 Volume 1 Chapter 16 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and be miserable. It was a wretched business, indeed, such an overthrow of everything she had been wishing for, such a development of every thing most unwelcome, such a blow for Harriet. That was the worst of all. Every part of it brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other, but compared with the evil to Harriet all was light, and she would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken, more in error, more disgraced by misjudgment, than she actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been confined to herself? If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I could have borne anything. He might have doubled his presumption to me, but poor Harriet! How she could have been so deceived! He protested that he had never thought seriously of Harriet, never! She looked back as well as she could, but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made everything bend to it. His manners, however, must have been unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been so misled. The picture! How eager he had been about the picture! And the charade! And a hundred other circumstances! Clearly they had seemed to point at Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its ready wit! But then the soft eyes! In fact it suited neither. It was a jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense? Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his manners to herself unnecessarily gallant. But it had passed as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste. As one proof, among others, that he had not always lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his address true elegance was sometimes wanting. Until this very day she had never for an instant suspected it to mean anything but grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend. To Mr. John Knightley she was indebted for her first idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility. There was no denying that those brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly. He blushed to think how much truer a knowledge of his character had been there shone than any she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying, but Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very reverse of what she had meant and believed him, proud, assuming, conceited, very full of his own claims, and little concerned about the feelings of others. Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton's wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her pretended to be in love, but she was perfectly easy as to as not suffering any disappointment that need be cared for. There had been no real affection, either in his language or manners. Size and find words had been given in abundance, but she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandize and enrich himself, and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for Miss Somebody Else with twenty or with ten. But that he should talk of encouragement, should consider her as aware of his views, accepting his intentions, meaning, in short, to marry him, should suppose himself her equal in connection or mind, look down upon her friend so well understanding the gradations of rake below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to fancy himself showing no presumption in addressing her. It was most provoking. Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies of mine. The very want of such equality might prevent his perception of it, but he must know that in fortune and consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know that the Woodhouses had been settled for several generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very ancient family, and that the Eltons were nobody. The landed propriety of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable, but being a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate to which all the rest of Highbury belonged, but their fortune, from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of consequence, and the Woodhouses had long held a high place in the consideration of the neighborhood which Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago to make his way as he could, without any alliances, but in trade, or anything to recommend him to notice but his situation and his civility. But he had fancied her in love with him. That evidently must have been his dependence, and after raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in common honesty to stop and admit that her own behavior to him had been so complacent and obliging, so full of courtesy and attention, as supposing her real motive unperceived, might warrant a man of ordinary observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fanciing himself a very decided favorite. If she had so misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have mistaken hers. The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more. Here have I, said she, actually talked poor Harriet into being very much attached to this man. She might never have thought of him but for me, and certainly never would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his attachment, for she is as modest and as humble as I used to think him. Oh, that I had been satisfied with persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was quite right. That was well done of me, but there I should have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was introducing her into good company, and giving her the opportunity of pleasing someone worth having. I ought not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend to her, and if she were not to feel this disappointment so very much, I am sure I have not an idea of anybody else who would be at all desirable for her. William Cox—oh no, I could not endure William Cox—a pert young lawyer. She stopped to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding ecla, were enough to occupy her in most unmerthful reflections some time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing settled but the conviction of her having blundered most dreadfully. To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, though under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will hardly fail to bring a return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of mourning are in happy analogy, and of powerful operation, and if the distress be not poignant enough to keep the eyes unclosed they will be sure to open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope. Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on getting tolerably out of it. It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to make it shocking to disappoint him. That Harriet's nature should not be that of superior sort in which the feelings are most acute and retentive, and that there could be no necessity for anybody's knowing what had passed except the three principles, and especially for her father's being given a moment's uneasiness about it. These were very cheering thoughts, and the sight of a great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for anything was welcome that might justify their all three being quite asunder at present. The weather was most favorable for her, though Christmas Day she could not go to church. Mr. Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas. The ground covered with snow and the atmosphere in that most unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is, of all others, the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to freeze, she was, for many days, a most honorable prisoner. No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note, no church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas Day, and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton's absenting himself. It was weather which might fairly confine everybody at home, and though she hoped and believed him to be really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out, and to hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could keep entirely from them, ah, Mr. Knightley, why do you not stay at home like poor Mr. Elton? These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities remarkably comfortable, as such seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always be of great importance to his companions, and he had besides so thoroughly cleared off his ill humor at Randall's that his amoebleness never failed him during the rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and obliging, and speaking pleasantly of everybody. But with all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be ever perfectly at ease. End of Volume 1, Chapter 16, read by Cibela Neton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 1, Chapter 17, of Emma, by Jane Austen. Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those to move who must move, and Mr. Woodhouse having, as usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off, and returned to his lamentations over the destiny of poor Isabella, which poor Isabella, passing her life with those she doted on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and always innocently busy, might have been a model of right feminine happiness. The evening of the very day on which they went brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a long, civil, ceremonious note, to say with Mr. Elton's best compliments that he was proposing to leave Highbury the following morning on his way to Bath, where, in compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much regretted the impossibility he was under from various circumstances of weather and business of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful sense, and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands should be happy to attend to them. Emma was most agreeably surprised. Mr. Elton's absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired. She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give him much credit for the manner in which it was announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly spoken than in a civility to her father from which she was so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his opening compliments. Her name was not mentioned, and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful acknowledgments, as she thought at first, could not escape her father's suspicion. It did, however. Her father was quite taken up with the surprise of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr. Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade them away with all her usual promptitude. She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time as possible for getting the better of her other complaint before the gentleman's return. She went to Mrs. Goddard's, accordingly, the very next day, to undergo the necessary penance of communication, and a severe one it was. She had to destroy all the hopes which she had been so industriously feeding, to appear in the ungracious character of the one preferred, and acknowledge herself grossly mistaken and misjudging in all her ideas on one subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her prophecies for the last six weeks. The confession completely renewed her first shame, and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never be in charity with herself again. Harriet bore the intelligence very well, blaming nobody, and in everything testifying such an ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself as must appear with particular advantage at that moment to her friend. Emma was in the humor to value simplicity and modesty to the utmost, and all that was amiable, all that ought to be attaching seemed on Harriet's side, not her own. Harriet did not consider herself as having anything to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton would have been too great a distinction. She could never have deserved him, and nobody but so partial and kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it possible. Her tears fell abundantly, but her grief was so truly artless that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes, and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding, really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two, and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant, but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life. Her second duty now, inferior only to her father's claims, was to promote Harriet's comfort and endeavor to prove her own affection in some better method than by matchmaking. She got her to Hartfield and showed her the most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and conversation to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts. Time she knew must be allowed for this being thoroughly done, and she could suppose herself but an indifferent judge of such manners in general, and very inadequate to sympathize in an attachment to Mr. Elton in particular, but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet's age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a progress might be made towards a state of composure by the time of Mr. Elton's return as to allow them all to meet again in the common routine of acquaintance, without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing them. Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the non-existence of anybody equal to him in person or goodness, and did in truth prove herself more resolutely in love than Emma had foreseen, but yet it appeared to her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination of that sort unrequited, that she could not comprehend its continuing very long and equal force. If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet's persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the recollection of him. Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same place was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had the power of removal or of affecting any material change of society. They must encounter each other and make the best of it. Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her companions at Mrs. Goddard's, Mr. Elton being the adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school, and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation or repellent truth. There must the cure be found, if anywhere, and Emma felt that till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself. END OF VOLUME 1 CHAPTER XVIII. Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston's fears were justified in the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present he could not be spared to his very great mortification and regret, but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to Randalls at no distant period. Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed, much more disappointed in fact than her husband, though her dependence on seeing the young man had been so much more sober, but a sanguine temper, though forever expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies over the present failure and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr. Weston was surprised and sorry, but then he began to perceive that Frank's coming two or three months later would be a much better plan, better time of year, better weather, and that he would be able, without any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if he had come sooner. These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, first saw nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays, and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a great deal more herself. Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care really about Mr. Frank Churchill's not coming, except as a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet and out of temptation, but still, as it was desirable that she should appear in general like her usual self, she took care to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston's disappointment, as might naturally belong to their friendship. She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley, and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, or, being acting apart, perhaps rather more, at the conduct of the Churchill's in keeping him away. She then proceeded to say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of such an addition to their confined society in Surrey, the pleasure of looking at somebody new, the Galaday at Highbury and Tire, which the side of him would have made, and ending with reflections on the Churchill's again, found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Knightley, and to her great amusement perceived that she was taking the other side of the question from her real opinion and making use of Mrs. Weston's arguments against herself. The Churchill's are very likely in fault, said Mr. Knightley, coolly, but I dare say he might come if he would. I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceedingly to come, but his uncle and aunt will not spare him. I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming, if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely for me to believe it without proof. How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill done to make you suppose him such an unnatural creature? I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in suspecting that he might have learnt to be above his connections and to care very little for anything but his own pleasure, from living with those who have always set him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those who are proud, luxurious and selfish, should be proud, luxurious and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January. A man at his age. What is he? Three or four and twenty? Cannot be without the means of doing as much as that. It is impossible. That's easily said and easily felt by you who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence. You do not know what it is like to have tempers to manage. It is not to be conceived that a man of three or four and twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that amount. He cannot want money. He cannot want leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom. We hear of him forever at some watering-place or other. A little while ago he was at Weymouth. This proves he can leave the Churchels. Yes, sometimes he can. And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his while, whenever there is any temptation of pleasure. It is unfair to judge of anybody's conduct without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe and with Mrs. Churchill's temper, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than he can at others. There is one thing Emma, which a man can always do if he chooses, and that is his duty. Not by maneuvering and finessing, but by vigor and resolution. It is Frank Churchill's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it to be so, by his promises and messages. But if he wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs. Churchill, every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will always find me ready to make to your convenience. But I must go and see my father immediately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall therefore set off to-morrow. If he would say that to her at once, in the tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposition made to his going. No, said Emma, laughing, but perhaps there might be some made to his coming back again. Such language for a young man entirely dependent to use. He but you, Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making such a speech is that to the uncle and aunt, who have brought him up and are to provide for him, standing up in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud as he could. How can you imagine such conduct practicable? Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right, and the declaration, made of course, as a man of sense would make it, in a proper manner, would do him more good, raise him higher, fix his interests stronger with the people he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and expedience can ever do. Respect would be added to affection. They would feel that they could trust him, that the nephew who had done rightly by his father would do rightly by them. For they know, as well as he does, as well as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit to his father, and while meanly exerting their power to delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is felt by everybody. If he would act in this sort of manner, on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds would bend to his. I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little minds, but where little minds belong to rich people in authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out till they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill's situation, you would be able to say and do just what you have been recommending for him, and it might have a very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word to say in return, but then you would have no habits of early obedience and long observance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his gratitude in regard at naught. He might have a strong a sense of what would be right as you can have, without being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to do it. Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal conviction. Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what an amiable young man may be likely to feel in directly opposing those whom, as a child and boy, he has been looking up to all his life. Our amiable young man is a very weak young man if this be the first occasion of his carrying through a resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to have been a habit with him by this time of following his duty instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears of a child but not of the man. As he became rational he ought to have roused himself and shaken off all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight his father. Had he begun as he ought there would be no difficulty now. We shall never agree about him, cried Emma, but that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man. I feel sure that he is not. Mr. Weston would not be so blind to folly, though in his own son, but he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection. I daresay he has, and though it may cut him off from some advantages it will secure him many others. Yes, all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to move and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure and fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He can sit down and write a fine, flourishing letter full of professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving peace at home and preventing his father's having any right to complain. His letters disgust me. Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy everybody else. I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They can hardly satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings, standing in a mother's place but without a mother's affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself, he would have come, I daresay, and it would not have signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend behind hand in these sorts of considerations? Do you suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No, Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in French, not in English. He may be very amiable, have very good manners, and be very agreeable, but he can have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other people. Nothing really amiable about him. You seem determined to think ill of him. Me, not at all, replied Mr. Knightley, rather displeased. I do not want to think ill of him. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man, but I hear of none, except what are merely personal, that he is well grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners. Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon fine young men, well bred and agreeable. We must not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the parishes of Dunwell and Highbury, but one interest, one object of curiosity, it will be all, Mr. Frank Churchill, we shall think and speak of nobody else. You will excuse my being so much overpowered if I find him conversable. I shall be glad of his acquaintance, but if he is only a chattering coxcomb he will not occupy much of my time or thoughts. My idea of him is that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of everybody, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable. To you he will talk of farming, to me of drawing or music, and so on to everybody, having that general information on all subjects which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead, just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well on each. That is my idea of him. And mine, said Mr. Knightley warmly, is that if he turn out anything like it he will be the most insufferable fellow breathing. What, at three and twenty, to be the king of his company, the great man, the practised politician, who is to read everybody's character and make everybody's talents conduced to the display of his own superiority, to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he may make all appear like fools compared with himself. My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point. I will say no more about him, cried Emma, you turn everything to evil. We are both prejudiced, you against, I for him, and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really here. Prejudiced? I am not prejudiced. But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a decided prejudice in his favour. He is a person I never think of from one month's end to another, said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation which made Emma immediately talk of something else, though she could not comprehend why he should be angry. To take such a dislike to a young man, only because he appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always used to acknowledge in him, for with all the high opinion of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had never before for a moment supposed it could make him unjust to the merit of another. End of Volume 1, Chapter 18, read by Isabella Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2, Chapter 1 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and in Emma's opinion had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that Harriet Solis or her own sins required more, and she was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as they returned. But it burst out again when she thought that she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other answer than a very plaintive, Mr. Elton is so good to the poor, she found something else must be done. They were just approaching the house where lived Mrs. and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them and seek safety in numbers. There was always sufficient reason for such an attention. Miss Bates and Miss Bates loved to be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts. She had had many a hint for Mr. Knightley and some from her own heart as to her deficiency, but none were equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very disagreeable, a waste of time, tiresome women, and all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second rate and third rate of Highbury, who were calling on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not passing their door without going in, observing, as she proposed it to Harriet, that as well as she could calculate, they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane Fairfax. The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor, and there in the very moderate-sized apartment, which was everything to them. The visitors were most cordially and even gratefully welcomed. The quiet, neat old lady, who with her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit, solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr. Woodhouse's health, cheerful communications about her mother's, and sweet cake from the buffet. Mrs. Cole had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had been so good as to sit an hour with them, and she had taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it very much, and therefore she hoped Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece, too. The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away. Emma knew what was coming. They must have the letter over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and how much he was engaged in company, and what a favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the Master of Ceremonies ball had been, and she went through it very well with all the interest and all the commendation that could be requisite, and always putting forward to prevent Harriet's being obliged to say a word. This she had been prepared for when she entered the house, but meant having once talked him handsomely over to be no farther incommodated by any troublesome topic, and to wander at large amongst all the mistresses and misses of Highbury and their card parties. She had not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton, but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates. She jumped away from him at last, abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a letter from her niece. Oh, yes, Mr. Elton, I understand, certainly asked to dancing. Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at Bath was— Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with us talking of Jane. For as soon as she came in, she began inquiring after her. Jane is so very great a favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to show her kindness enough, and I must say that Jane deserves it as much as anybody can. And so she began inquiring after her directly, saying, I know you cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her time for writing. And why, I immediately said, but indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning. I did not know that I ever saw anybody more surprised. Have you, upon your honour, said she, well, that is quite unexpected. Do let me hear what she says. Emma's politeness was at hand directly to say, with smiling interest. Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am extremely happy. I hope she is well. Thank you, you are so kind," replied the happily deceived aunt, while eagerly hunkering for the letter. Oh, here it is. I was sure it could not be far off, but I had put my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so it was quite hid. But I had it in my hand so very lately that I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away I was reading it again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to hear her, a letter from Jane, that she can never hear it often enough. So I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just under my housewife. And since you are so kind as to wish to hear what she says, but first of all I really must, in justice Jane, apologize for her writing so short a letter, only two pages, you see, hardly two, and in general she fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says, when the letter is first opened, well, heady, now I think you will be put to it to make out all that checker work. Don't you, ma'am? And then I tell her, I am sure she would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody to do it for her, every word of it. I am sure she would pour over it till she had made out every word. And indeed, though my mother's eyes are not so good as they were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God, with the help of spectacles. My mother's eyes are really very good indeed. Jane often says when she is here, I am sure, Grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see as you do, and so much fine work as you have done too. I only wish my eyes may last me as well. All this, spoken extremely fast, obliged Miss Bates to stop for breath, and Emma said something very civil about the excellence of Miss Fairfax's handwriting. You are extremely kind, replied Miss Bates, highly gratified. You who are such a judge and write so beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody's praise that could give us so much pleasures, Miss Woodhouse's. My mother does not hear. She is a little deaf, you know. Ma'am, addressing her, do you hear what Miss Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane Ten writing? And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady could comprehend it. She was pondering in the meanwhile upon the possibility, without seeming very rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax's letter, and had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her attention. My mother's deafness is very trifling, you see. Just nothing at all. By only raising my voice and saying anything two or three times over she is sure to hear, but then she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane speaks so distinct. However, she will not find her grand-mama at all deffer than she was two years ago, which is saying a great deal at my mother's time of life. And it really is two full years, you know, since she was here. We never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make enough of her now. Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon? Oh, yes, next week. Indeed! That must be a very great pleasure. Thank you. You're very kind. Yes, next week. Everybody is so surprised, and everybody says the same obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her friends at Highbury as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday or Saturday, she cannot say which, because Colonel Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of those days. So very good of them to send her the whole way. But they always do, you know. Oh, yes, Friday or Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it, for in the common course we should not have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday. Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little chance of my hearing anything of Miss Fairfax today. So obliging of you. No, we should not have heard if it had not been for this particular circumstance of her being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted, for she is to be three months with us at least. Three months, so she says, positively, as I am going to have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded her father and mother to come over and see her directly. They had not intended to go over till summer, but she is so impatient to see them again. For till she married last October she was never away from them so much as a week, which must make it very strange to be in different kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother, or her father, I declare I do not know which it was. But we shall see presently in Jane's letter. Wrote in Mr. Dixon's name as well as her own, to press their coming over directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country seat, Bally Crug, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a great deal of its beauty, for Mr. Dixon, I mean. I do not know that she ever heard about it from anybody else, but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses, and as Jane used to be very often walking out with him. For Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very particular about their daughters not walking out, often, with only Mr. Dixon, which I do not at all blame them. Of course she heard everything he might be telling Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland, and I think she wrote us word that he had shown them some drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He is the most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane was quite longing to go to Ireland from his account of things. At this moment an ingenious and animating suspicion entering Emma's brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this charming mixture Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she said, with the insidious design of farther discovery, you must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax should be allowed to come to you at such a time. Considering the very particular friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell. Very true, very true indeed. The very thing that we have always been rather afraid of, for we should not have liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months altogether, not being able to come if anything was to happen. But you see everything turns out for the best. They want her, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, excessively to come over with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, quite depend upon it. Nothing can be more kind or pressing than their joined imitation. Jane says, as you will hear presently, Mr. Dixon does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is a most charming young man. Ever since the service he rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round of something or other among the sails, would have been dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught hold of her habit—I can never think of it without trembling—but ever since we had the history of that day I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon. But in spite of all her friends' urgency and her own wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the time to you and Mrs. Bates? Yes, entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice, and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell thinks she does quite right, just what they should recommend, and indeed they particularly wish her to try her native air, as she has not been quite so well as usual lately. I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal beauty, is not by any means to be compared with Miss Fairfax. Oh, no, you are very obliging to say such things, but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell always was absolutely plain, but extremely elegant and amiable. Yes, that, of course. Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing, so long ago as the seventh of November, as I am going to read to you, and has never been well since. A long time, is it not, for cold to hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because she would not alarm us. Just like her, so consider it. But, however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air that always agrees with her, and they have no doubt that three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her, and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come here than go to Ireland if she is unwell. Nobody could nurse her as we do. It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the world. And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells leave town on their way to Holyhead the Monday following, as you will find from Jane's letter. So sudden, you may guess, dear Miss Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in. If it were not for the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to me as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane's letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to my mother, you know, for fear of there being anything in them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always do, and so I began to-day with my usual caution, but no sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell, that I burst out quite frightened with, bless me, poor Jane is ill, which my mother, being on the watch, heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at first, and so I make light of it now to her, that she does not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how it could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be thought of, and though he is so liberal and so fond of Jane that I dare say he would not mean to charge anything for attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving away his time. Well, now, I have just given you a hint of what Jane writes about. We will turn to her letter, and I am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I can tell it for her. I am afraid we must be running away, said Emma, glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise. My father will be expecting us. I had no intention. I thought I had no power of staying more than five minutes when I first entered the house. I merely called because I would not pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates, but I had been so pleasantly detained. Now, however, we must wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning. And not all that could be urged to detain her succeeded. She regained the street, happy in this, that, though much had been forced on her against her will, though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane Fairfax's letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself. CHAPTER II of Emma by Jane Austen. Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates's youngest daughter. The marriage of Lieutenant Fairfax of the Regiment of Infantry and Miss Jane Bates had had its day of fame and pleasure, hope and interest, but nothing now remained of it saved the melancholy remembrance of him dying in action abroad, of his widow sinking under consumption and grief soon afterwards, and this girl. By birth she belonged to Highbury, and when at three years old, on losing her mother, she became the property, the charge, the consolation, the fondling of her grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability of her being permanently fixed there, of her being taught only what very limited means could command, and growing up with no advantages of connection or improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given her in a pleasing person, good understanding and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations. But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell, who had very highly regarded Fairfax as an excellent officer and most deserving young man, and farther had been indebted to him for such attentions during a severe camp fever as he believed had saved his life. These were claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax before his own return to England put anything in his power. When he did return he sought out the child and took notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age, and Jane became their guest, paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all. And before she was nine years old, his daughter's great fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend, united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was accepted, and from that period Jane had belonged to Colonel Campbell's family, and had lived with them entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time. The plan was that she should be brought up for educating others, the very few hundred pounds which she had inherited from her father making independence impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of Colonel Campbell's power, for though his income, by pay and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was moderate, and must be all his daughters, but by giving her an education he hoped to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence hereafter. Such was Jane Fairfax's history. She had fallen into good hands, known nothing but kindness from the Campbell's, and had been given an excellent education. Living constantly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received every advantage of discipline and culture, and Colonel Campbell's residence being in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters. Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do, and at eighteen or nineteen she was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, fully confident to the office of instruction herself. But she was too much beloved to be parted with. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It was easy to decide that she was still too young, and Jane remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good understanding to remind her that all this might soon be over. The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane's decided superiority, both in beauty and acquirements. That nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be unfelt by the parents. They continued together with unabated regard, however, till the marriage of Miss Campbell, who, by that chance, that luck which so often defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction to what is moderate rather than what is superior, engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted, and was elegibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet her bread to earn. This event had very lately taken place, too lately for anything to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend towards entering on her path of duty, though she had now reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for beginning. She had long resolved that one and twenty should be the period. With the fortitude of devoted novitiate she had resolved at one and twenty to complete the sacrifice and retire from all the pleasures of life of rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, dependence and mortification, for ever. The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As long as they lived no exertions would be necessary. Their home might be hers for ever, and for their own comfort they would have retained her wholly, but this would be selfishness. What must be at last had better be soon. Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been quite well since the time of their daughter's marriage, and till she should have completely recovered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which so far from being compatible with the weakened frame and varying spirits, seemed under the most favorable circumstances to require something more than human perfection of body and mind to be discharged with terrible comfort. With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland, her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice to give the time of their absence to the Highbury to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with those kind relations to whom she was so very dear, and the Campbell's, whatever might be their motive or motives, whether single or double or treble, gave the arrangement their ready sanction, and said that they depended more on a few months spent in her native air for the recovery of her health than on anything else. Certain it was that she was to come, and that Highbury, instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been so long promised it, Mr. Frank Churchill, must put up for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only the freshness of a two-year's absence. Emma was sorry to have to pay civilities to a person she did not like through three long months to be always doing more than she wished and less than she ought. Why, she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficulty to answer. Mr. Knightley had once told her it was because she saw in her the really accomplished young woman which she wanted to be thought herself, and though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination in which her conscience could not quite acquit her. But she could never get acquainted with her. She did not know how it was, but there was such a coldness in reserve, such apparent indifference, whether she pleased or not. And then her aunt was such an eternal talker, and she was made such a fuss with by everybody. And it had always been imagined that they were to be so intimate because their ages were the same. Everybody had supposed they must be so fond of each other. Those were her reasons she had no better. It was a dislike so little just every imputed fault was so magnified by fancy that she never saw Jane Fairfax for the first time after any considerable absence without feeling that she had injured her. And now, when the due visit was paid on her arrival after a two years interval, she was particularly struck with the very appearance and manners which for those two whole years she had been depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably elegant, and she had herself the highest value for elegance. Her height was pretty, just such as almost everybody would think tall, and nobody could think very tall. Her figure particularly graceful, her size a most becoming medium between fat and thin, though a slight appearance of ill health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this, and then her face, her features, there was more beauty in them altogether than she had remembered. It was not regular, but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep gray, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, had never been denied their praise, but the skin which she had used to cavall at, as wanting color, had a clearness and delicacy which really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty of which elegance was the reigning character, and as such she must, in honor, by all her principles admire it. Elegance which, whether of person or mind, she saw so little in Highbury. There not to be vulgar was the distinction and merit. In short she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency, the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determined that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty, when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel anything but compassion and respect, especially if, to every well-known particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case nothing could be more pitiable or more honorable than the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon's actions from his wife, or of anything mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend, and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connections by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence, nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings, but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, she certainly is handsome, she is better than handsome, Jane had spent an evening at Harfield with her grandmother and aunt, and everything was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever, more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers, and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new work bags for her mother and herself, and Jane's offenses rose again. They had music, Emma was obliged to play, and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candor, an air of greatness, meaning only to show off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious, there was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapped up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If anything could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than anything. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character or her own value for his company or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness, nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service, however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice and returned to her first surmises. There probably was something more to conceal than her own appearance. Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or had been fixed only to Miss Campbell for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted, but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. Was he handsome? She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man. Was he agreeable? He was generally thought so. Did he appear a sensible young man, a young man of information? At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of under a much longer knowledge than they had had yet of Mr. Churchill. She believed everybody found his manners pleasing. Emma could not forgive her. Volume 2 Chapter 3 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Emma could not forgive her, but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behavior on each side, he was expressing the next morning being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole, not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. A very pleasant evening, he began as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the paper swept away, particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women, sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmothers it must have been a real indulgence. I am happy you approved, said Emma, smiling, but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield. No, my dear, said her father instantly, that I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If anything, you are too attentive. The muffin last night, if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough. No, said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time, you are not often deficient. Not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore. When Archlook expressed, I understand you well enough, but she said only Miss Fairfax is reserved. I always told you she was a little, but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured. You think her diffident. I do not see it. My dear Emma, said he, moving from his chair into one close by her. You are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening. Oh, no! I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions, and am used to think how little information I obtained. I am disappointed, was his only answer. I hope everybody had a pleasant evening, said Mr. Woodhouse in his quiet way. I had. Once I felt the fire rather too much, but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends, and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady, indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma. True, sir, and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax. Emma saw his anxiety in wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question, she is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes away from. I am always watching her to admire, and I do pity her from my heart. Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express, and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said, It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined, a great pity indeed. And I have often wished, but it is so little one can venture to do, small, trifling presence of anything uncommon. Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg. It is very small and delicate. Heart-filled pork is not like any other pork. But still it is pork, and my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roasted, for no stomach can bear roast pork. I think we had better send the leg. Do you not think so, my dear? My dear papa, I sent the whole hind quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like. That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg, and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just a sural boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome. Emma, said Mr. Knightly presently, I have a piece of news for you. You like news, and I heard an article on my way hither that I think will interest you. News? Oh, yes, I always like news. What is it? Why do you smile so? Where did you hear it? At Randalls? He had time only to say, No, not at Randalls. I have not been near Randalls. When the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightly soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him. Oh, my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse, I come quite overpowered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful. Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married. Emma had not time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprised that she could not avoid a little start, and a little blush at the sound. Where is my news? I thought it would interest you," said Mr. Knightly, with a smile which implied a conviction of some part of what had passed between them. But where could you hear it? cried Miss Bates. Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightly? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note. No, it cannot be more than five, or at least ten, for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out. I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork. Jane was standing in the passage. Were you not Jane? For my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, Shall I go down instead, for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen. Oh, my dear, said I. Well, and just then came the note. I miss Hawkins. That's all I know. I miss Hawkins, a bath. But Mr. Knightly, how could you possibly have heard it? For the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. I miss Hawkins. I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just read Elton's letter as I was shown in, and handed it to me directly. Well, that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compliments in regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her. We consider our heartfelt pork, replied Mr. Woodhouse. Indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than— Oh, my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If there were ever people who, without having great wealth themselves, had everything they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that our lot is cast in a goodly heritage. Well, Mr. Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter. Well— It was short, merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of course. Here was a sly glance at Emma. He had been so fortunate as to—I forget the precise words. One has no business to remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style I should imagine it just settled. Mr. Elton going to be married, said Emma, as soon as she could speak. He will have everybody's wishes for his happiness. He is very young to settle, was Mr. Woodhouse's observation. He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at Hartfield. A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse, said Miss Bates, joyfully. My mother is so pleased. She says she cannot bear to have the poor old vicarage without a mistress. This is great news indeed. Jane, you have never seen Mr. Elton. No wonder that you have such a curiosity to see him. Jane's curiosity did not appear of that of an absorbing nature as wholly to occupy her. No, I have never seen Mr. Elton, she replied, starting on this appeal. Is he—is he a tall man? Who shall answer that question? cried Emma. My father would say yes, Mr. Knightley know, and Miss Bates and I, that he is just the happy medium. When you have been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury, both in person and mind. Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the very best young man. But my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins, I dare say, an excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother, wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you know. It is not much, but she does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it. It is a warm bath, but she says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is quite our angel, and Mr. Dixon seems a very charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a happiness when good people get together, and they always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins, and there are the coals, such very good people, and the Perrys, I suppose there never was a happier or a better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir, turning to Mr. Woodhouse, I think there are few places with such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite blessed in our neighbors. My dear sir, if there is one thing my mother loves better than another it is pork, a roast loin of pork. As to who or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he has been acquainted with her, said Emma, nothing, I suppose, can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks. Nobody had any information to give, and after a few more wonderings Emma said, You are silent, Miss Fairfax, but I hope you mean to take an interest in this news. You who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell's account, we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins. When I have seen Mr. Elton, replied Jane, I dare say I shall be interested, but I believe it requires that with me. And as it is some month since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off. Yes, he has been gone just four weeks as you observed Miss Woodhouse, said Miss Bates, four weeks yesterday, and Miss Hawkins. Well, I had always rather fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts, not that I ever—Miss Cole once whispered to me. But I immediately said, No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young man, but—in short, I do not think I am particularly quick at those sorts of discoveries. I do not pretend to it. What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss Woodhouse lets me chatter on so good humoredly. She knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you heard from Miss John Knightley lately? Oh, those dear little children, Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Knightley? I mean in person, tall, with that sort of look, and not very talkative. Quite wrong, my dear aunt, there is no lightness at all. Very odd, but one never does form a just idea of anybody beforehand. One takes up a notion and runs away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome? Handsome? Oh, no, far from it, certainly plain. I told you he was plain. My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain, and that you yourself—oh, as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a regard, I always think a person well looking. But I gave what I believed the general opinion when I called him plain. Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well, and Grandma Ma will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss Woodhouse, but we really must take leave. This has been a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go round by Mrs. Coles, but I shall not stop three minutes, and Jane, you had better go home directly. I would not have you out in a shower. We think she is the better for Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think she cares for anything but boiled pork, when we dress the leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very—I am sure if Jane is tired you will be so kindest to give her your arm. Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins, good morning to you. Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention wanted by him, while he lamented that young people would be in such a hurry to marry—and to marry strangers too—and the other half she could give to her own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton could not have suffered long, but she was sorry for Harriet. It must feel it, and all that she could hope was, by giving the first information herself to save her from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss Bates in her way, and upon its being to reign, Emma was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining her at Mrs. Goddard's, and that the intelligence would undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation. The shower was heavy but short, and it had not been over five minutes when in came Harriet, with just the heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart was likely to give. And the—oh, Miss Woodhouse, what do you think has happened, which instantly burst forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not show greater kindness than in listening, and Harriet, unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. She had set out from Mrs. Goddard's half an hour ago. She had been afraid it would rain. She had been afraid it would pour down every movement. But she thought she might get to Hartfield first. She had hurried on as fast as possible. But then, as she was passing by the house where a young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on. And though she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after she came out it began to rain. And she did not know what to do. So she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took shelter at Ford's. Ford's was the principal Willendraper, Linnendraper, and Haberdasher's shop united, the shop first in size and fashion in the place. Even so, there she had set, without an idea of anything in the world, full ten minutes, perhaps, when all of a sudden who should come in? To be sure it was so very odd. But they always dealt at Ford's. Who should come in, but Elizabeth Martin and her brother? Dear Miss Woodhouse, only think! I thought I should have fainted. I did not know what to do. I was sitting near the door. Elizabeth saw me directly, but he did not. He was busy with the umbrella. I am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and took no notice, and they both went to quite the farther end of the shop, and I kept sitting near the door. Oh, dear! I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as wide as my gown. I could not go away, you know, because of the rain, but I did so wish myself anywhere in the world but there. Oh, dear Miss Woodhouse! Well at last I fancy he looked round and saw me, for instead of going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one another. I am sure they were talking of me, and I could not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to me. Do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse? For presently she came forward, came quite up to me, and asked how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands if I would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she used. I could see she was altered, but, however, she seemed to try to be very friendly, and we shook hands, and stood talking some time. But I know no more what I said. I was in such a tremble, I remember she said she was sorry we never met now, which I thought almost too kind. Dear Miss Woodhouse! I was absolutely miserable. By that time it was beginning to hold up, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away, and then only think. I found he was coming up towards me too, slowly, you know, and as if he did not know quite what to do. And so he came and spoke, and I answered, and I stood for a minute, feeling dreadfully, you know, one can't tell how, and then I took courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go. And so off I set, and I had not got three yards from the door when he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield, he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole's stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this rain. Oh, dear! I thought it would have been the death of me. So I said, I was very much obliged to him. You know I could not do less. And then he went back to Elizabeth, and I came round by the stables. I believe I did, but I hardly knew where I was, or anything about it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse! I would rather done anything than have it happened. And yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and make me comfortable again. Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so, but it was not immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The young man's conduct and his sisters seemed the result of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet described it, there had been an interesting mixture of wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their behavior. But she had believed them to be well-meaning worthy people before, and what difference did this make in the evils of the connection? It was folly to be disturbed by it. Of course he must be sorry to lose her. They must all be sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet's acquaintance. And besides, what was the value of Harriet's description so easily pleased, so little discerning, what signified her praise? She exerted herself and did try to make her comfortable by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle and quite unworthy of being dwelt on. It might be distressing for the moment, said she, but you seem to have behaved extremely well and it is over, and may never, can never, as a first meeting occur again, and therefore you need not think about it. Harriet said, very true, and she would not think about it, but still she talked of it, still she could talk of nothing else, and Emma at last, in order to put the Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had meant to give with so much tender caution, hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be angry, ashamed or only amused at such a state of mind in poor Harriet, such a conclusion of Mr. Elton's importance with her. Mr. Elton's rights, however, gradually revived, though she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before or an hour before, its interest soon increased, and before their first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins under proper subordination in her fancy. Emma learned to be rather glad there had been such a meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the first shock without retaining any influence to alarm. As Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted either the courage or the condescension to seek her, for since her refusal of the brother the sisters had never been at Mrs. Goddard's, and a twelve-month might pass without their being thrown together again, with any necessity or even any power of speech. End of Volume 2, Chapter 3, read by Cibela Denton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2, Chapter 4 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations that a young person who either marries or dies is sure of being kindly spoken of. A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins's name was first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some means or later, discovered to have every recommendation of person and mind. To be handsome, elegant, highly accomplished, and perfectly amiable. And when Mr. Elton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and to circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more for him to do than to tell her Christian name and say whose music she principally played. Mr. Elton returned a very happy man. He had gone away rejected and mortified, disappointed in a very sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong encouragement, and not only losing the right lady, but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had gone away deeply offended. He came back engaged to another, and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained always is to what is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy, carrying nothing for Miss Woodhouse and defying Miss Smith. The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune, of so many thousands as would always be called ten, a point of some dignity as well as some convenience. The story well told, he had not thrown himself away. He had gained a woman of ten thousand pounds or thereabouts, and he had gained her with such delightful rapidity. The first hour of introduction had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice. The history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and progress of the affair was so glorious, the steps so quick, from the accidental recanture, to the dinner at Mr. Greens and the party at Mrs. Brown's, smiles and blushes rising in importance with consciousness and agitation richly scattered. The lady had been so easily impressed, so sweetly disposed, had in short, to use a most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him, that vanity and prudence were equally contented. He had caught both substance and shadow, both fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to be, talking only of himself and his own concerns, expecting to be congratulated, ready to be laughed at, and with cordial, fearless smiles now addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom a few weeks ago he would have been more cautiously galant. The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary preparations to wait for, and when he set out for bath again there was a general expectation, which a certain glance at Mrs. Coles did not seem to contradict, that when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride. During his present short stay Emma had barely seen him, but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over and to give her the impression of his not being improved by the mixture of peak and pretension, now spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all, and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very disagreeable feelings that except in a moral light, as a penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of never seeing him again. She wished him very well, but he gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would administer most satisfaction. The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many vain solicitudes would be prevented, many awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A Mrs. Elton would be an excuse for any change of intercourse. Former intimacy might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning their life of civility again. Of the lady individually Emma thought very little. She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt, accomplished enough for Highbury, handsome enough to look plain, probably by Harriet's side. As to connection, there Emma was perfectly easy, persuaded that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet he had done nothing. On that article truth seemed unattainable. What she was must be uncertain, but who she was might be found out, and setting aside the ten thousand pounds it did not appear that she was at all Harriet's superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol merchant. Of course he must be called, but as the whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she had been used to spend in Bath, but Bristol was her home, the very heart of Bristol, for though the father and mother had died some years ago and uncle remained, in the law-line, nothing more distinctly honourable was hazarded of him than that he was in the law-line, and with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be the drudge of some attorney and too stupid to rise, and all the grandeur of the connection seemed dependent on the elder sister, who was very well married, to a gentleman in a great way, near Bristol, who kept two carriages. That was the wind-up of the history. That was the glory of Miss Hawkins. Could she have but given Harriet her feelings about it all? She had talked her into love, but alas, she was not so easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy the many vacancies of Harriet's mind was not to be talked away. He might be superseded by another. He certainly would indeed. Nothing could be clearer. Even a Robert Martin would have been sufficient, but nothing else she feared would cure her. Harriet was one of those who, having once begun, would always be in love. And now, poor girl, she was considerably worse from this reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only once, but two or three times every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just to miss him, or just to hear his voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to preserve him in all her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of surprise and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually hearing about him, for accepting when at Hartfield, she was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton, and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of all his concerns, and every report therefore, every guess, all that had already occurred, all that might occur in the arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income, servants, and furniture was continually in agitation around her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise of him, and her regrets kept alive and feelings irritated by ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins's happiness and continual observation of how much he seemed attached. His air as he walked by the house, the very sitting of his hat, all being in proof of how much he was in love. Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been no pain to her friend or poach to herself in the waverings of Harriet's mind, Emma would have been amused by its variations. Because Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the Martins, and each was occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton's engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth Martin's calling at Mrs. Goddard's a few days afterwards. Harriet had not been at home, but a note had been prepared and left for her, written in the very style to touch, a small mixture of reproach with a great deal of kindness, until Mr. Elton himself appeared she had been much occupied by it, continually pondering over what could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she dared to confess. But Mr. Elton in person had driven away all such cares. While he stayed the Martins were forgotten, and on the very morning of his setting off for Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth Martin's visit. How that visit was to be acknowledged, what would be necessary, and what might be safest, had been a point of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be in gratitude. It must not be, and yet the danger, of a renewal of the acquaintance. After much thinking she could determine on nothing better than Harriet's returning the visit, but in a way that, if they had understanding, should convince them that it was only to be a formal acquaintance. She meant to take her in the carriage, leave her at the abbey mill, whilst she drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon as to allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future. She could think of nothing better, and though there was something in it which her own heart could not approve, something of ingratitude merely glossed over, it must be done, or what would become of Harriet. End of Volume 2 Chapter 5 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for Librebox.org into the public domain. Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a trunk, directed to the Reverend Philip Elton, White Heart, Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted into the butcher's cart, which was to convey it to where the coach has passed, and everything in this world, accepting that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank. She went, however, and when they reached the farm, she was to be put down at the end of the broad, neat gravel walk which led between espalier apple trees to the front door, the sight of everything which had given her so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to revive a little local agitation, and when they parted, Emma observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on herself to give that portion of time to an old servant who was married, and settled in Donwell. The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the great white gate again, and Miss Smith, receiving her summons, was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarming young man. She came solidarily down the gravel walk, a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility. Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible account. She was feeling too much, but at last Emma collected from her enough to understand the sort of meeting and the sort of pain it was creating. She had only seen Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her doubtfully, if not coolly, and nothing beyond the merest common place had been talked almost all the time, till just at last, when Mrs. Martin saying all of a sudden, that she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a more interesting subject and a warmer manner. In that very room she had been measured last September with her two friends. There were the penciled marks and memorandums on the wainskirt by the window. He had done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion, to feel the same consciousness, the same regrets, to be ready to return to the same good understanding, and they were just growing again like themselves. Harriet, as Emma must suspect, ready as the best of them to be cordial and happy, when the carriage reappeared and all was over. The style of the visit and the shortness of it were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully passed six weeks, not six months ago. Emma could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad business. She would have given a great deal, or endeared a great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so deserving that a little higher should have been enough. But, as it was, how could she have done otherwise? Impossible. She could not repent. They must be separated, but there was a great deal of pain in the process. So much to herself at this time that she soon felt the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going home by way of Randall's to procure it. Her mind was quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment of Randall's was absolutely necessary. It was a good scheme, but on driving to the door they heard that neither Master nor Mistress was at home. They had both been out some time. The man believed they were gone to Hartfield. This is too bad, cried Emma, as they turned away, and now we shall just miss them, too provoking. I do not know when I have been so disappointed. And she leaned back in the corner to indulge her murmurs or to reason them away, probably a little of both, such being the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind. Presently the carriage stopped. She looked up. It was stopped by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her. There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still greater pleasure was conveyed in sound, for Mr. Weston immediately accosted her with, How do you do? How do you do? We have been sitting with your father. Glad to see him so well. Frank comes to-morrow. I had a letter this morning. We see him to-morrow by dinnertime to a certainty. He is at Oxford to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight. I knew it would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not have stayed three days. I was always glad he did not come at Christmas. Now we are going to have just the right weather for him. Fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy him completely. Everything has turned out exactly as we could wish. There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston's, confirmed, as it all was, by the words and the countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose. To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what was coming, and in the rapidity of half a moment's thought she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more. Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and method of his journey, and she listened and smiled and congratulated. I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield, said he at the conclusion. Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at his speech, from his wife. We had better move on, Mr. Weston, said she, we are detaining the girls. Well, well, I am ready, and turning again to Emma, but you must not be expecting such a very fine young man. You have only had my account, you know. I daresay he is really nothing extraordinary, though his own sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very different conviction. Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent, and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing. Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four o'clock. As Mrs. Weston's parting injunction, spoken with some anxiety and meant only for her. Four o'clock, depend upon it he will be here by three, was Mr. Weston's quick amendment, and so ended a most satisfactory meeting. Emma's spirits were mounted quite up to happiness. Everything wore a different air. James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder, at least, must soon be coming out, and when she turned round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring, a tender smile even there. Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as Oxford? Was a question, however, which did not augur much. But neither geography nor tranquility could come all at once, and Emma was now in a humor to resolve that they should both come in time. The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs. Weston's faithful pupil did not forget, either at ten, or eleven, or twelve o'clock, that she was to think of her at four. My dear, dear, anxious friend, said she in mental soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room, always over-careful for everybody's comfort but your own, I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again and again into his room, to be sure that all is right. The clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. Tis twelve I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence, and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon. She opened the parlor door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father, Mr. Weston, and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprise, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her. He was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise. He was a very good-looking young man, height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's. He looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him, and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randall's the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive, which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. I told you yesterday, cried Mr. Weston with exultation, I told you all that he would be here before the time-name. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey, one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned, and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the lookout begins is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs. It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it, said the young man, though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far, but in coming home I felt I might do anything. The word home made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Anna was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable. The conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randall's, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's own country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. But he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, past suspiciously through Emma's brain, but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belonged to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries. Was she a horsewoman, pleasant rides, pleasant walks? Had they a large neighborhood? Maybe, perhaps, afforded society enough? There were several very pretty houses in and about it. Balls? Had they balls? Was it a musical society? But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception to himself. As was an additional proof of his knowing how to please, and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston, but undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome. He could be sure of little else. His father's marriage, he said, had been the wisest measure. Every friend must rejoice in it, and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him. He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the commonest course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse, Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for traveling round its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person. And agreeable manners I was preferred for," said he, but I confessed that, considering everything, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age. I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston. "'You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings,' said Emma, where you to guess her to be eighteen I should listen with pleasure, but she would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman. I hope I should know better," he replied. "'No, depend upon it, with a gallant bow, that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms.'" Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken a strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his, and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways. At present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression, and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it. Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any. It seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two person's understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favoring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward and any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural, kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey. Through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road and express very genuine, unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold, which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night. A reasonable visit paid Mr. Weston began to move. He must be going. He had business at the crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry anybody else. His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honor of being acquainted with the neighbor of yours. Turning to Emma, a lady residing in or near Highbury, a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house, though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name. I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name? To be sure we do," cried his father. Mrs. Bates, we passed her house. I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax. I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means. There is no necessity for my calling this morning, said the young man. Another day would do as well. But there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which, oh, go to-day, go to-day, do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And besides, I must give you a hint, Frank. Any want of attention to her here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells when she was the equal of everybody she mixed with. But here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early, it will be a slight. The son looked convinced. I have heard her speak of the acquaintance at Emma. She is a very elegant young woman. He agreed to it, but with so quiet a yes, as inclined her, almost to doubt his real concurrence, and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it. If you were never particularly struck by her manners before, said she, I think you will to-day. You will see her to advantage, see her, and hear her. No, I am afraid you will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never holds her tongue. You are acquainted with Ms. Fairfax, sir, are you? said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his way in conversation. Then give me leave to assure you that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very worthy people. I have known them all my life. They will be extremely glad to see you, I am sure, and one of my servants shall go with you to show you the way. My dear sir, upon no account in the world, my father can direct me. But your father is not going so far. He is only going to the crown, quite on the other side of the street. And there are a great many houses. You might be very much at a loss, and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the footpath, but my coachman can tell you where you had best crossed the street. Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by calling out, My good friend, that is quite unnecessary. Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to Mrs. Bates, he may get there from the crown in a hop, step, and a jump. They were permitted to go alone, and with a cordial nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now engage to think of the mall at Randalls any hour of the day, with full confidence in their comfort. End of Volume 2 Chapter 5 Read by Cibella Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 2 Chapter 6 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again. He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her usual hour of exercise, and on being desired to choose their walk immediately fixed on Highbury. He did not doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction, but if left to him he should always choose the same. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction. Highbury with Mrs. Weston stood for Hartfield, and she trusted to its bearing the same construction with him. They walked thither directly. Emma had hardly expected them, for Mr. Weston, who had called in for half a minute in order to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans, and it was an agreeable surprise to her, therefore, to perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them together she became perfectly satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolic compliment that he paid his duty, nothing could be more proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her, nothing could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all three walking about together for an hour or two, first round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with everything. Admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse's ear, and when their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to be made acquainted with the whole village, and found matter of commendation and interest much oftener than Emma could have supposed. Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable feelings. He begged to be shown the house which his father had lived in so long, and which had been the home of his father's father, and on recollecting that an old woman who nursed him was still living, walked in quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the other, and though in some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive merit, they showed altogether a goodwill towards Highbury in general, which must be very like a merit to those he was with. Emma watched and decided that, with such feelings as were now shown, it could not be fairly supposed that he had been ever voluntarily absenting himself, that he had not been acting apart or making a parade of insincere professions, and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done him justice. Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort, where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighborhood than from any run on the road, and his companions had not expected to be detained by any interest excited there, but in passing it they gave the history of the large room visibly added. It had been built many years ago for a ballroom, and while the neighborhood had been in a particularly populous dancing state, had been occasionally used as such, but such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to accommodate a whist club established among the gentleman and half-gentleman of the place. He was immediately interested. Its character as a ballroom caught him, and instead of passing on he stopped for several minutes at the two superiors sashed windows which were open, to look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in the room. He would acknowledge none which they suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough, handsome enough. It would hold the very number for comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the room? She who could do anything in Highbury, the want of proper families in the place, and the conviction that none beyond the place and its immediate environs could be tempted to attend, were mentioned. But he was not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many good-looking houses as he saw around him could not furnish numbers enough for such a meeting, and even when particulars were given and families described, he was still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be anything, or that there would be the smallest difficulty in everybody's returning to their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man very much bent on dancing, and Emma was rather surprised to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so decidedly against the habits of the Churchels. He seemed to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or reserve of Enscombe. Of pride indeed there was, perhaps scarcely enough, his indifference to a confusion of rank bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits. At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of the crown, and being now almost facing the house where the Bates is lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit the day before, and asked him if he had paid it. Oh, yes, yes, he replied, I was just going to mention it, a very successful visit. I saw all the three ladies, and felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprise, it must have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was proper, and I had told my father I should certainly be at home before him. But there was no getting away, no pause, and to my utter astonishment I found, when he, finding me nowhere else, joined me there at last, that I had been actually sitting with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the possibility of escape before. And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking? Ill! Very ill. That is, if a young lady can ever be allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the appearance of ill health, a most deplorable want of complexion. Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm defence of Miss Fairfax's complexion. It was certainly never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly hue in general, and there was a softness and delicacy in her skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her face. He listened, with all due deference, acknowledged that he had heard many people say the same, but yet he must confess that to him nothing could make amends for the want of the fine glow of health. Where the features were indifferent a fine complexion gave beauty to them all, and where they were good the effect was, fortunately, he need not attempt to describe what the effect was. Well, said Emma, there is no disputing about taste. At least you admire her, except her complexion. He shook his head and laughed, I cannot separate Miss Fairfax and her complexion. Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often in the same society? At this moment they were approaching forwards, and he hastily exclaimed, Ha! This must be the very shop that everybody attends every day of their lives as my father informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six days out of the seven, and has always business at Fords. If it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in that I may prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of Highbury. I must buy something at Fords. It will be taking out my freedom. I daresay they sell gloves. Oh, yes, gloves and everything. I do admire your patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were very popular before you came, because you were Mr. Weston's son, but lay out half a guinea at Fords, and your popularity will stand upon your own virtues. They went in, and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of men's beavers and York tan were bringing down and displaying on the counter, he said, But I beg your pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me. You were saying something at the very moment of this burst of my amor patrate. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the utmost stretch of public fame will not make amends for the loss of any happiness in private life. I merely asked whether you had known much of Miss Fairfax and her party at Weymouth. And now that I understand your question, I must pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the ladies' right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax must already have given her account. I shall not commit myself by claiming more than she may choose to allow. On my word, you answer as discreetly as she could do herself. But her account of everything leaves so much to be guessed. She is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the latest information about anybody, that I really think you may say what you like of your acquaintance with her. May I, indeed, then I will speak the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town, and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set. Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs. Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them all. You know Miss Fairfax's situation in life, I conclude. What she is destined to be? Yes, rather hesitatingly. I believe I do. You get upon delicate subjects, Emma, said Mrs. Weston, smiling. Remember that I am here. Mr. Frank Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax's situation in life. I will move a little farther off. I certainly do forget to think of her, said Emma, as having ever been anything but my friend and my dearest friend. He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such a sentiment. When the gloves were bought and they had quitted the shop again, did you ever hear the young lady we were speaking of play? said Frank Churchill. Ever hear her, repeated Emma, you forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every year of our lives since we both began. She plays charmingly. You think so, do you? I wanted the opinion of someone who could really judge. She appeared to me to play well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing of the matter myself. I am excessively fond of music, but without the smallest skill or right of judging anybody's performance. I have been used to hear hers admired, and I remember one proof of her being thought to play well. A man, a very musical man, and in love with another woman, engaged to her, on the point of marriage, would yet never ask that other woman to sit down to the instrument if the lady in question could sit down instead. Never seemed to like to hear one if he could hear the other. That I thought, in a man of known musical talent, was some proof. Proof, indeed, said Emma, highly amused. Mr. Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about them all in half an hour from you than Miss Fairfax would have vouchsafed in half a year. Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons, and I thought it a very strong proof. Certainly, very strong it was to own the truth, a great deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell, would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse a man's having more music than love, more ear than I, a more acute sensibility to find sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it? It was her very particular friend, you know. Poor comfort, said Emma, laughing. One would rather have a stranger preferred than one's very particular friend. With a stranger it might not recur again, but the misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to do everything better than one does oneself. Poor, Mrs. Dixon. Well, I am glad she has gone to settle in Ireland. You're right. It was not very flattering to Miss Campbell, but she really did not seem to feel it. So much the better, or so much the worse, I do not know which. But be it sweetness, or be it stupidity in her, quickness of friendship or dullness of feeling, there was one person, I think, who must have felt it, Miss Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and dangerous distinction. As to that, I do not—oh, do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss Fairfax's sensations from you, or from anybody else. They are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr. Dixon, one may guess what one chooses. There appeared such a perfectly good understanding among them all. He began, rather quickly, but checking himself added—however, it is impossible for me to say on what terms they really were, how it might all be behind the scenes. I can only say that there was a smoothness outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a child, must be a better judge of her character and how she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations than I can be. I have known her from a child undoubtedly. We have been children and women together, and it is natural to suppose that we should be intimate, that we should have taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it has happened, a little perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother and all their set. And then her reserve. I never could attach myself to one so completely reserved. It is a most repulsive quality, indeed, said he, often times very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a reserved person. Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself, and then the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have yet been, to take the trouble of conquering anybodies reserved to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think ill of her, not the least, except that such extreme and perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread of giving a distinct idea about anybody, is apt to suggest suspicions of their being something to conceal. He perfectly agreed with her, and after walking together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she had expected, less of the man of the world and some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of fortune, and therefore better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate, his feelings warmer. She was particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr. Elton's house, which as well as the church he would go and look at, and would not join them in finding fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house, not such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not think any man to be pitied for having that house. There must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man must be a blockhead who wanted more. Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself, and without ever thinking how many advantages and accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know what he was talking about, and that he showed a very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no housekeeper's room, or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe would not make him happy, and that whenever he were attached he would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an early establishment. End of Volume 2, Chapter 6, Read by Cibela Denton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org.