 8 Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks past she had been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to have a bedroom appropriated to herself, and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that she should return to Hartfield to make a regular visit of some days. While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his short decided answers and amusing contrast to the protracted apologies and civil hesitations of the other. Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Knightley. We in-village think we are privileged people. My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me. I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma will be happy to entertain you, and therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take my three turns, my winter walk. You cannot do better, sir. I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you. And besides, you have another long walk before you to Donwell Abbey. Thank you, sir, thank you. I am going this moment myself, and I think the sooner you go, the better. I will fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you." Mr. Woodhouse at last was off, but Mr. Knightley, instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before. I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he, but she is a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is with, but in good hand she will turn out a valuable woman. I am glad you think so, and the good hands, I hope, may not be wanting. Come," said he, you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you that you have improved her. You have cured her of her schoolgirl's giggle. She really does you credit. Thank you! I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use, but it is not everybody who will bestow praise where they may. You do not often overpower me with it. You are expecting her again, you say, this morning? Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended. Everything has happened to delay her. Some visitors, perhaps? Hybrid gossips! Tiresome wretches! Harriet may not consider everybody tiresome that you would. Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said nothing. He presently added with a smile, I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage. Indeed! How so? Of what sort? A very serious sort, I assure you. Still smiling. Very serious? I can think of but one thing. Who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant? Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropped a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to him. I have reason to think," he replied, that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter. Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abby Mill this summer seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her. He is very obliging," said Emma, but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him? Well, well, means to make her an offer, then. Will that do? He came to the Abby two evenings ago on purpose to consult me about it. He knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and I believe considers me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early—whether I thought her too young—in short, whether I approved his choice altogether—having some apprehension perhaps of her being considered, especially since you're making so much of her, as in a line of society above him. I was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always speaks to the purpose, open, straightforward, and very well judging. He told me everything, his circumstances and plans and what they all propose doing in the event of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both his son and brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He proved to me that he could afford it, and that, being the case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the fair lady, too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then. And, I daresay, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had. This happened the night before last. Now, as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlike that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's today, and she may be detained by a visitor without thinking him at all, a tiresome wretch. "'Pray, Mr. Knightley,' said Emma, who had been smiling to herself through a great part of this speech, "'how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?' "'Certainly,' replied he, surprised, "'I do not absolutely know it, but it may be inferred, was not she the whole day with you?' "'Come,' said she, "'I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday, that is, he wrote, and was refused.' This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed, had Mr. Knightley actually looked red with surprise and displeasure as he stood up in tall indignation and said, "'Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her. What is the foolish girl about?' "'Oh, to be sure,' cried Emma, "'it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her.' "'Nonsense, a man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refused Robert Martin. Madness, if it is so. But I hope you are mistaken.' "'I saw her answer. Nothing could be clearer.' "'You saw her answer?' "'You wrote her answer, too. Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.' "'And if I did, which, however, I am far from allowing, I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal. And I am rather surprised, indeed, that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over.' "'Not Harriet's equal,' exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly, and with calmer asperity added a few moments afterwards. No, he is not to equal, indeed, for he is as much a superior in sense as in situation. Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.' "'What a Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to any connection higher than Robert Martin. She is the natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable relations. She is known only as parlour-border at a common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is too young and too simple to have acquired anything herself. At her age, she can have no experience, and with her little wit is not very likely ever to have anything can avail her. She is pretty, and she is good-tempered, and that is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his account as being beneath his desserts, and a bad connection for him. I felt that, as to fortune and all probability, he might do much better, and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate he could not do worse. But I could not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of disposition, which in good hands like his, might be easily led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the match I felt to be all on her side, and had not the smallest doubt, nor have I now, that there would be a general cry out upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you would not regret your friends leaving Highbury for the sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to myself, even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match. I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma to say any such thing. What? Think a farmer! add with all his sense, and all his merit, Mr. Martin is nothing more, a good match for my intimate friend. Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own. I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think your statement by no means fair. You are not just to Harriet's charms. They would be estimated very differently by others as well as myself. Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferiorest rank in society. The sphere in which she moves is much above his. It would be a degradation. A degradation? Too legitimacy and ignorance to be married to a respectable intelligent gentleman-farmer. As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may be called nobody, it will not hold in common sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others by being held below the level of those with whom she is brought up. There can scarcely be a doubt that her father is a gentleman, and a gentleman of fortune. Her allowance is very liberal. Nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or comfort. That she is a gentleman's daughter is indubitable to me. That she associates with gentleman's daughters no one I apprehend will deny. She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin. Whoever might be her parents? said Mr. Knightley. Whoever may have had the charge of her? It has not appeared to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education, she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hand to shift as she can—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her, and it was good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would have never proceeded so far if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it, he had encouragement. It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this assertion. She chose rather to take up her own line of the subject again. You are a very warm friend, Mr. Martin, but, as I said before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet's claims to marry well are not so contemptible as he presents them. She is not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding spoken of so slightingly. Waving that point, however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and good-natured, let me tell you that in the degree she possesses them they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of a hundred, until it appears that men are much more philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed. Till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl with such loveliness as Harriet has a certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power of choosing from among many, consequently a claim to be nice. For good-nature too is not so very slight a claim, comprehending as it does real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a great redness to be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper the highest claims a woman could possess. Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense than misapply it as you do. Oh, to be sure!" cried she playfully. I know that as the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in, what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh, Harriet, may pick and choose! Were you yourself ever to marry, she is the very woman for you! And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at, because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No! Pray let her have time to look about her. I have always thought at a very foolish intimacy, said Mr. Knightley presently. Though I have kept my thoughts to myself, but I now perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet, you will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has acclaimed to, that in a little while nobody within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find office of marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever you may choose to say, do not want silly wives. Men of family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of such obscurity, and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever. But if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-border at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life—or at least, for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other, till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-master's run. We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only be making each other more angry. But as to my letting her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible. She has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any second application. She must abide by the evil of having refused him, whatever it may be, and as to the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I might influence her a little, but I assure you there was very little for me or for anybody to do. His appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine that before she had seen anybody superior she might tolerate him. He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her, and altogether having seen nobody better—that must have been his great assistant—she might not, while she was at Abbey Hill, find him disagreeable. But the case is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are, and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any chance with Harriet. Nonsense! Errant nonsense, as ever was talked! cried Mr. Knightley. Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good humour to recommend them, and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could ever understand. Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent what she had done. She still thought herself a better judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be. But yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which made her dislike having it so loudly against hers, and to have him sit just opposite to her in an angry state was very disagreeable. Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words. Robert Martin has no great loss, if he can but thinks so, and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself, but as you make no secret of your love of batchmaking, it is fair to suppose that views and plans and projects you have, and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain. Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued, Depend upon it. Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of a man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as anybody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims as you can be with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes, and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who all have twenty thousand pounds apiece. I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again. If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes, but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with matchmaking indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randall's. I shall leave off while I am well. Good morning to you," said he, rising and walking off abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to have been the means of promoting it by the sanction he had given, and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the affair was provoking him exceedingly. Emma remained in a state of vexation too, but there was more indistinctness in the causes of hers than in his. She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her adversaries wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She was not so materially cast down, however, but that little time and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives. Harriet staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy. The possibility of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness, and when Harriet appeared and in very good spirits, and without having any such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which settled her with her own mind, and convinced her that let Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which woman's friendship and woman's feelings would not justify. He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton, but when she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the interest, nor she must be allowed to tell herself in spite of Mr. Knightley's pretensions, with the skill of such an observer on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she was able to believe that he had rather said what he had wished resentfully to be true than what he knew about. He certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserved than she had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent and considerate disposition as to money matters, he might naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them. But then Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war with all interested motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course thought nothing of its effects. But she saw too much of it to feel a doubt of its overcoming any pretensions that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest, and more than a reasonable becoming degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton. Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers. She came back not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling her something which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprise that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the Wist Club night, which he had been never known to miss before, and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day. But it would not do. Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and said in a very particular way indeed that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world, and told him so, and something about a very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case, and he told him so, and Mr. Elton lonely looked very conscious and smiling and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton, and said, looking so very significantly at her, that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman who Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world, for beyond a doubt Mr. Elton had not as equal for beauty or agreeableness. Volume 1 Chapter 9 Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again, and when they did meet, his grave looks showed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days. The picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half-sentences of admiration just as he ought. And as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady in attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton of the utmost advantage to the latter. Her views of improving her little friend's mind by a great deal of useful reading and conversation had never yet led to more than a few first chapters and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study, much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune than to be laboring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts. And the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with into a thin quartet of hot-pressed paper made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies. In this age of literature such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred, and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped with Miss Woodhouse's help to get a great many more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste, and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young, he wondered he could not remember them, but he hoped he should in time. And it always ended in, Kitty, a fair but frozen maid. His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect anything of the riddle kind, but he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something he thought might come from that quarter. It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistant she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect, and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections, and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing un-gallant, nothing that did not breathe the compliment to the sex, should pass his lips. They owed to him their two or three politest puzzles, and the joy and exaltation with which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known charade. My first doth affliction denote, which my second is destined to feel, and my whole is the best antidote, that affliction to soften and heal. Made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already. Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton? said she. That is the only security for its freshness, and nothing could be easier to you. No, no! He had never written hardly ever anything of the kind in his life, the stupidest fellow, he was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse. He stopped a moment. All Miss Smith could inspire him. The very next day, however, he produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a few moments just to leave a piece of paper on the table, containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own. I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he. Being my friends, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it. The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her friends. He was gone the next moment, after another moment's pause. Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards Harriet. It is for you. Take your own." But Harriet was in a tremor and could not touch it, and Emma, never loath to be first, was obliged to examine it herself. To Miss... Sherrod. My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, lords of the earth, their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings, behold him there, the monarch of the seas. But are, united, what reverse we have? Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, and woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. Thy ready wit the word will soon supply, may its approval beam in that soft eye. She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then, passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper and all the confusion of hope and dullness. Very well, Mr. Elton. Very well indeed. I have read worse, Sherrods. Courtship. A very good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly, pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you, approve my Sherrod and my intentions in the same glance. May its approval beam in that soft eye. Harriet exactly, soft as the very word for her eye, of all epithets, the justice that could be given. Thy ready wit the word will soon supply. Hmm! Harriet's ready wit. All the better. A man must be very much in love indeed to describe her so. Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this. I think this would convince you, for once in your life you'd be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent Sherrod indeed, and very much the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now. She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length by the eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions. What can it be, Miss Woodhouse? What can it be? I have not an idea. I cannot guess it in the least. What can it possibly be? Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help me. I never saw anything so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was, and who could be the young lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman? And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. Can it be Neptune? Behold him there, the monarch of the seas. Or a trident? Or a mermaid or a shark? Oh, no, a shark is only one syllable. It must be very clever. We have not have brought it. Oh, Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out? Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a Sherrod made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen. For Miss Blank, read Miss Smith. My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings, Lords of the earth, their luxury and ease. That is court. Another view of man my second brings. Behold him there, the monarch of the seas. That is ship, plain as it can be. Now for the cream. But are you knighted? Courtship, you know. What reverse we have? Man's boasted power and freedom all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea he bends a slave, and woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. A very proper compliment. And then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you. Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. There is so pointed and so particular a meaning in this compliment, said she, that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You are his object, and you will soon receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must be so. I thought I could not be so deceived. But now it is clear. The state of his mind is as clear and decided as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to happen which has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were the most desirable or the most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have really so equaled each other. I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a connection which offers nothing but good. It will give you everything that you want—consideration, independence, a proper home. It will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This, Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us. Dear Miss Woodhouse—and dear Miss Woodhouse—was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces, could articulate at first. But when they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated and remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgement. Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, and therefore, I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so. But otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much beyond anything I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry anybody? There cannot be two opinions about him. He is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses. To Miss Blank—dear me, how clever! Could it really be meant for me? I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that. It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter, and will soon be followed by matter-of-fact prose. It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected, I am sure, a month ago. I had no more idea myself. The strangest things do take place. When Miss Smiths and Mr. Elton's get acquainted, they do indeed, and really it is strange. It is out of the common cause that what is so evidently, so palpably desirable, what caught the pre-arrangement of other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. Elton are, by situation, called together. You belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying will be the equal to the match at Randalls. There does seem to be something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right direction, and send it into the very channel where it ought to flow. The course of true love never did run smooth. A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that passage. That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me, me of all people, who did not know him to speak to him at Mikkelmus, and he, the very handsomest man that ever was, and a man that everybody looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley. His company so sought after that everybody says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not choose it, that he has more invitations than there are days in the week, and so excellent in the church. Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me, when I look back to the first time I saw him, how little did I think! The two abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and stayed to look through herself. However, she called me back presently, and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked! He was arm and arm with Mr. Cole. This is an alliance, which, whoever, whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense, and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives us every assurance of it. If they wish to have you settled in the same country in circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished, and if their only object is that you should, in the common phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune, the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy them. Yes! Very true! How nicely you talk! I love to hear you! You understand everything! You and Mr. Elton are of one as clever as the other. This charade! If I had studied a twelve-month, I could never have made anything like it. I thought he meant to try his skill by his manner of declining it yesterday. I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read. I never read one more to the purpose, certainly. It is as long again as almost all we have had before. I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things, in general, cannot be too short. Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. It is one thing, said she presently, her cheeks in a glow, to have very good sense in a common way like everybody else, and if there is anything to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must in a short way, and another to write verses and charades like this. Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's prose. Such sweet lines! continued Harriet. These two last. But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out? Oh, Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that? Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed. Your soft eyes shall choose their own time for beaming. Trust to me. Oh, Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful charade into my book. I am sure I have not got one-half so good. Leave out the last two lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book. Oh! but those two lines are the best of all, granted, for private enjoyment, and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written, you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the book, I will write it down, and then there can be no possible reflection on you. Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offering for any degree of publicity. I shall never let that book go out of my own hands, said she. Very well, replied Emma, a most natural feeling, and the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is my father coming. He will not object to my reading the charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure. He loves anything of the sort, and especially anything that pays a woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all. You must let me read it to him." Harriet looked grave. My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade. You will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to fix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would not have left the paper while I was by. But he rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls over this charade. Oh, no! I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do as you please. Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of—well, my dears, how does your book go on? Have you got anything fresh? Yes, papa, we have something to read you, and something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning, dropped, we suppose, by a fairy, containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in. She read it to him just as he liked to have anything read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every part as she proceeded, and he was very much pleased, and as she had foreseen, especially struck with the complementary conclusion. I, that's very just indeed, that's very properly said, very true, woman, lovely woman. It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought it. Nobody could have written so prettily but you, Emma. Emma only nodded and smiled, after a little thinking in a very tender sigh, he added. Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after. Your dear mother was so clever at all those things, if I had but her memory. But I can remember nothing, nor they've not a particular riddle which you have heard me mention. I can only recollect the first stanza, and there are several. Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, kindled a flame, I yet deplore. The hoodwinked boy I called to aid, though of his near approach afraid, so fatal to my suit before. And that is all that I can recollect of it. But it is very clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it. Yes, papa, it is written out on our second page. We copied it from the elegant extracts. It was Garex, you know. Ah! very true! I wish I could recollect more of it. Kitty, a fair but frozen maid. The name makes me think of poor Isabella, for she was very near being christened Catherine after her grandmother. I hope we shall have her here next week. Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put her? And what room there will be for the children? Oh, yes, she will have her own room, of course, the room she always has, and there is the nursery for the children, just as usual, you know. Why should there be any change? I do not know, my dear, but it is so long since she was here, not since last Easter, and then only for a few days. Mr. John Knightley's being a lawyer is very inconvenient. Poor Isabella, she is sadly taken away from us all. And how sorry she will be when she comes not to see Miss Taylor here. She will not be surprised, papa, at least. I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprised when I first heard she was going to be married. We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us while Isabella is here. Yes, my dear, if there is time. But—in a very depressed tone—she is coming only for one week. There will not be time for anything. It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer, but it seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the twenty-eighth, and we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be taken out for the abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim this Christmas, though you know it is longer since they were with him than with us. It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be anywhere but at Hartfield. Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his brother, or anybody's claims on Isabella except his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said, But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well. Ah, papa, that is what you have never been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband. This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could give only a submissive sigh, and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them. Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children, are we not, papa? I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John. Hi, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how glad they will be to come. They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet. I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I did not know who is not. Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mamma. Henry is the eldest. He was named after me, not after his father. John, the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprised, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy indeed. They are all remarkably clever, and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair and say, grand-papa, can you give me a bit of string? And once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were only made for grand-papas. I think their father was too rough with them very often. He appears rough to you, said Emma, because you are so very gentle yourself, but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not think him rough. He wishes his boys to be active and hardy, and if they misbehave he can give them a sharp word now and then, but he is an affectionate father. Certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him. And then their uncle comes in and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way. But they like it, papa. There is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other. Well, I cannot understand it. That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other. Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away, but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push, of having thrown a die, and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, everything else must give way, but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about dining with him, had made such a point of it, that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account. Her father was sure of his rubber. He re-erged, she re-declined, and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the paper from the table, she returned it. Oh! here's the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us. Thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much, that I ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss, I hope. Of course, I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines." Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly—rather confused—said something about honor. Glanced at Emma and Harriet, and then, seeing the book open on the table, took it up and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said, You must make my apologies to your friend, but so good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He may be sure of every woman's approbation while he writes with such gallantry. I have no hesitation in saying—replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating a good deal while he spoke—I have no hesitation in saying, at least if my friend feels at all as I do, I have not the smallest doubt that could he see his little effusion honored as I see it. Looking at the book again, replacing it on the table. He would consider it as the proudest moment of his life. After this speech, he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon, for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet share. This LibriVox recording is in the Public Domain. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. Emma by Jane Austen. Volume 1. CHAPTER X Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise, and on the morrow Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor, sick family who lived a little way out of Highbury. Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street of the place, and as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be. It had no advantage of situation, but had been very much smartened up by the present proprietor, and such as it was there could be no possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes. Emma's remark was, There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of these days. Harriet's was. Oh, what a sweet house! How very beautiful! There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much. I do not often walk this way now," said Emma as they proceeded, but then there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools, and pollards of this part of Highbury. Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme that, considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton seeing ready wit and her. I wish we could contrive it," said she, but I cannot think of any tolerable pretense for going in. No servant that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper, no message from my father. She pondered but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began again, I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or going to be married, so charming as you are. Emma laughed, and replied, My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry. I must find other people charming—one other person at least—and I am not only not going to be married at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all. Ah! so you say, but I cannot believe it. I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet to be tempted. Mr. Elton, you know—recollecting herself—is out of the question, and I do not wish to see any such person. I would rather not be tempted. I really cannot change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it. Dear me! it is so odd to hear a woman talk so. I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing, but I have never been in love. It is not my way, or my nature, and I do not think I ever shall. And without love I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want, employment I do not want, consequence I do not want. I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield, and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important, so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's. But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates—that is as formidable an image as you could present Harriet, and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates, so silly, so satisfied, so smiling, so prosing, so undistinguishing and unfastidious, and so apt to tell everything relative to everybody about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between us, I am convinced there can never be any likeness except in being unmarried. But still, you will be an old maid, and that's so dreadful. Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid, and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public. A single woman with a very narrow income must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid. The proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman of good fortune is always respectable, and may be as sensible and pleasant as anybody else, and the distinction is not quite so much against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first, for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small and generally very inferior society, may well be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates. She is only too good-natured and too silly to suit me, but in general she is very much to the taste of everybody, though single and though poor. Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind. I really believe, if she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give away sixpence of it. And nobody is afraid of her. That is a great charm. Dear me! But what shall you do? How shall you employ yourself when you go old? If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind with a great many independent resources, and I do not perceive why I should be in more want of employment at forty or fifty, than one and twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now, or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more. If I give up music, I shall take to carpet work. And as for objects of interest, objects of the affections, which is in truth the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much to care about. There will be enough of them in all probability to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear, and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces! I shall often have a niece with me." Do you know Miss Bates' niece? That is, I know you must have seen her a hundred times, but are you acquainted? Oh, yes, we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the by that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid, at least, that I should ever bore people half so much about all the nightlies together, as she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over, her compliments to all friends go round and round again, and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well, but she ties me to death. They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate, and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations. Had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little, entered into their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as goodwill. In the present instance it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit, and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet as they walked away. These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make everything else appear! I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day, and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind? Very true," said Harriet, poor creatures, one can think of nothing else. And really I do not think the impression will soon be over. Said Emma as she crossed the low hedge and tottering footstep which ended the narrow slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them into the lane again. I do not think it will, stopping to look once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still greater within. Oh! dear no! said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend, and when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight, and so near as to give Emma time only to say further, Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability and good thoughts. Well, smiling, I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it is done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves. Harriet could just answer, Oh! dear yes! before the gentlemen joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would now defer, but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and what should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. To fall in with each other on such a narrowed is this, thought Emma. To meet in a charitable scheme, this will be a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else. Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road. But she had not been there two minutes, when she found that Harriet's habits of dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that in short they would both be soon after her. This would not do. She immediately stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down complete occupation of the footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired, and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out according to orders with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and to talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without design. And by this means the others were still able to keep ahead, without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily, the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow, and she was the more concerned at it, from there being evidently in a conversation which interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation. Harriet, listening with a very pleased attention, and Emma, having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail, and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton cheese, the North Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beetroot, and all the dessert. This would soon have led to something better, of course, was her consoling reflection. Anything interests between those who love, and anything will serve as introduction to what is near the heart, if I could but have kept longer away. They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage-pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to right, so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. Part of my lace is gone," said she, and I do not know how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask a housekeeper for a bit of ribbon or string, or anything just to keep my boot on." Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition, and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house, and endeavouring to make everything appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards, behind it was another with which it immediately communicated. The door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it, but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however—it still remained ajar—but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to choose his own subject in the adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then obliged to be finished and make her appearance. The lovers were standing together at one of the windows. It had a most favourable aspect, and for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed successfully. But it would not do. He had not come to the point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful. He had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them. Other little gallantries and illusions had been dropped, but nothing serious. Cautious—very cautious—thought Emma. He advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure. Still, however, though everything had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event. CHAPTER XI Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer in Emma's power to superintend his happiness, or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest. And during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected—she did not herself expect—that anything beyond occasional fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however, they must advance somehow or other whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have more leisure for them. There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent from Surrey, were exciting, of course, rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surrey connections, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake, as who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachmen, who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way. But his alarms were needless. The sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children, had a competent number of nursery-maids all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this. But the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking and sleeping and playing which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in themselves, or in any restless attendance on them. Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate, wrapped up in her family, a devoted wife, a doting mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness, and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution, was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike, too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man, rising in his profession, domestic and respectable in his private character, but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing, and capable of being sometimes out of humor. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a approach, but his temper was not his great perfection, and indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing. He was not a great favorite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness, but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes, which he sometimes fell into—the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance, or sharp retort, equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen, were Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him. But it was too often for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short, might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed, when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield, since she had been there last. Ah, my dear," said he, poor Miss Taylor, it is a grievous business. Oh, yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, how you must miss her. And dear Emma, too, what a dreadful loss to you both. I've been so grieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her. It is a sad change, indeed. But I hope she's pretty well, sir. Pretty well, my dear. I hope pretty well. I do not know, but that the place agrees with her tolerably. Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air at Randall's. Ho! no, none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life, never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret. Very much to the honour of both, was the handsome reply. And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the plaintive tone, which just suited her father. Mr. Woodhouse hesitated. Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish. Oh, Papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randall's or here. And as you may suppose, Isabella most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you'll be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Everybody must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but everybody ought to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated, which is the exact truth. Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of showing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I've been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended, and now you have Emma's account, I hope you'll be satisfied. Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse,—yes, certainly, I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston—poor Mrs. Weston—does come and see us pretty often, but then she's always obliged to go away again. It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, Papa. You quite forget poor Mr. Weston. I think indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly,—that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can. Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part,—are you talking about me? I am sure nobody ought to be or can be a greater advocate for matrimony than I am, and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor, but as the most fortunate woman in the world, and as to slighting Mr. Weston—that excellent Mr. Weston—I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best tempered men that ever existed. Accepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter, and ever since his particular kindness last September twelfth month in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart, nor a better man in existence, if anybody can deserve him. It must be Miss Taylor." "'Where is the young man?' said John Knightley. "'Has he been here on this occasion, or has he not?' "'He has not been here yet,' replied Emma. "'There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing, and I have not heard him mentioned lately.' "'But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,' said her father. He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She showed it to me. I thought it very well done of him, indeed. Whether it was his own idea, you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps." "'My dear papa, he is three and twenty. You forget how time passes.' "'Three and twenty? Is he indeed?' "'Well, I could not have thought it, and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother.' "'Well, time does fly indeed, and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated September 28th, and began, my dear madam. But I forget how it went on, and it was signed F. C. Weston Churchill. I remember that perfectly." "'How very pleasing and proper of him,' cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. "'I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father. There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home. I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child. I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.' "'Nobody ever did think well of the Churchill's eye fancy,' observed Mr. John Knightley Cooley. "'But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what he would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings. He takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts—that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing wist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection or anything that home affords.' Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up, but she struggled and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible, and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important. It had a high claim to forbearance. End of CHAPTER XI. Volume 1 Chapter 12 Mr. Knightley was to dine with them, rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right, however, had decided it, and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had a particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation. She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making up indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Concession must be out of the question, but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarreled. And she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children with her, the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt's arms. It did assist, for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again, and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying as he was admiring the baby. What a comfort it is that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different, but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree. If you are as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike. Oh, to be sure, our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong. Yes, said he, smiling, and reason good, I was sixteen years old when you were born. A material difference, then, she replied, and no doubt you are much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives. But does not the lapse of one in twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer? Yes, a good deal nearer. But still not near enough to give me a chance of being right if we think differently. I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now. That's true, she cried. Very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer, and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I must say that no effect on my side of the argument of yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed. A man cannot be more so, was his short, full answer. Ah, indeed, I am very sorry. Come, shake hands with me. This had just taken place, and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and—how do you do, George?—and John, how are you?—succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do everything for the good of the other. The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions. On one side he and his daughter, on the other the two Mr. Knightleys, their subjects totally distinct or very rarely mixing, and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other. The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and it was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or at least some curious anecdote to give, and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring-corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John as his cooler manners rendered possible, and if his willing brother ever left him anything to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting for a few moments her busy labours for some one of her five children. How long it is! How terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear, and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go. You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did that both the Mr. Nightly's were as unpersuadable on that article as herself, and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse and praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by everybody, he proceeded to say with an air of grave reflection, It was an awkward business, my dear. You're spending the autumn at Southend instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air. Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir, or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness and little bella's throat, both sea air and bathing. Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good, and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once. Come, come! cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject. I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable. I who have never seen it. Southend is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet, and he never forgets you. Oh! good Mr. Perry, how is he, sir? Why, pretty well. But not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself. He tells me he has not time to take care of himself, which is very sad, but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere, but then there is not so clever a man anywhere. And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? Do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones. I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at the rebellious throat. Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrication of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August. It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her, and if I had known you were wanting an embrication, I would have spoken to you. You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates, said Emma. I have not heard one inquiry after them. Oh! the good Bates is! I am quite ashamed of myself, but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates! I will call upon her to-morrow and take my children. They are always so pleased to see my children. And that excellent Miss Bates! Such thorough, worthy people! How are they, sir? Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago. How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy, except when it has been quite an influenza. That has been a good deal the case, my dear, but not the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he is very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season. No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it very sickly except. Ah! my poor dear child! The truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London. Nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there. So far off. And the air so bad. No, indeed. We are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others. You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy. I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town. There is hardly any other that I could be so satisfied to have my children in. But we are so remarkably airy. Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air. Oh, my dear! It is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it. But after you have been a weak at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures. You do not look the same. Now I cannot say that I think you are any of you looking well at present. I am sorry to hear you say so, sir. But I assure you, accepting those little nervous headaches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself. And if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual from their journey, and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow, for I assure you, Mr. Wingfield told me that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether in such good case. I trust at least that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill—turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. Middling, my dear, I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well. What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me? cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name. I am sorry to find my love, that my father does not think you are looking well, but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home. My dear Isabella! exclaimed he hastily, Pray, do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose. I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother. cried Emma, about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong? And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax. And Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising. That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax! said Mrs. John Knightley. It is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town. What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt when she comes to visit them. I always regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury. But now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma. Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another kind of pretty young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet. I am most happy to hear it, but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior, and exactly Emma's age. This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar moment and passed away with similar harmony, but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said, much praise and many comments, undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe filipics upon the many houses where it was never met with tolerable. But unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had to instance, the most recent and therefore most prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for the time, who had never been able to understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get anything tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening. Ah! said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her with tender concern. The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of. And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an interval of some minutes, however, he began with, I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn, instead of coming here. But why should you be sorry, sir? I assure you it did the children a great deal of good. And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been to South End. South End is a very unhealthy place. Perry was surprised to hear you had fixed upon South End. I know there is such an idea with many people, but, indeed, it is quite a mistake, sir. We all had our health perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience from the mud, and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy, and I am sure he may be depended upon, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly. You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perry was a weak at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places—a fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. By what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from the sea, a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry. But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey only consider how great it would have been, and hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty. Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else should be considered, and if one is to travel, there is not much to choose between forty miles and a hundred. Better not move at all. Better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air. That is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very ill-judged measure. Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain, and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her brother-in-law's breaking out. Mr. Perry, said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, would do as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for. What does he make in any of his business to wonder at what I do, at my taking my family to one part of the coast or another? I may be allowed, I hope, the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry. I want his directions no more than his drugs." He paused, and growing cooler in a moment added with only sarcastic dryness. If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife and five children a distance of one hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Chroma to South End as he could himself. True, true! cried Mr. Knightley with most ready interposition. Very true! That's a consideration indeed. But, John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right, that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path. The only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey tomorrow morning, I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion." Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions, but the soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it. End of Chapter 12 Volume 1 Chapter 13 of Emma. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Elizabeth Klett. Emma by Jane Austen. Volume 1 Chapter 13. There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over what she had done every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly. It was a delightful visit, perfect in being much too short. In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their mornings, but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too, there was no avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no denial. They must all dine at Randalls one day, even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think at a possible thing in preference to a division of the party. How they were all to be conveyed he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head. It hardly amounted to a doubt, nor did it occupy Emma long to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for Harriet also. Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own a special set, were the only persons invited to meet them. The hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few. Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consulted in everything. The evening before this great event—Fort was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out on the twenty-fourth of December—had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much in disposed with the cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat. Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection. Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority, which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears. Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her and Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state, and left her at last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly together in conversation about the invalid, of whom he, on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he might carry some report of her to Hartfield. They were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces showed all the benefit of country run, and seemed to ensure a quick dispatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint. A throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick low pulse, etc., and she was sorry to find for Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad sore throats, and had often alarmed her with them. Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed. A sore throat? I hope not infectious. I hope not of a putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed, you should take care of yourself, as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see her? Emma, who was not at all frightened herself, tranquilized the success of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care. But as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added soon afterwards, as if quite another subject. It is so cold, so very cold, and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day, and assuade my father from venturing. But as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appeared to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself to-night. Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make, which was exactly the case. For though very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of hers, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit. But Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgement of its being—very cold, certainly very cold—and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. You do quite right, said she. We will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing. Mr. Elton was to go, and never had his broad, handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment, never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exalting than when he next looked at her. Well, said she to herself, this is most strange. After I had got him off so well to choose to go into company, and leave Harriet ill behind—most strange indeed. But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination, such a passion for dining out. A dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that anything gives way to it. And this must be the case with Mr. Elton. A most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet. But still he cannot refuse an invitation. He must dine out whenever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! He can see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her. Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at parting, in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call it Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend. The last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report, and he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favour. After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John nightly began with, I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every feature works. Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect, replied Emma, but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good temper and good will in Mr. Elton, as one cannot but value. Yes, said Mr. John nightly presently with some slowness, he seems to have a great deal of good will towards you. Me! she replied with a smile of astonishment. Are you imagining me to be Mr. Elton's object? Such an imagination has crossed me, I own Emma, and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now. Mr. Elton, in love with me, what an idea! I do not say it is so, but you will do well to consider whether it is or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak it as a friend, Emma. You would better look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do. I thank you, but I assure you, you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more. And she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are forever falling into, and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant and in want of counsel. He said no more. Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others, too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randall's to see that it was cold, and too well wrapped up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe, and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time. Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like. He anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase, and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent. A man, said he, must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow. I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity, actually snowing at this moment, the folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home, and the folly of people not staying comfortably at home, and they can. If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it. And here we are, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man in everything given to his view or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can. Here we are, setting forward to spend five dull hours in another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather to return, probably in worse, four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms, and worse company than they might have had at home. Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the, very true my love, which must have been usually administered by his travelling companion, but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome, her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk and arrange the glasses, and wrapped herself up without opening her lips. They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness. He was so very cheerful in his abilities, indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent, while dressing, and the answer had been, much the same, not better. "'My report for Mrs. Goddard's,' said she presently, was not so pleasant as I had hoped. Not better was my answer.' His face lengthened immediately, and his voice was the voice of sentiment, as he answered. "'No, no. I am grieved to find. I was on the point of telling you that when I had called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing before I turned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means better—rather worse—very much grieved and concerned. I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a courdeal as I knew she had been given in the morning.' Emma smiled and answered, "'My visit was of use to the nervous part of a complaint, I hope, when not even I can charm away a sore throat. It is the most severe cold indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably heard.' "'Yes, I imagined—that is, I did not. He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to more a morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness, such a sad loss to our party to-day. Dreadful—exactly so indeed, she will be missed at every moment.' This was very proper. The sigh which accompanied it was really estimable, but it should have lasted longer. Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. "'What an excellent device,' said he, the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it! Impossible to feel cold with such precautions! The contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon, but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter. "'Ah! snows a little icy.' "'Yes,' said John Knightley. "'And I think we shall have a good deal of it.' "'Christmas weather,' observed Mr. Elton. Quite seasonable, and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow in the ground. But now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings, at Christmas everybody invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the worst weather. High was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one night, and could not get away till that very day's sunlight." Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but only said, coolly, "'I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.' At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party." "'We are sure of excellent fires,' continued he, and everything in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values—so hospitable, and so fond of society. It will be a small party, but where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably, and for my part I would rather under such circumstances fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me. Turning with a soft air to Emma. I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings. I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir. I never dine with anybody." "'Indeed!' in a tone of wonder and pity. I had no idea that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great enjoyment.' "'My first enjoyment,' replied John Knightley as they passed through the sweep-gate, will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again."