant corner were these words. I had not a spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss Woodhouse's beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses and adieu's to her. This Emma could not doubt was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being her a friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated. Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randall's again. Gradifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in the material part, its sentiments she yet found, when it was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writer, and that he must learn to do without her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent constellation unhappiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the beautiful little friend, suggested to her the idea of Harriet succeeding her in his affections. Was it impossible? No. Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his inferior in understanding, but he had been very much struck with the loveliness of her face, and the warm simplicity of her manner, and all the probabilities of circumstance and connection were in her favour. For Harriet it would be advantageous and delightful indeed. "'I must not dwell upon it,' said she. "'I must not think of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations. But stranger things have happened, and when we cease to care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of confirming us and that sort of true disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure. It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch at seldom, for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill's arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton's engagement in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely borne down the first, so now, upon Frank Churchill's disappearance, Mr. Elton's concerns were assuming the most irresistible form. His wedding-day was named. He would soon be among them again, Mr. Elton, and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the first letter from Enscombe before Mr. Elton and his bride was in everybody's mouth, and Frank Churchill was forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton, and Harriet's mind, she had been willing to hope, had been lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston's ball, in view at least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other things. But it was now too evident that she had not attained such a state of composure as could stand against the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all. Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and all her patience. But it was heavy work to be forever convincing without producing any effect, for ever agreed to without being able to make their opinions the same. It listened submissively, and said, It was very true—it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was not worth while to think about them, and she would not think about them any longer. But no change of subject could avail, and the next half hour saw her as anxious and restless about the Elton's as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. You're allowing yourself to be so occupied and so unhappy about Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, is the strongest reproach you can make me. You could not give me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you. Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you, and it will be a painful reflection to be forever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it." Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, I have not said exert yourself Harriet for my sake. Think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake, because for your own sake rather I would wish it to be done, for the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on you. They are very important, and sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet would not forget what was due, or rather what would be kind by me. This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest. The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was comforted away, still remained powerful enough to prompt to what was right and support her in it very tolerably. You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my life, want gratitude to you! Nobody is equal to you! I care for nobody as I do for you! Oh, Miss Woodhouse, how ungrateful I have been! Such expressions, assisted as they were by everything that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection so highly before. There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart, said she afterwards to herself. There is nothing to be compared to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an affectionate open manner, will beat all the clearness of head in the world for attraction. I am sure it will. It is tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so generally beloved, which gives Isabella all her popularity. I have it not, but I know her to prize and respect it. Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet, I would not change you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging female breathing. Oh! the codeness of a Jane Fairfax! Harriet is worth a hundred such. And for a wife—a sensible man's wife! It is invaluable. I mention no names, but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet. Mrs. Elton was first seen at church. But though devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather pretty, or not pretty at all. Emma had feelings less of curiosity than of pride or propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay her respects, and she made a point of Harriet's going with her, that the worst of the business might be gone through as soon as possible. She could not enter the house again—could not be in the same room to which she had with such vain artifice retreated three months ago—to lace up her boot, without recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur, compliments, charades, and horrible blunders, and it was not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be recollecting too, but she behaved very well, and was only rather pale and silent. The visit was, of course, short, and there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being elegantly dressed and very pleasing. She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry to find fault, but she suspected that there was no elegance—ease, but not elegance. She was almost sure that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too much ease. Her person was rather good, her face not unpretty, but neither feature nor air nor voice nor manner were elegant. Emma thought at least it would turn out so. As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no, she would not permit a hasty or witty word from herself about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need be all-grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman was better off—she might have the assistance of fine clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness—but the man had only his own good sense to depend on, and when she considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was, in being in the same room at once with the woman he had just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be as much effectively, and as little really easy as could be. "'Well, Miss Woodhouse,' said Harriet, when they had quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend to begin, "'Well, Miss Woodhouse,' with a gentle sigh. "'What do you think of her? Is not she very charming?' There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer. "'Oh! Yes. Very. A very pleasing young woman. I think her beautiful—quite beautiful! Very nicely dressed, indeed, a remarkably elegant gown. I am not at all surprised that he should have fallen in love. Oh, no! There is nothing to surprise one at all. A pretty fortune! And she came in his way." "'I dare say,' returned Harriet, sighing again, "'I dare say she was very much attached to him.' "'Perhaps she might, but it is not every man's fate to marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the very best offer she was likely to have.' "'Yes,' said Harriet earnestly, and while she might, nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior as ever. But being married, you know, it is quite a different thing. No indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need not to be afraid. I can sit and admire him now without any great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself away is such a comfort. She does seem a charming young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature!' He called her Augusta. How delightful! When the visit was returned, Emma made up her mind. She could then see more, and judge better. From Harriet's happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father's being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's conversation to herself, and could composedly attend to her. And the quarter of an hour quite convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman, extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of her own importance. That she meant to shine and be very superior, but with manners which had been formed in a bad school, pert and familiar, that all her notions were drawn from one set of people, and one style of living, that if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would certainly do Mr. Elton no good. Harriet would have been a better match, if not wise or refined herself, she would have connected him with those who were. But Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set. The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of him. The very first subject after being seated was Maple Grove. My brother, Mr. Suckling's seat! A comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small, but neat and pretty, and the house was modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most favourably impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. Very like Maple Grove, indeed. She was quite struck by the likeness. That room was the very shape and size of the morning-room at Maple Grove, her sister's favourite room. Mr. Elton was appealed to. Was it not astonishingly like, she could really almost fancy herself at Maple Grove? And the staircase! You know as I came in I observed how very like the staircase was, placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming. I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there." With a little sigh of sentiment. A charming place, undoubtedly. Everybody who sees it is struck by its beauty, but to me it has been quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will understand how very delightful it is to meet with anything at all like what one has left behind. I always say this is quite one of the evils of matrimony." Emma made as slight a reply as she could, but it was fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be talking herself. So extremely like Maple Grove, and it is not merely the house, the grounds I assure you as far as I could observe are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the same way, just across the lawn, and I had a glimpse of a fine, large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so exactly in mind. My brother and sister will be enchanted with this place, people who have extensive grounds themselves are always pleased with anything in the same style. Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a great idea that people who had extensive grounds themselves cared very little for extensive grounds of anybody else, but it was not worthwhile to attack an heir or so double-died, and therefore only said in reply, When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid you will think you have overrated heart-field. Surrey is full of beauties. Oh, yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the Garden of England, you know. Surrey is the Garden of England. Yes, but we must not rest our claims on that distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the Garden of England, as well as Surrey. No, I fancy not," said Mrs. Elton, with the most satisfied smile. I never heard any county, but Surrey called so. Emma was silenced. My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the spring, or some are at farthest, continued Mrs. Elton, and that will be our time for exploring. While they are with us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have their Baruch Landau, of course, which holds four perfectly, and therefore, without saying anything of our carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their shares, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their bringing the Baruch Landau. It will be so very much preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as possible, and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King's Weston twice last summer, in that way most delightfully, just after their first having the Baruch Landau. You have many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer? No, not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of. And we are a very quiet set of people, I believe—more disposed to stay at home than engage in schemes of pleasure. Ah! There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time, as Salina said, when she has been going to Bristol, I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the Baruch Landau without a companion. But Augusta, I believe, with her own good will, would never stir beyond the park pailing. Many a time, as she said so, and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from society, it is a very bad thing, and that it is much more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss Woodhouse, looking towards Mr. Woodhouse. Your father's state of health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath? Indeed he should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you, I have no doubt of its doing Mr. Woodhouse good. My father tried it more than once, formally, but without receiving any benefit. And Mr. Perry, whose name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now. Ah! That's a great pity, for I assure you, Miss Woodhouse, when the waters do agree it is quite wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life I have seen such instances of it, and it is so cheerful a place that it could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse's spirits, which I understand are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a charming introduction for you, who have lived so secluded a life, and I could immediately secure you some of the best society in the place. A line from me would bring you a little host of acquaintance, and my particular friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with when in Bath, would be most happy to show you any attentions, and would be the very person for you to go into public with. It was as much as Emma could bear without being impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an introduction, of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's—probably some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a boarder, just made a shift to live—the dignity of Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield was sunk indeed. She restrained herself, however, from any of the reproof she could have given, and only thanked Mrs. Elton coolly. But their going to Bath was quite out of the question, and she was not perfectly convinced that the place might suit her better than her father. And then, to prevent further outrage and indignation, changed the subject directly. I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton. Upon these occasions, a lady's character generally precedes her, and Highbury has long known that you are a superior performer. Oh, no, indeed! I must protest against any such idea—a superior performer! Very far from it, I assure you. Consider from how partial a quartet of information came. I am doting the fond of music, passionately fond, and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste. But as to anything else, upon my honour my performance is mediocre to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot do without music. It is a necessary of life to me, and having always been used to a very musical society, both at Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable, and the inferiority of the house, too, knowing what I had been accustomed to—of course, he was not holy without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that way, I honestly said that the world I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it. To those who had no resources it was a different thing, but my resources made me quite independent. And as to smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any sacrifice of that description—certainly I had been accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove, but I did assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. I cannot, said I, to be quite honest. I do not think I can live without something of a musical society. I condition for nothing else, but without music life would be a blank to me." We cannot suppose, said Emma, smiling, that Mr. Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very musical society in Highbury, and I hope you'll not find he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned, in consideration of the motive. No, indeed, I have no doubt at all on that head. I am delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will not it be a good plan? If we exert ourselves, I think we shall not be long in want of allies. Something of that nature would be particularly desirable for me, as an inducement to keep me in practice. For married women, you know, there is a sad story against them in general. They are but too apt to give up music. But you, who are so extremely fond of it, there can be no danger, surely? I should hope not, but really, when I look around among my acquaintance, I tremble. Selena has entirely given up music, never touches the instrument, though she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffries, Clara Partridge, that was, and of the two Millmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper, and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my word, it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selena, but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper." But everything of that kind, said Emma, will soon be in so regular a train— Well! said Mrs. Elton, laughing, we shall see. Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say, and after a moment's pause Mrs. Elton shows another subject. We have been calling it Randalls, said she, and found them both at home, and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature, quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you. And she appears so truly good. There is something so motherly and so kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think. Emma was almost too much astonished to answer, but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on. Nothing understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very ladylike, but really she is quite the gentle woman. Mrs. Weston's manners, said Emma, were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance would make them the safest model for any young woman. And who do you think came in while we were there? Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance, and how could she possibly guess? Nightly—continued Mrs. Elton—nightly himself, was not it lucky? For not being within what he called the other day, I had never seen him before. And of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. Ease, I had a great curiosity. My friend Nightly had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him. And I must do my caro sposo the justice to say, that he not be ashamed of his friend. Nightly is quite the gentleman, I like him very much, decidedly I think a very gentleman-like man. Happily it was now time to be gone. They were off, and Emma could breathe. Insufferable woman! was her immediate exclamation. Worse than I had supposed! Absolutely insufferable! Nightly! I could not have believed it! Nightly! I had seen him in her life before, and called him Nightly, and discover that he is a gentleman, a little upstart vulgar being, with her Mr. E, and her caro sposo, and her resources, and all her heirs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Nightly is a gentleman, I doubt whether he will return the compliment and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club. One would fancy we were bosom friends. And Mrs. Weston, astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman. Worse and worse! I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. What would Frank Churchill say to her if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! There I am, thinking of him directly, always the first person to be thought of. How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind. All this ran so glibly through her thoughts that by the time her father had arranged himself after the bustle of the Elton's departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. Well, my dear! he deliberately began. Considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady. And I dare say she was much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice, I do not like strange voices, and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion. I said that I hoped I should in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Oh! It shows what an sad invalid I am. But I do not like the corner into vicarage lane. I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you. Yes. But a young lady, a bride, I ought to have paid my respects to her, if possible. It was being very deficient. But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony, and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride? It ought to be no recommendation to you. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them. No, my dear, I never encouraged anybody to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady, and a bride especially is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to her. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company. Let the others be who they may. Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-bates for poor young ladies. My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry. Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous and could not understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. End of CHAPTER XIV Emma was not required by any subsequent discovery to retract her ill-opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again, self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood, and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought it all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal. And the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, followed the lead of Miss Bates's goodwill, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied. So that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another, as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution, and talked with a very good grace of her being—very pleasant, and very elegantly dressed. In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had at first appeared. Her feelings altered toward Emma, offended probably by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn, and gradually became much more cold and distant. And though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners too, and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure, but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much. It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had, in all likelihood, been given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike. When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse, and the enmity which they dared not show in open disrespect to her found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet. Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax, and from the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first, and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration, but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her. Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's night air entry on the subject. Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse. I quite rave about Jane Fairfax—a sweet, interesting creature, so mild and ladylike, and with such talents. I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! She is absolutely charming. You will laugh at my warmth, but upon my word I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax, and her situation is so calculated to affect one. Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves an endeavour to do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain unknown. I dare say you have heard those charming lines of the poet, full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its fragrance on the desert air. We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax. I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer, and when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation, and understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown. Oh! But dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away. Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are so palpably at an end. And I think she feels it. I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for timidity, and I am sure one does not often meet with it. But in those who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more than I can express. You appear to feel a great deal. But I am not aware how you, or any of Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here—any of those who have known her longer than yourself—can show her any other retention than. My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we set the example, many will follow it as far as they can, though all have not our situations. We have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax at any time the least inconvenient. I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to send us up such a dinner as could make me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely that I should, considering what I have been used to, my greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping may be quite the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be, for we do not at all effect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income. However my resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax, I shall certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her shortly. I shall have to do so, of course, very particularly to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they shall like her extremely, and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners of either but what is highly conciliating. I shall have her very often, indeed, while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a seat for her in the Baruch Landau, in some of our exploring parties. Poor Jane Fairfax, thought Emma, you have not deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you could have merited—the kindness and protection of Mrs. Elton. Jane Fairfax, and Jane Fairfax—heavens! Let me not suppose that she dares go about Emma wood-housing me! But upon my honour, there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue. Emma had not to listen to such parading again, to any so exclusively addressed to herself, so disgustingly decorated with a dear Miss Woodhouse. The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared, and she was left in peace, neither forced to be the very particular friend of Mrs. Elton, nor under Mrs. Elton's guidance the very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general way in knowing what was felt, what was mediated, what was done. She looked on with some amusement. Miss Bates's gratitude for Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies, the most amiable, affable, delightful woman, just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprise was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions, and tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Elton's, sitting with the Elton's, spending a day with the Elton's—this was astonishing! She could not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as the vicarage had to offer. She is a riddle—quite a riddle, said she. To choose to remain here month after month, under privations of every sort, and now to choose the mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her with such real generous affection. Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months. The Campbells were gone to Ireland for three months, but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least till mid-summer, and fresh invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss Bates—it came all from her—Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived, no travelling difficulty allowed to exist, but still she had declined it. She must have some great motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing this invitation, was Emma's conclusion. She must be under some sort of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere. She is not to be with the Dixons, with the decrees issued by somebody, but why must she consent to be with the Elton's? Here is quite a separate puzzle. Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane. We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the vicarage, my dear Emma, but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but as a constant companion must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for what she goes to. "'You are right, Mrs. Weston,' said Mr. Knightley warmly. "'Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate? She would not have chosen her.' But—with a reproachful smile at Emma—she receives attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her." Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance, and she was herself struck by his warmth, with a faint blush she presently replied. Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should have imagined anything but inviting. "'I should not wonder,' said Mrs. Weston, if Miss Fairfax would have been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's abilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely have committed her niece, and hurried her into a greater appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little change. Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again, and after a few minutes' silence he said, "'Another thing must be taken into consideration, too. Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax, as she speaks of her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou. The plainest spoken amongst us. We all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal end-course with each other, a something more early implanted. We cannot give anybody the disagreeable hint that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the operation of this as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax oars Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner, and that face to face Mrs. Elton treats her with all the respect which she has acclaimed to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before, and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if not in consciousness. "'I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,' said Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say. "'Yes,' he replied. "'Anybody may know how highly I think of her.' "'And yet,' said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arched look, but soon stopping, it was better, however, to know the worst at once.' She hurried on. "'And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprise some day or other.' Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or some other cause, brought the colour into his face as he answered, "'Oh! Are you there? But you are miserably behind hand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.' He start. Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a moment he went on, "'That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I guess they would not have me if I were to ask her, and I am very sure I shall never ask her.' Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest, and was pleased enough to exclaim, "'You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.' He seemed hardly to hear her. He was thoughtful, and in a manner which showed him not pleased, soon afterwards said, "'So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?' "'No, indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for matchmaking to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now meant nothing. One says those sorts of things, of course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh, no! Upon my word I have not the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax, or Jane anybody. You would not come in and sit with us in this comfortable way if you were married." Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "'No, Emma. I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprise. I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.' And soon afterwards, "'Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman. But not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.' Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "'Well,' said she, "'and you soon silence Mr. Cole, I suppose.' "'Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint. I told him he was mistaken. He asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.' In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and wittier than all the world? I wonder how she speaks of the Cole's, and what she calls them. How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough and familiar vulgarity? She calls you Knightley. What can she do for Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprised that Jane Fairfax accept her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter the temptation of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's acknowledging her self-the-inferioring thought, word or deed, or in her being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement and offers of service, that she will not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her a permanent situation, to the including her in those delightful exploring parties, which are to take place in the barouche land-ow. Jane Fairfax has feeling, said Mr. Knightley. I do not accuse her of wanting feeling. Her sensibilities I suspect are strong, and are temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control, but at once openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be, and I love an open temper. No! Till Cole alluded to my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always, but with no thought beyond. Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them,—what do you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax? Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it were to end with his being so at last. Do not beat me. End of CHAPTER XV. Everybody in and about Highbury, who had ever visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his marriage. Veterinary parties and evening parties were made for him and his lady, and invitations flowed in so fast, that she soon had the pleasure of apprehending they were never to have a disengaged day. I see how it is," said she,—I see what a life I am to lead among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From Monday next to Saturday I assure you we have not a disengaged day. A woman with fewer resources than I have need not have been at a loss. No invitation came amiss to her. Her bath-habits made evening parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked at the want of two drawing-rooms, at the poor attempt at route-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury card-parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard, and others were a good deal behind hand in knowledge of the world, but she would soon show them how everything ought to be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return their civilities by one very superior party, in which her card-tables should be set out with their separate candles and unbroken packs in the true style, and more waiters engaged for the evening than their own establishment could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly the proper hour and in the proper order. Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied without a dinner at Hartfield for the Alton's. They must not do less than others, or should be exposed to odious suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him. The persons to be invited required little thought. Besides the Alton's it must be the Weston's and Mr. Knightley. So far it was all, of course, and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to make the eighth. But this invitation was not given with equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was particularly pleased by Harriet's begging to be allowed to decline it. She would rather not be in his company more than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him and his charming happy wife together, without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be displeased, she would rather stay at home. It was precisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the fortitude of her little friend. For fortitude she knew it was in her to give up being in company and stay at home, and she could now invite the very person whom she really wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax. Since her last conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she was more conscious stricken about Jane Fairfax than she had often been. Mr. Knightley's words dwelt with her. He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else paid her. "'This is very true,' said she. "'At least as far as relates to me, which was all that was meant, and it is very shameful. Of the same age, and always knowing her, I ought to have been more her friend. She will never like me now. I have neglected her too long, but I will show her greater attention than I have done." Every invitation was successful. They were all disengaged and all happy. The preparatory interest of this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys were engaged to pay their grand-papa and aunt a visit of some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield, which one day would be the very day of this party. His professional engagements did not allow of its being put off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear, and here would be a ninth. And Emma apprehended it would be ninth very much out of humour, and not being able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours, without falling in with the dinner-party. She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself by representing that though he certainly would make them nine, yet he always said so little that the increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it in reality a sad exchange for herself to have him with his grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her instead of his brother. The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse than to Emma. John Knightley came, but Mr. Weston was unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was quite at ease, and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the little boys in the philosophic composure of her brother on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma's vexation. The day came, the party were punctually assembled, and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at, in silence, waiting only to observe enough for Isabella's information. But Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast, as he was returning from a walk with these little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he said, I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this morning, or I am sure you must have been wet. We scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly." I went only to the post-office, said she, and reached home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast does me good. Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine. No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out. Mr. John Knightley smiled and replied, That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you were not six yards from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you, and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count long before. The post-office has a great charm at one period of our lives. When you have lived to my age, you will begin to think of letters are never worth going through the rain for." There is a little blush, and then this answer. I must not hope to ever be situated as you are, in the midst of every dearest connection, and therefore I cannot expect that simply growing older should make me indifferent about letters. Indifferent? Oh, no! I never conceived you could become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference. They are generally of a very positive curse. You are speaking of letters of business. Mine are letters of friendship. I have often thought of them worst of the two," replied he, Cooley. Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does. You are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knightley too well. I am very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it is not your being ten years older than myself which makes the difference. It is not age, but situation. You have every body dearest to you always at hand. I probably never shall again, and therefore till I have outlived all my affections, a post-office I think must always have power to draw me out in worse weather than to-day. When I talked of your being altered by time by the progress of years," said John Knightley, I meant to imply the change of situation which time usually brings. I consider one as including the other. Time will generally lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily circle, but that is not the change I had in view for you. As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax, that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated objects as I have. It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A pleasant thank-you seemed meant to laugh it off, but a blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye showed that it was felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying his particular compliment to the ladies, was ending with her, and with all his mildest urbanities said, I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out this morning in the rain, young ladies should take care of themselves, young ladies are delicate plants, they should take care of their health and their complexion. My dear, did you change your stockings? Yes, sir, I did indeed, and I am very much obliged by your kind solicitude about me. My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be cared for. I hope your good grandmama and aunt are well, they are some of my very old friends. I wish that my health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a great deal of honour today, I am sure. My daughter and I are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield. The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair lady welcome and easy. By this time the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane. My dear Jane, what is this I hear? Going to the post-office in the rain, this must not be, I assure you. You sad girl, how could you do such a thing? It is a sign I was not there to take care of you." Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught any cold. Oh! do not tell me! You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself. To the post-office, indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like? You and I must positively exert our authority. My advice," said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively, I suddenly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks. As you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring, I always think, requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now, do you not feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again." Oh! she shall not do such a thing again! eagerly rejoined Mrs. Elton. We will not allow her to do such a thing again—and nodding significantly—there must be some arrangement made, there must indeed, I shall speak to Mr. E., the man who fetches our letters every morning—one of our men, I forget his name—shall inquire for yours too, and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties, you know, and from us I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation. You are extremely kind," said Jane, but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can. I must walk somewhere, and the post office is an object, and upon my word I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before. My dear Jane, say no more about it! The thing is determined! That is—laughing effectively—as far as I can presume to determine anything without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious about how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties, therefore, consider that point as settled. Excuse me," said Jane earnestly, I cannot, by any means, consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is, when I am not here, by my grandmamas. Oh, my dear! But so much as Patti has to do, and it is a kindness to employ our men!" Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered, but instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr. John Knightley. The post office is a wonderful establishment," said she, the regularity and dispatch of it. If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing. It certainly is very well regulated." So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears, so seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, has even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost—and when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands, too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder. The clerks go expert from habit. They must begin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise improves them. If you want any farther explanation—continued he smiling—they are paid for it. That is the key to a great deal of capacity. The public pays, and must be served well. The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and the usual observations made. I have heard it asserted," said John Knightley, that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family, and where the same master teaches it is natural enough. But for that reason I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart." Yes," said his brother, hesitatingly,—there is a likeness. I know what you mean, but Emma's hand is the strongest. Isabella and Emma both write beautifully," said Mr. Woodhouse, and always did, and so does poor Mrs. Weston, with half a sigh and half a smile at her. I never saw any gentleman's handwriting. Emma began, looking also at Mrs. Weston, but stopped on perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to someone else, and the pause gave her time to reflect. Now, how am I going to introduce him? Am I unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase? You're Yorkshire, friend, you're correspondent in Yorkshire. That would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad. No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I suddenly get better and better. Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged, and Emma began again,—Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw. I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. It is too small, one's strength. It is like a woman's writing. This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base, aspersion. No, it's by no means wanted strength. It was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce? No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter had put it away. If we were in the other room, said Emma, if I had my writing desk I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his. Do you not remember Mrs. Weston employing him to write for you one day? He chose to say he was employed. Well, well, I have that note, and can show it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley. Oh! When a galant young man like Mr. Frank Churchill, said Mr. Knightley dryly, writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will of course put forth his best. Dinner was on table. Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready, and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlor, was saying, "'Must I go first?' I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane solicitued about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all, and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it had, that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual, a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish males. It was at her tongue's end, but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings, and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of goodwill highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER 16