 Volume 2 Chapter 7 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Emma's very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a little shaken the following day by hearing that he was gone off to London merely to have his haircut. A sudden freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had sent for a chaise and sent off, intending to return to dinner, but with no more important view that appeared than having his haircut. There was certainly no harm in his travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand, but there was an air of phoppery and nonsense in it which she could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality of plan, the moderation and expense, or even the unselfish warmth of heart which she had believed herself to discern in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change, restlessness of temper, which must be doing something good or bad, heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might appear in general, he became liable to all those charges. His father only called him a coxcomb and thought it a very good story, but that Mrs. Weston did not like it was clear enough by her passing it over as quickly as possible and making no other comment than, all young people would have their little whims. With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that his visit hitherto had given her friends only good ideas of him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and pleasant a companion he made himself, how much she saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to have a very open temper, certainly a very cheerful and lively one. She could observe nothing wrong in his notions, a great deal decidedly right. He spoke of his uncle with warm regard, was fond of talking of him, said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to himself, and, though there were no being attached to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude and seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising, and, but for such an unfortunate fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her imagination had given him, the honour, if not of being really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and saved only by her own indifference, for still her resolution held of never marrying, the honour in short of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance. Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account which must have some weight. He gave her to understand that Frank admired her extremely, thought her very beautiful and very charming, and, with so much to be said for him altogether, she found she must not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, all young people would have their little whims. There was one person among his new acquaintance in Surrey not so linearly disposed. In general he was judged throughout all the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with great candour, liberal allowances were made for the little excesses of such a handsome young man, one who smiled so often and bowed so well, but there was one spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of censure, by boughs or smiles, Mr. Knightley. The circumstance was told him at Hartfield. For the moment he was silent, but Emma heard him almost immediately afterward say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his hand, hmm, just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for. She had half a mind to resent, but an instance observation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his own feelings, and not meant to provoke, and therefore she let it pass. Although in one instance the bearers of not-good tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston's visit this morning was in another respect particularly opportune. Something occurred while they were at Hartfield to make Emma want their advice, and, which was still more lucky, she wanted exactly the advice they gave. This was the occurrence. The coals had been settled some years in Highbury and were very good sort of people, friendly, liberal, and unpretending, but on the other hand they were of low origin, in trade, and only moderately genteel. On their first coming into the country they had lived in proportion to their income, quietly, keeping little company, and that little inexpensively, but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase of means, the house and town had yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled on them. With their wealth their views increased, their want of a larger house, their inclination for more company, they added to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of every sort, and by this time were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the family at Hartfield. Their love of society and their new dining room prepared everybody for their keeping dinner company, and a few parties chiefly among the single men had already taken place. The regular and best families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume to invite, neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt her to go if they did, and she regretted that her father's known habits would be giving her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The coals were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on which the superior families would visit them. This lesson she very much feared they would receive only from herself. She had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr. Weston. But she had made up her mind how to meet this presumption so many weeks before it appeared that when the insult came at last it found her very differently affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and none had come for her father and herself, and Mrs. Weston's accounting for it with I suppose they will not take the liberty with you, they know you do not dine out, was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should like to have had the power of refusal, and afterwards as the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dearest to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there in the evening and the Bates's. They had been speaking of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and Frank Churchill had most earnestly limited her absence. Might not the evening end in a dance had been a question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a further irritation on her spirits, and her being left in solitary grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a compliment, was but poor comfort. It was the arrival of this very invitation, while the Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable. For though her first remark on reading it was that of course it must be declined, she so very soon proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that their advice for her going was most prompt and successful. She owned that, considering everything, she was not absolutely without inclination for the party. The coals expressed themselves so properly. There was so much real attention in the manner of it, so much consideration for her father. They would have solicited the honour earlier, but had been waiting the arrival of a folding screen from London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse from any drop to bare, and therefore induce him the more readily to give them the honour of his company. On the whole she was very persuadable, and it being briefly settled among themselves how it might be done without neglecting his comfort, how certainly Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for bearing him company, Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked into in acquiescence of his daughters going out to dinner on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole evening away from him. As for his going, Emma did not wish him to think it possible. The hours would be too late, and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned. I am not fond of dinner visiting, said he, I never was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they would come in one afternoon next summer and take their tea with us, take us in their afternoon walk, which they might do as our hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being out in the damp of the evening. The dues of a summer evening are what I would not expose anybody to. However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma dine with them, and as you will both be there and Mr. Knightley, too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to prevent it, providing the weather to be what it ought, neither damped nor cold nor windy. Then turning to Mrs. Weston, with a look of gentle reproach, ah, Miss Taylor, if you had not married, you would have stayed at home with me. Well, sir, cried Mr. Weston, as I took Miss Taylor away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can, and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish it. But the idea of anything to be done in a moment was increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse's agitation. The ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet, and everything deliberately arranged. With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon composed enough for talking as usual. He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs. Goddard, and Emma should write a line and invite her. James could take the note. But first of all there must be an answer written to Mrs. Cole. You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as possible. You will say that I am quite and invalid and go nowhere, and therefore must decline their obliging imitation, beginning with my compliments, of course. But you will do everything right. I need not tell you what is to be done. We must remember to let James know that the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no fears for you with him. We have never been there above once since the new approach was made, but still I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there you must tell him at what time you would have him come for you again, and you would better name an early hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very tired when tea is over. But you would not wish me to come away before I am tired, papa. Oh, no, my love, but you will soon be tired. There will be a great many people talking at once. You will not like the noise. But, my dear sir, cried Mr. Weston, if Emma comes away early it will be breaking up the party. And no great harm if it does, said Mr. Woodhouse. The sooner every party breaks up the better. But you do not consider how it may appear to the coals. Emma's going away directly after tea might be giving a fence. They are good natured people, and think little of their own claims. But still they must feel that anybody's hurrying away is no great compliment, and Miss Woodhouse's doing it would be more thought of than any other persons in the room. You would not wish to disappoint and mortify the coals. I am sure, sir, friendly good sort of people has ever lived and who have been your neighbors these ten years. No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston, I am much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look at him, but he is billious. Mr. Cole is very billious. No, I would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might wish. You will not regard being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among your friends. Oh, yes, papa, I have no fears at all for myself. I should have no scruples of staying late as Mrs. Weston, and I should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston, but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves P.K., you know, but when she has gone home, I am afraid you will be sitting up by yourself instead of going to bed at your usual time. The idea of that would entirely destroy my comfort. You must promise me not to sit up. He did, on the condition of some promises on her side, such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to warm herself thoroughly, if hungry that she would take something to eat, that her own maid should sit up for her, and that Searle and the butler should see that everything were safe in the house as usual. End of Volume 2 Chapter 8 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain Frank Churchill came back again, and if he kept his father's dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield, for Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favorite with Mr. Woodhouse to betray any imperfection which could be concealed. He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer to conceal any confusion of face, no reason to wish the money unspent to improve his spirits. He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever, and after seeing him Emma thus more lies to herself. I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always wickedness, but folly is not always folly. It depends upon the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is not a trifling, silly young man. If he were he would have done this differently. He would have either gloried in the achievement or been ashamed of it. There would have been either the ostentation of a coxcomb or the evasions of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities. No, I am perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly. With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing him again, and for a longer time than hitherto, of judging of his general manners and by inference of the meaning of his manners towards herself, of guessing how soon it might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air, and of fancying what the observations of all those might be, who were now seeing them together for the first time. She meant to be very happy, in spite of the seeing being laid at Mr. Coles, and without being able to forget that among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity to dine with Mr. Cole. Her father's comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as well as Mrs. Scottard being able to come, and her last pleasing duty before she left the house was to pay her respects to them as they sat together after dinner, and while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their constitution might have obliged them to practice during the meal. She had provided a plentiful dinner for them. She wished she could know that they had been allowed to eat it. She followed another carriage to Mr. Coles' door, and was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley's, for Mr. Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was too apt, in Emma's opinion, to get about as he could, and not use his carriage so often as became the owner of Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking her approbation while warm from her heart, for he stepped to hand her out. "'This is coming as you should do,' said she, like a gentleman. I am quite glad to see you.' He thanked her, observing how lucky that we should arrive in the same moment, for if we had met first in the drawing-room I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner. Yes, I should. I am sure I should. There was always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I daresay. But with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of effected unconcern. I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. Now you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than anybody else. Now I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.' Nonsenseical girl, was his reply, but not at all in anger. Anna had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of admiration were for her, both from husband and wife. The son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found him seated by her, and as she firmly believed, not without some dexterity on his side. The party was rather large, as it included one other family, a proper, un-ejectionable country family, whom the Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the evening with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith, but already at dinner they were too numerous for any subject of conversation to be general, and while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness of her neighbor. The first remote sound to which she felt herself obliged to attend was the name of Jane Fairfax. Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was expected to be very interesting. She listened and found it well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she entered the room had been struck by the sight of a Piano Forte, a very elegant looking instrument, not a grand, but a large-sized, square Piano Forte, in the substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which ensued of surprise and inquiry and congratulations on her side and explanations on Miss Bates's, was that this Piano Forte had arrived from Broadwood's the day before, to the great astonishment of both Aunt and niece, entirely unexpected, that at first, by Miss Bates's account, Jane herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who could have possibly ordered it, but now they were both perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter. Of course it must be from Colonel Campbell. One can suppose nothing else, added Mrs. Cole, and I was only surprised that there could have ever been a doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very lately and not a word was said about it. She knows their ways best, but I should not consider their silence as any reason for their not meaning to make the present. They might choose to surprise her. Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her. Everybody who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced that such a present had been made, and there were enough ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way and still listen to Mrs. Cole. I declare I do not know when I have heard anything that has given me more satisfaction. It has always quite hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giving ourselves a slap, to be sure. And it was but yesterday I was telling Mr. Cole I really was ashamed to look at our new grand piano forte in the drawing room, while I do not know one note from another, and our little girls, who are but just beginning, perhaps may never make anything of it. And there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of music, has not anything of the nature of an instrument, not even the pitifulest old spinet in the world, to amuse herself with. I was saying this to Mr. Cole, but yesterday, and he quite agreed with me, only he is so particularly fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbors might be so obliging, occasionally, to put it to better use than we can, and that really is the reason why the instrument was bought, or else I am sure we ought to be ashamed of it. We are in great hopes that Ms. Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening. Ms. Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence, and finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any communication of Mrs. Cole's turn to Frank Churchill. Why do you smile, said she? Nay, why do you? Me! I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel Campbell's being so rich and so liberal, it is a handsome present. Very. I rather wonder that it was never made before. Perhaps Ms. Fairfax has never been staying here so long before. Or that he did not give her the use of their own instrument, which must now be shut up in London, untouched by anybody. That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too large for Mrs. Bates's house. You may say what you choose, but your countenance testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much like mine. I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you suspect. But at present I do not see what there is to question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can be? What do you say to Mrs. Dixon? Mrs. Dixon. Very true indeed. I had not thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know, as well as her father, how acceptable an instrument would be. And perhaps the motive it, the mystery, the surprise, is more like a young woman's scheme than an elderly man's. It is Mrs. Dixon, I daresay. I told you that your suspicions would guide mine. If so, you must extend your suspicions and comprehend Mr. Dixon in them. Mr. Dixon. Very well. Thus I immediately perceived that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being so warm and admirer of her performance. Yes, and what you told me on that head confirmed an idea which I had entertained before. I do not mean to reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right, but I am sure there must be a particular cause for her choosing to come to Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland. Here she must be leading a life of privation and penance. There it would have been all enjoyment. As to the pretense of trying her native heir, I look upon that as a mere excuse. In the summer it might have passed, but what can anybody's native heir do for them in the months of January, February and March? First fires and carriages would be much more to the purpose in most cases of delicate health, and I dare say in hers. I do not require you to adopt all my suspicions, though you may make so noble a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they are. And upon my word they have an air of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference of her music to her friends I can answer for being very decided. And then he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that? A water-party, and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her. He did. I was there, one of the party. Were you really? Well, but if you observed nothing, of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you, if I had been there I think I should have made some discoveries. I dare say you would, but I, simple I, saw nothing but the fact that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her. It was the work of a moment. Although the consequent shock and alarm was very great and much more durable, indeed I believe it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable again, yet that was too general a sensation for anything of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say, however, that you might not have made discoveries. The conversation was here interrupted. They were called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal and orderly as the others, but when the table was again safely covered and occupation and ease were generally restored, Emma said, The arrival of this piano forte is decisive with me. I wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite enough. Depend upon it. We shall soon hear that it is a present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. And if the Dixon should absolutely deny all knowledge of it, we must conclude it to come from the Campbell's. No, I am sure it is not from the Campbell's. Miss Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbell's, or they would have been guessed at first. She would not have been puzzled had she dared fix on them. I may not have convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business. Indeed, you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced. Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offering of love. There was no real occasion to press the matter farther. The conviction seemed real. He looked as if he felt it. She said no more. Other subjects took their turn, and the rest of the dinner passed away. The dessert succeeded, the children came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual rate of conversion. A few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither the one nor the other, nothing worse than everyday remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes. The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room before the other ladies in their different divisions arrived. Emma watched the entree of her own particular little friend, and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations of pleasure in the midst of the pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat, and who would have guessed how many tears she had been lately shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior, but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the mortification of having loved. Yes, of having loved even Mr. Elton in vain, by the surrender of all the dangerous pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her friend. In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the pianoforte. She felt too much in the secret herself to think the appearance of a curiosity or interest fair, and therefore purposefully kept at a distance. But by the others the subject was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of my excellent friend, Colonel Campbell. Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma could not help being amused at her perseverance in dwelling on the subject, and having so much to ask and to say as to tone, touch, and petal, totally unsuspicious of that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she plainly read in the fair heroine's countenance. They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen, and the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he walked, the first and the handsomest, and after paying his compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where sat Miss Woodhouse, and till he could find a seat by her, would not sit at all. Emma defined what everybody present must be thinking. She was his object, and everybody must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and at convenient moments afterwards heard what each thought of the other. He had never seen a face so lovely and was delighted with her naivete, and she, only to be sure that it was paying him too great a compliment, but she did think there were some looks a little like Mr. Elton. Emma restrained her indignation, and only turned from her in silence. Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax, but it was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining room, hated sitting long, was always the first to move when he could, that his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole were left very busy over parish business, that as long as he had stayed, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had found them, in general, a set of gentlemen-like, sensible men, and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether, thought it so abundant in agreeable families, that Emma began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather too much. She questioned him as to the society in Yorkshire, the extent of the neighborhood about Enscombe and the sort, and he could make out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on, that their visitings were among a range of great families, none very near, and that even when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and spirits for going, that they made a point of visiting no fresh person, and that though he had his separate engagements it was not without difficulty, without considerable address at times, that he could get away, or introduce an acquaintance for a night. She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that Highbury, again at its best, might reasonably please a young man who had more retirement at home than he liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and on her laughing and noticing it he owned that he believed, accepting one or two points, he could with time persuade her to anything. One of those points on which his influence failed he then mentioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad, had been very eager indeed to be allowed to travel, but she would not hear of it. This had happened the year before. Now he said he was beginning to have no longer the same wish. The unpersuadable point which he did not mention, Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father. I have made a most wretched discovery, he said after a short pause. I have been here a week to-morrow, half my time. I never do days fly so fast, a week to-morrow, and I have hardly begun to enjoy myself, but just got acquainted with Mrs. Colton and others. I hate the recollection. Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent one whole day out of so few and having your hair cut. No, said he, smiling, that is no subject of regret at all. I have no pleasure in seeing my friends unless I can believe myself fit to be seen. The rest of the gentleman being now in the room, Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few minutes and listened to Mr. Col. When Mr. Col. had moved away and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the room at Ms. Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite. What is the matter, said she? He started. Thank you for rousing me, he replied. I believe I have been very rude, but really, Ms. Fairfax has done her hair in so odd a way, so very odd a way, that I cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw anything so outray. Those curls. This must be a fancy of her own. I see nobody else looking like her. I must go and ask her whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I? Yes, I will. I declare I will. And you shall see how she takes it, whether she colors. He was gone immediately, and Emma saw him standing before Ms. Fairfax, and talking to her. But as to its effect on the young lady, he had improvidently placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of Ms. Fairfax. She could absolutely distinguish nothing. Before he could return to his chair it was taken by Mrs. Weston. This is the luxury of a large party, said she. One can get near everybody and say everything. My dear Emma, I am longing to talk to you. I have been making discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must tell them why the idea is fresh. Do you know how Ms. Bates and her niece came here? How? They were invited. Were not they? Oh, yes. But how they were conveyed hither the manner of their coming. They walked, I conclude. How else could they come? Very true. Well, a little while ago it occurred to me how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking home again late at night, and cold as the nights are now. And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear more to advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor girl! I could not bear the idea of it, so as soon as Mr. Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how readily he came into my wishes, and having his approbation, I made my way directly to Ms. Bates, to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before it took us home, for I thought it would be making her comfortable at once. Good soul! She was as grateful as possible, you may be sure. Nobody was ever so fortunate as herself. But with many, many thanks, there was no occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley's carriage had brought, and was to take them home again. I was quite surprised, very glad, I am sure, but really quite surprised. Such a very kind attention, and so thoughtful an attention. The sort of thing that so few men would think of. And in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very much inclined to think that it was for their accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was only as an excuse for assisting them. Very likely, said Emma, nothing more likely. I know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the sort of thing, to do anything really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very humane one, and this, considering Jane Fairfax's ill health, would appear a case of humanity to him. For an act of unaustentatious kindness there is nobody whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I know he had horses to-day, for we arrived together, and I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that could betray. Well, said Mrs. Weston, smiling, you give him credit for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance than I do. For while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of keeping you company? What do you say to it? Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax, exclaimed Emma, dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a thing? Mr. Knightley—Mr. Knightley must not marry. You would not have little Henry cut out from Donwell. Oh, no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley's marrying, and I'm sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should think of such a thing. My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think it. I do not want the match. I do not want to injure dear little Henry, but the idea has been given me by circumstances. And if Mr. Knightley really wished to marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry's account, a boy of six years old who knows nothing of the matter. Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry supplanted. Mr. Knightley, marry. No, I have never had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane Fairfax, too, of all women. Nay, she has always been a first favorite with him, as you very well know. But the imprudence of such a match! I am not speaking of its prudence, merely its probability. I see no probability in it unless you have any better foundation than what you mention. His good nature, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account for the horses. He has a great regard for the bates, as you know, independent of Jane Fairfax, and is always glad to show them any attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take to matchmaking. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax, mistress of the Abbey! Oh, no, no, every feeling revolts. For his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing. Imprudent, if you please, but not mad, accepting inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I can see nothing unsuitable. But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head. Why should he marry? He is as happy as possible by himself, with his farm and his sheep, and his library, and all the parish to manage, and he is extremely fond of his brother's children. He has no occasion to marry, either to fill up his time or his heart. My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so it is so, but if he really loves Jane Fairfax—nonsense, he does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the way of love I am sure he does not. He would do any good to her or her family, but—well, said Mrs. Weston, laughing, perhaps the greatest good he could do them would be to give Jane such a respectable home. If it would be good to her I am sure it would be evil to herself, a very shameful and degrading connection. How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to him, to have her haunting the Abbey and thanking him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane? So very kind and obliging. But he always had been such a very kind neighbor, and then fly off through half a sentence to her mother's old petticoat. Not that it was such a very old petticoat, either, for still it would last a great while, and indeed she must thankfully say that their petticoats were all very strong. For shame, Emma, do not mimic her. You divert me against my conscience, and upon my word I do not think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on, and if he wanted to say anything himself he would only talk louder and drow out her voice. But the question is not whether it would be a band connection for him, but whether he wishes it, and I think he does. I have heard him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax. The interest he takes in her, his anxiety about her health, his concern that she should have no happier prospect. I have heard him express himself so warmly on those points. Such an admirer of her performance on the Piano Forte, and of her voice. I have heard him say that he could listen to her forever. Oh, and I had almost forgotten one idea that occurred to me. This Piano Forte that has been sent here by somebody, though we have all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the Campbells, may it not be a present from Mr. Knightley? I cannot help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it even without being in love. Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love, but I do not think it is at all likely a thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously. I have heard him lamenting, her having no instrument repeatedly. Oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him. Very well, and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so. There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner. You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it, as you have many a times reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment. I believe nothing of the Piano Forte, and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax. They combatted the point some time longer in the same way, Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend, for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield, till a little bustle in the room showed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation, and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been saying nothing except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole to add his very pressing entreaties, and as in every respect it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit. She wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprise, a second slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and everything usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music, which was properly denied, and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more, and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she could never attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice it appeared at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive soon drew away half Emma's mind, and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the United Voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley, consequently to Isabella, a real injury to the children, a most mortifying change and a material loss to them all, a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort, and as to herself she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to. No, Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm, yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece, and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. I often feel concerned, said she, that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish, but you know how impossible my father would deem it that Jane should be put to for such a purpose. Quite out of the question, quite out of the question, he replied, but you must often wish it, I am sure. And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction that she must proceed another step. This present from the Campbell, said she, this piano forte is very kindly given. Yes, he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment. But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell. From that moment Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment, whether there were no actual preference, remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. That will do, said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud, you have sung quite enough for one evening. Now be quiet. Another soon, however, was soon begged for. One more they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more. And Frank Churchill was heard to say, I think you could manage this without effort. The first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second. Mr. Knightley grew angry. That fellow, said he indignantly, thinks of nothing but showing off his own voice. This must not be. And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near, Miss Bates, are you mad to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go and interfere. They have no mercy on her. Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stepped forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers. But soon, within five minutes, the proposal of dancing, originating nobody exactly knew where, was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that everything was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country dances, was seated, and beginning in irresistible waltz, and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand and led her to the top. While waiting till the other young couple could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No. He was talking to Mrs. Cole. He was looking on, unconcerned. Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry. His interest was yet safe, and she let off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustard, but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful and have done. Perhaps it is well, said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours. End of Volume 2, Chapter 8, read by Cibella Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2, Chapter 9 of Emma by Jane Austen. Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day, and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion must be amply repaid in the splendor of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles, worthy people who deserved to be made happy, and left a name behind her that would not soon die away. Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common, and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of a woman by woman in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right, but it had been so strong an idea that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax. She did unfanedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood, and sat down and practiced vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in, and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. Oh, if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax. Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like hers than a lamp is like sunshine. Oh, dear, I think you play the best of the two. I think you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much rather hear you. Everybody said last night how well you played. Those who knew anything about it must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax's is much beyond it. Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had, and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution. Ah! But Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet. Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing. There is no understanding a word of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is no more than she has obliged to do because she will have to oblige. The coxas were wondering last night whether she would get into any great family. How did you think the coxas looked? Just as they always do, very vulgar. They told me something, said Harriet, rather hesitatingly, but it is nothing of any consequence. Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her, though fearful of its producing, Mr. Elton. They told me that Mr. Martin dined with them last Saturday. Oh! He came to their father upon some business, and he asked him to stay to dinner. Oh! They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I thought I should go and stay there again next summer. She meant to be impertently curious, just as such an Anne Cox should be. She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there. He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the coxas would be very glad to marry him. Very likely, I think they are, without exception, the most vulgar girls in Highbury. It had business at Fords. Emma thought it most prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible, and in her present state would be dangerous. Harriet, tempted by everything and swayed by half a word, was always very long at a purchase, and while she was still hanging over Muslims and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for amusement. Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury. Mr. Perry walking hastily by, William Cox letting himself in at the office door. Mr. Cole's carriage-horses, returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule were the liveliest object she could presume to expect, and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from a shop with her full basket, two currs quarreling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker's little bow window, eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough, quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease can do with seeing nothing and can see nothing that does not answer. She looked down the Randall's road. The scene enlarged, two persons appeared, Mrs. Weston and her son-in-law, they were walking into Highbury, to Hartfield, of course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at Mrs. Bates's, whose house was a little nearer Randall's than Ford's, and had all but knocked when Emma caught their eye. Immediately they crossed the road and came forward to her, and the agreeableness of yesterday's engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to call on the Bates's, in order to hear the new instrument. For my companion tells me, said she, that I absolutely promised Miss Bates last night that I would come this morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that I had fixed a day, but, as he says I did, I am going now. And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be allowed, I hope, said Frank Churchill, to join your party and wait for her at Hartfield, if you are going home. Mrs. Weston was disappointed. I thought you meant to go with me. They would be very much pleased. Me? I should be quite in the way. But perhaps I may be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death, and Miss Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same. What am I to do? I am here on no business of my own, said Emma. I am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument. Well, if you advise it—but, with a smile, if Colonel Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it should prove to have an indifferent tone, what shall I say? I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the world at a civil falsehood. I do not believe any such thing, replied Emma. I am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your neighbors when it is necessary, but there is no reason to suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax's opinion last night. Do come with me, said Mrs. Weston, if it be not very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We will go to Hartfield afterward. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt so great an attention, and I always thought you meant it. He could say no more, and with the hope of Hartfield to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates's door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter, trying, with all the force of her own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin it was of no use to look at-figured, and that a blue ribbon, be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of the parcel. Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard's, ma'am? asked Mrs. Ford. Yes. No. Yes. To Mrs. Goddard's. Only my pattern gown is at Hartfield. No. You shall send it to Hartfield, if you please. But then Mrs. Goddard will want to see it. And I could take the pattern gown home any day. But I shall want the ribbon directly. So it had better go to Hartfield. At least the ribbon. You could make it into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could you not? It is not worthwhile, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the trouble of two parcels. No more it is. No trouble in the world, ma'am, said the obliging Mrs. Ford. Oh! But, indeed, I would much rather have it only in one. Then if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs. Goddard's. I do not know—no, I think, Mrs. Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield, and take it home with me at night. What do you advise? That you do not give another half-second to the subject, to Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford. I—that will be much best, said Harriet, quite satisfied. I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's. Voices approached the shop, or rather one voice, and two ladies. Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. My dear Mrs. Woodhouse, said the latter, I am just run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of our new instrument, you and Miss Smith. How do you do, Miss Smith? Very well, I thank you, and I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding. I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well, and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse? I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here. Oh, then said I, I must run across. I am sure Miss Weston will allow me to just run across and entreat her to come in. My mother would be so very happy to see her, and now we are in such a party she cannot refuse. I pray do, said Mr. Frank Churchill. Miss Woodhouse's opinion of the instrument will be worth having. But, said I, I shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with me. Oh, said he, wait half a minute till I have finished my job. For would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse? There he is, in the most obliging manner in the world, fastening in the rivet of my mother's spectacles. The rivet came out, you know, this morning, so very obliging, for my mother had no use of her spectacles, could not put them on. And by the by everybody ought to have two pairs of spectacles. They should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning. First one thing, then another. There is no saying what, you know. At one time Patti came to say she thought the kitchen chimney needed smoothing. Oh, said I, Patti, do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home. Mrs. Wallace sent them by her boy. They are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallace's, always. I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallace can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known anything but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know, only three of us, besides dear Jane at present, and she really eats nothing, makes such a shocking breakfast you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats, so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry, I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before. I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple dumplings, however, very often. Patti makes an excellent apple dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us. Emma would be very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, etc., and they did at last move out of the shop, with no further delay, from Miss Bates then. How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank you! The gloves do very well, only a little too large about the wrist, but Jane is taking them in. What was I talking of? said she, beginning again when they were all in the street. Emma wondered on what, of all the medallies she would fix. I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of. Oh! I do think I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of this kind, excessively. Which you know showed him to be so very—indeed, I must say that, much as I had heard of him before, and much as I had expected, he very far exceeds anything. I do congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems everything the fondest parent could— Oh! said he. I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort, excessively. I shall never forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging us to take some, oh! said he directly, there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life. That, you know, is so very, and I am sure by his manner it was no compliment. Indeed, they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallace does them full justice. Only we do not have them baked more than twice, and Mr. Woodhouse made his promise to have them done three times, but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt, all from Donwell, some of Mr. Knightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year, and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees. I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days, but I was really quite shocked the other day, for Mr. Knightley called one morning and Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether we were not got to the end of our stock. I am sure you must be, said he, and I will send you another supply, for I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more before they get good for nothing. So I begged he would not, for really, as to hours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a great many left. It was but half a dozen indeed, but they should all be kept for Jane, and I could not at all bear that he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been already, and Jane said the same. And when he was gone she almost quarreled with me. No, I should not say quarreled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives, but she was quite distressed that I had owned the apples or so nearly gone. She wished I had made him believe we had a great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did as much as I could. However, the very same evening William Larkins came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and went down and spoke to William Larkins and said everything as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old acquaintance. I am always glad to see him. But however I found afterwards from Patty that William said it was all the apples of that sort the master had. He had brought them all, and now his master had not one left to bake or boil. William did not seem to mind it himself. He was so pleased to think his master had sold so many. For William, you know, thinks more of his master's profit than anything. But Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their being all sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple tart this spring. He told Patty this, but bid her not to mind it, and, to be sure, not to say anything to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would be crossed sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were sold it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed. I would not have Mr. Knightley know anything about it for the world. He would be so very—I wanted to keep it from James' knowledge, but, unluckily, I had mentioned it before I was aware. Mrs. Bates had just done as Patty opened the door, and her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her dulcetory goodwill. Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase, rather darker and narrower than one could wish. Miss Smith, pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the turning. Volume 2 Chapter 10 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered was tranquility itself. Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire, Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedly occupied about her spectacles, and 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 you not 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 steady. It was not quite firm, and 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 neighbor again. But last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly given, the power 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 at Weymouth, and all 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 you not think so?' Jane did not look around. 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, in order infinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies and conveniences?' He paused. She could not but hear. She could not avoid answering. "'Til I have had 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 conjecture's right, and sometimes one conjecture's wrong. I wish I could conjecture how soon I shall make this ribbit quite firm.' What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at work, if one talks at all. Your real workmen, I suppose, hold their tongues, but we gentleman-laborers, if we get hold of a word, Miss Fairfax said 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 which has made one happy. If I mistake not, that was danced at Weymouth.' She looked up at him for a moment, colored 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? He knew Miss Fairfax could have no music here. I honour that part of the attention particularly. It shows it to 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 to 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 now have 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 Adair at this moment, his favorite. 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 would 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. It delighted to have you all meet so, our little room so honored. 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? 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. I have 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 today? 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 a particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in steady skepticism. So obliged to you. So very much obliged to you for the carriage, resumed Miss Bates. He cut her short with, I'm 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 for T. 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 Mr. 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 for T. Well, I'm so sorry. Oh, Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night. How extremely pleasant. Did you ever see such dancing? Was it not 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 mentioned 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 dare say 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. Oh, Miss Woodhouse, must you be going? You seem to have 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. End of Volume 2, Chapter 10, Read by Cibella Denton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2, Chapter 11 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. 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 people in schemes on the subject. Franks 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 Ms. Woodhouse danced, for doing that in which she need not blush to compare herself with Jane Fairfax, and even for simple dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity, to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to see what 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 say of their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest. His first proposition and request, that the dance begun at Mr. Cole's 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 portioning 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, and 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 brothers 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 the 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 you would 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 draught. 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 goodwill 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 unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well. Emma demurred. It would be a crowd, a sad crowd, and what could be worse than dancing without space to turn in? Very true, he gravely repried. 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. Nothing can be farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd, and a crowd in a little room. There is no denying it, he replied. I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a little room. This 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. Since she intended ever to marry him, it might have been worthwhile 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. Before 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 away, I hope, by the terrors of my father's little rooms. I bring a new proposal on the 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 Randalls, but at the crown in— The crown? Yes, 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. There are accommodations he can promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we all feel. Oh, you were perfectly right! Ten couple in either of the Randalls' rooms would have been insufferable, dreadful. I felt how right you were the whole time, but 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, farther representations were necessary to make it acceptable. No, he thought it very far from an improvement, a very bad plan, much worse than the other. A room at an inn was always damp and dangerous, never properly aired or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better dance at Randalls. He had never been in the 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 anybody's catching cold, so much less danger at the crown than at Randalls. Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but nobody else could. Sir, said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, you are very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at the crown can be safer for you than your father's house. From the various 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 Randalls. 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 up a sash without its being suspected. I have often known it done myself. Have you indeed, sir? Bless me. I never could have supposed it. But I live out 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 great 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, Papal, 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 it 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 you not 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 fears, 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 satisfactory without you. Emma was most happy to be called to such a council, and her father, engaging to think it 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 wainsket 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 candlelight. It will be as clean as randles by candlelight. 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 sustain. It 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 a 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, et cetera, 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 of 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 what arrangement our guests in general would like best. To know what could 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 neighbor'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 anybody. I think we do want a larger counsel. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us. Well, if you please, said Mrs. Weston, rather hesitatingly, 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 in 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 this 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. End of Volume 2 Chapter XII of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Only one thing was wanting to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory to Emma. It's being fixed for a day within the granted term if Frank Churchells stay in Surrey. For in spite of Mr. Weston's confidence, she could not think it so very impossible that the Churchells 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. Enscombe, however, was gracious, gracious in fact if not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not please, but it was not opposed. All was safe and prosperous, and as the removal of one solicitude generally makes way for 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 worthwhile to be at 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 Larkins's week's 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. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different. This Emma felt was aimed at her, and it made her quite angry. It was not in 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 Larkins. 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 quarreling with Mr. Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the overthrow of everything. A letter arrived for 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 enscom 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, all that the young man might be feeling, it was too wretched, such a delightful evening as it would have been. Everybody so happy. As 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 the horrid things, leave taking is the worst. But you will come again, said Emma. This will not be your only visit to Randalls. Ah, shaking his head, the uncertainty of when I may be able to return. I 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 accustomed gone for ever. Our poor ball must be 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. I would much rather have been married 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 we not 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 incoming 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, and 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 at 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's 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, got 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 to 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 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, he said. 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. Oh, 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 goodbye, closed the speech, and the door had soon shut out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice, short their meeting, he was gone, and Emma felt so sorry to part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from his absence, as to begin to 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 Randalls had given great spirit to the last two weeks, indescribable spirit, the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his liveliness, his manners. It had been a very happy fortnight, and for Lorne 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 certainly must, said she. This sensation of listlessness, weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and employ myself, this feeling of everything's 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 in 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 out-declare that had the ball taken place she did not think Jane could have attended it, and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming indifference to the langer of ill health. End of Volume 2 Chapter 12 Read by Cibella Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2 Chapter 13 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. 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 Randalls 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 down 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 repies, 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. Upon 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 hither too. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could 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 is now, 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 honorable, and describing everything exterior and local that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision. No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern. It was the language of real feeling toward 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 could yet discern the effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest compliment, perhaps, of all confede. Compressed 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 adjus to her. This Emma could not doubt was all for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being her friend. His information and prospects, as to Enscombe, were neither worse nor better than had yet 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. Gratifying, however, and stimulative as the letter was 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 refusing only grew more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it, the beautiful little friend, suggested to her the 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 in that sort of true, disinterested friendship which I can already look forward to with pleasure. It was as well to have a comfort in store on Harriet's behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it 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, forever agreed to without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively and said it was very true, it was just as Miss Woodhouse described. It was not worthwhile to think about them. 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 Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked her on another ground. You are 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 reproach 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 me for ever. Do not imagine me in danger of forgetting it. Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few words of eager exclamation. Emma continued, I have not said, exert yourself, Harriet, for my sake. Think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake. Because for your own sake rather I would wish it to be done. For the sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your duty and attention to propriety and endeavor to avoid the suspicions of others, to save your health and credit and restore your tranquility. 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 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 affections 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 how to prize and respect it. Harriet is my superior in all the charms 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 coldness 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.