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Volume I
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Chapter I
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a
comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite
some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived
nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to
distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most
affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of
her sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very
early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to
have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses;
and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as
governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in
affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr.
Woodhouse’s family, less as a governess than a friend, very
fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office
of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly
allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of
authority being now long passed away, they had been
living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,
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and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming
Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the
power of having rather too much her own way, and a
disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were
the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so
unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as
misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the
shape of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor
married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief.
It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that
Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of
a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed
himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then
only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her
friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable
character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners;
and there was some satisfaction in considering with what
self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished
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and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s
work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt
every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness—
the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had
taught and how she had played with her from five years
old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and
amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the
various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude
was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,
the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon
followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each
other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had
been a friend and companion such as few possessed:
intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the
ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and
peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every
scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak every
thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her
as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her
friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma
was aware that great must be the difference between a
Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss
Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural
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and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering
from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but
he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in
conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr.
Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by
his constitution and habits; for having been a
valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or
body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and
though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his
heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have
recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by
matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles
off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long
October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next
visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little
children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society
again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost
amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its
separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really
belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were
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first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had
many acquaintance in the place, for her father was
universally civil, but not one among them who could be
accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a
melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it,
and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and
made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required
support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of
every body that he was used to, and hating to part with
them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the
origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by
no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying,
nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though
it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was
now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his
habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to
suppose that other people could feel differently from
himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor
had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would
have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest
of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as
cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts;
but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say
exactly as he had said at dinner,
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‘Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What
a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!’
‘I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.
Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent
man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you
would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and
bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of
her own?’
‘A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a
house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you
have never any odd humours, my dear.’
‘How often we shall be going to see them, and they
coming to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must
begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.’
‘My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a
distance. I could not walk half so far.’
‘No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must
go in the carriage, to be sure.’
‘The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses
to for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to
be while we are paying our visit?’
‘They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa.
You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all
over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you
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may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls,
because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only
doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That
was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place.
Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her—
James is so obliged to you!’
‘I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for
I would not have had poor James think himself slighted
upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very
good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a
great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner;
and when you have had her here to do needlework, I
observe she always turns the lock of the door the right
way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent
servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see.
Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know,
she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how
we all are.’
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier
flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to
get her father tolerably through the evening, and be
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table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eightand-
thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of
the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder
brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from
Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming
directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had
returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and
now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in
Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and
animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley
had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and
his many inquiries after ‘poor Isabella’ and her children
were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over,
Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, ‘It is very kind of
you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call
upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.’
‘Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so
mild that I must draw back from your great fire.’
‘But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I
wish you may not catch cold.’
‘Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.’
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‘Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast
deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour
while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the
wedding.’
‘By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty
well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I
have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I
hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all
behave? Who cried most?’
‘Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.’
‘Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I
cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great
regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the
question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two.’
‘Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful,
troublesome creature!’ said Emma playfully. ‘That is what
you have in your head, I know—and what you would
certainly say if my father were not by.’
‘I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse, with a sigh. ‘I am afraid I am sometimes very
fanciful and troublesome.’
‘My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you,
or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible
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idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to
find fault with me, you know— in a joke—it is all a joke.
We always say what we like to one another.’
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who
could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one
who ever told her of them: and though this was not
particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would
be so much less so to her father, that she would not have
him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being
thought perfect by every body.
‘Emma knows I never flatter her,’ said Mr. Knightley,
‘but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has
been used to have two persons to please; she will now
have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer.’
‘Well,’ said Emma, willing to let it pass—‘you want to
hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you,
for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual,
every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a
long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were
going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of
meeting every day.’
‘Dear Emma bears every thing so well,’ said her father.
‘But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor
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Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she
thinks for.’
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears
and smiles. ‘It is impossible that Emma should not miss
such a companion,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘We should not
like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but
she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at
Miss Taylor’s time of life, to be settled in a home of her
own, and how important to her to be secure of a
comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself
to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss
Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.’
‘And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,’ said
Emma, ‘and a very considerable one—that I made the
match myself. I made the match, you know, four years
ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right,
when so many people said Mr. Weston would never
marry again, may comfort me for any thing.’
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly
replied, ‘Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make
matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always
comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.’
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‘I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I
must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest
amusement in the world! And after such success, you
know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never
marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a
widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly
comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either
in his business in town or among his friends here, always
acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful— Mr.
Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone
if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would
never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise
to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the
uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was
talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
‘Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss
Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when,
because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much
gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer
Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned
the match from that hour; and when such success has
blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think
that I shall leave off match-making.’
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‘I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’’ said
Mr. Knightley. ‘Success supposes endeavour. Your time
has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been
endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this
marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind!
But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as
you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to
yourself one idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good
thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,’
and saying it again to yourself every now and then
afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your
merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess;
and that is all that can be said.’
‘And have you never known the pleasure and triumph
of a lucky guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—
for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck.
There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word
‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am
so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two
pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third—a
something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had
not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many
little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it
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might not have come to any thing after all. I think you
must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that.’
‘A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and
a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be
safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more
likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them,
by interference.’
‘Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to
others,’ rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in
part. ‘But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches;
they are silly things, and break up one’s family circle
grievously.’
‘Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr.
Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a
wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves
him—and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up
his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
him single any longer—and I thought when he was
joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if
he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I
think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I
have of doing him a service.’
‘Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a
very good young man, and I have a great regard for him.
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But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask
him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a
much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
kind as to meet him.’
‘With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,’ said Mr.
Knightley, laughing, ‘and I agree with you entirely, that it
will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma,
and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but
leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man
of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.’
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Chapter II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a
respectable family, which for the last two or three
generations had been rising into gentility and property. He
had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in
life to a small independence, had become indisposed for
any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers
were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind
and social temper by entering into the militia of his
county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill
fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her
brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who
were full of pride and importance, which the connexion
would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the
full command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no
proportion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded
from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite
mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her
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off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion,
and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought
to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose
warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing
due to her in return for the great goodness of being in
love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she
had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her
own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain
from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s unreasonable
anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in
comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her
husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain
Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially
by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was
proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when
his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a
poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon
relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim
of a lingering illness of his mother’s, been the means of a
sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having
no children of their own, nor any other young creature of
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equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples
and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed
to have felt; but as they were overcome by other
considerations, the child was given up to the care and the
wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted
the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already
established in a good way in London, which afforded him
a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just
employment enough. He had still a small house in
Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and
between useful occupation and the pleasures of society,
the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed
cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy
competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little
estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed
for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as
Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his
own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to
influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic
influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his
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determination of never settling till he could purchase
Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward
to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in
view, till they were accomplished. He had made his
fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was
beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed
through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own
temper had secured him from that, even in his first
marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a
well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must
give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal
better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude
than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune
was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being
tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so
avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of
Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance.
His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a
capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but
it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to imagine that any
caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and,
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as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every
year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond
report of him as a very fine young man had made
Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked
on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits
and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of
Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed,
though the compliment was so little returned that he had
never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father
had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally
proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should
take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the
subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and
Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come
among them; and the hope strengthened when it was
understood that he had written to his new mother on the
occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury
included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs.
Weston had received. ‘I suppose you have heard of the
handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs.
Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,
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indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome
letter in his life.’
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had,
of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young
man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof
of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to
every source and every expression of congratulation which
her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know
how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only
regret was for a partial separation from friends whose
friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill
bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could
not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single
pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of
her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most
girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and
spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and
happily through its little difficulties and privations. And
then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of
Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary
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female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and
circumstances, which would make the approaching season
no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the
week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of
gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret;
and her satisfaction—-her more than satisfaction—her
cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that
Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken
by surprize at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’
when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every
domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening
attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own.
But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a
gentle sigh, and saying, ‘Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would
be very glad to stay.’
There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much
likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought
some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of
his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the
wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was
all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and
he could never believe other people to be different from
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himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to
dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and
when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any
body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting
Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was
an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits
were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and
upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge
(though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination)
that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—
perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With
such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr.
Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly
married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no
rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s weddingcake
in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never
believe it.
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Chapter III
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.
He liked very much to have his friends come and see him;
and from various united causes, from his long residence at
Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house,
and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own
little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not
much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his
horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him
unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on
his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including
Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the
parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended
many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s
persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine
with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;
and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in
which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and
Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living
alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any
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vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies
and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the
smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being
thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most comeat-
able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs.
Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an
invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no
hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place
only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury,
was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and
quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very
small way, and was considered with all the regard and
respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most
uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither
young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in
the very worst predicament in the world for having much
of the public favour; and she had no intellectual
superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those
who might hate her into outward respect. She had never
boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed
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without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to
the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a
small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy
woman, and a woman whom no one named without
good-will. It was her own universal good-will and
contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
every body, was interested in every body’s happiness,
quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most
fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such
an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and
friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented
and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body,
and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker
upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,
full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a
seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which
professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to
combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon
new principles and new systems—and where young ladies
for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into
vanity—but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school,
where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold
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at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be
out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little
education, without any danger of coming back prodigies.
Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very
deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly
healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the
children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a
great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their
chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a
train of twenty young couple now walked after her to
church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who
had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself
entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having
formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt
his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung
round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or
lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very
frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her
father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself
concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs.
Weston. She was delighted to see her father look
comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for
contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three
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such women made her feel that every evening so spent
was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully
anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly
such a close of the present day, a note was brought from
Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be
allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome
request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom
Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an
interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious
invitation was returned, and the evening no longer
dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs.
Goddard’s school, and somebody had lately raised her
from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder.
This was all that was generally known of her history. She
had no visible friends but what had been acquired at
Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in
the country to some young ladies who had been at school
there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to
be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was
short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light
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hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and,
before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased
with her manners as her person, and quite determined to
continue the acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in
Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether
very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to
talk—and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and
becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for
being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what
she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and
deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should
not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its
connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had
just parted, though very good sort of people, must be
doing her harm. They were a family of the name of
Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a
large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of
Donwell—very creditably, she believed—she knew Mr.
Knightley thought highly of them—but they must be
coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates
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of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and
elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice her; she
would improve her; she would detach her from her bad
acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she
would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an
interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly
becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and
powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in
talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the
in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual
rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such
parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch
the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved
forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity
beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was
never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well
and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind
delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the
honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced
chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she
knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil
scruples of their guests.
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Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings
were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid,
because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his
conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his
hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every
thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they
would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was
all that he could, with thorough self-approbation,
recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the
ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
‘Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of
these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.
Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I
would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else;
but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—
one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let
Emma help you to a little bit of tart—a very little bit.
Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of
unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard.
Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine? A
small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think
it could disagree with you.’
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Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her
visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the
present evening had particular pleasure in sending them
away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal
to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a
personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the
introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the
humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified
feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually
shaken hands with her at last!
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Chapter IV
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled
thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time
in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very
often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their
satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma
had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In
that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her
father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two
divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or
his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s
marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She
had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not
pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she
could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw
more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all
her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet,
docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit,
and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up
to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and
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her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that
there was no want of taste, though strength of
understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was
quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the
young friend she wanted—exactly the something which
her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out
of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two
such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of
thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston
was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude
and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she
could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be
done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to
find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this
subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy
what she liked—but she could never believe that in the
same situation she should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear
and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and
looked no farther.
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Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the
affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great
part of the conversation—and but for her acquaintance
with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been
the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good
deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,
and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and
describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
Emma encouraged her talkativeness— amused by such a
picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful
simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of
Mrs. Martin’s having ‘two parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs.
Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her having an upper
maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and
of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and
one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow
indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of
it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a very
handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day
next year they were all to drink tea:— a very handsome
summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people.’
For some time she was amused, without thinking
beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to
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understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had
taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but
when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in
the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation
for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was
a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no
wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she
were not taken care of, she might be required to sink
herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in
number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to
talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no
dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share
he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening
games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles
round one day in order to bring her some walnuts,
because she had said how fond she was of them, and in
every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to
sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a
little himself. She believed he was very clever, and
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understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and,
while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
wool than any body in the country. She believed every
body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very
fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there
was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any
body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she wanted him to marry. She was in no hurry at
all.
‘Well done, Mrs. Martin!’ thought Emma. ‘You know
what you are about.’
‘And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so
very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the
finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard
had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss
Richardson, to sup with her.’
‘Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information
beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?’
‘Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe
he has read a good deal—but not what you would think
any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some
other books that lay in one of the window seats—but he
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reads all them to himself. But sometimes of an evening,
before we went to cards, he would read something aloud
out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know
he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the
Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.
He had never heard of such books before I mentioned
them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as
ever he can.’
The next question was—
‘What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?’
‘Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought
him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain
now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you
never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then,
and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
Kingston. He has passed you very often.’
‘That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but
without having any idea of his name. A young farmer,
whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of
person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely
the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing
to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance
might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their
families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none
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of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above
my notice as in every other he is below it.’
‘To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever
have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—
I mean by sight.’
‘I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young
man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him
well. What do you imagine his age to be?’
‘He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my
birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s
difference—which is very odd.’
‘Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His
mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem
very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any
pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six
years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young
woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it
might be very desirable.’
‘Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be
thirty years old!’
‘Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to
marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin,
I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at
all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might
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come into when his father died, whatever his share of the
family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in
his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and
good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible
that he should have realised any thing yet.’
‘To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably.
They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any
thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.’
‘I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet,
whenever he does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted
with his wife—for though his sisters, from a superior
education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not
follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to
notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you
particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no
doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter, and you must
support your claim to that station by every thing within
your own power, or there will be plenty of people who
would take pleasure in degrading you.’
‘Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I
am not afraid of what any body can do.’
‘You understand the force of influence pretty well,
Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in
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good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and
Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well
connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as
few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that
if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin
marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy
with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will
probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, without
education.’
‘To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would
ever marry any body but what had had some education—
and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean
to set up my opinion against your’s—and I am sure I shall
not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always
have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially
Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for
they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a
very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not
visit her, if I can help it.’
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this
speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The
young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted
there was no other hold, and that there would be no
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Volume I
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Chapter I
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a
comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite
some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived
nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to
distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most
affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of
her sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very
early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to
have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses;
and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as
governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in
affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr.
Woodhouse’s family, less as a governess than a friend, very
fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office
of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly
allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of
authority being now long passed away, they had been
living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,
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and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming
Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the
power of having rather too much her own way, and a
disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were
the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so
unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as
misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the
shape of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor
married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief.
It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that
Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of
a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed
himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then
only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her
friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable
character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners;
and there was some satisfaction in considering with what
self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished
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and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s
work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt
every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness—
the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had
taught and how she had played with her from five years
old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and
amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the
various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude
was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,
the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon
followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each
other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had
been a friend and companion such as few possessed:
intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the
ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and
peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every
scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak every
thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her
as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her
friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma
was aware that great must be the difference between a
Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss
Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural
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and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering
from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but
he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in
conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr.
Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by
his constitution and habits; for having been a
valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or
body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and
though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his
heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have
recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by
matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles
off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long
October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next
visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little
children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society
again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost
amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its
separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really
belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were
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first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had
many acquaintance in the place, for her father was
universally civil, but not one among them who could be
accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a
melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it,
and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and
made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required
support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of
every body that he was used to, and hating to part with
them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the
origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by
no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying,
nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though
it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was
now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his
habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to
suppose that other people could feel differently from
himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor
had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would
have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest
of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as
cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts;
but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say
exactly as he had said at dinner,
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‘Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What
a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!’
‘I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.
Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent
man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you
would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and
bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of
her own?’
‘A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a
house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you
have never any odd humours, my dear.’
‘How often we shall be going to see them, and they
coming to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must
begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.’
‘My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a
distance. I could not walk half so far.’
‘No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must
go in the carriage, to be sure.’
‘The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses
to for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to
be while we are paying our visit?’
‘They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa.
You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all
over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you
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may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls,
because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only
doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That
was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place.
Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her—
James is so obliged to you!’
‘I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for
I would not have had poor James think himself slighted
upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very
good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a
great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner;
and when you have had her here to do needlework, I
observe she always turns the lock of the door the right
way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent
servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see.
Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know,
she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how
we all are.’
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier
flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to
get her father tolerably through the evening, and be
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table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eightand-
thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of
the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder
brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from
Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming
directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had
returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and
now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in
Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and
animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley
had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and
his many inquiries after ‘poor Isabella’ and her children
were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over,
Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, ‘It is very kind of
you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call
upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.’
‘Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so
mild that I must draw back from your great fire.’
‘But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I
wish you may not catch cold.’
‘Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.’
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‘Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast
deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour
while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the
wedding.’
‘By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty
well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I
have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I
hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all
behave? Who cried most?’
‘Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.’
‘Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I
cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great
regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the
question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two.’
‘Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful,
troublesome creature!’ said Emma playfully. ‘That is what
you have in your head, I know—and what you would
certainly say if my father were not by.’
‘I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse, with a sigh. ‘I am afraid I am sometimes very
fanciful and troublesome.’
‘My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you,
or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible
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idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to
find fault with me, you know— in a joke—it is all a joke.
We always say what we like to one another.’
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who
could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one
who ever told her of them: and though this was not
particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would
be so much less so to her father, that she would not have
him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being
thought perfect by every body.
‘Emma knows I never flatter her,’ said Mr. Knightley,
‘but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has
been used to have two persons to please; she will now
have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer.’
‘Well,’ said Emma, willing to let it pass—‘you want to
hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you,
for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual,
every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a
long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were
going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of
meeting every day.’
‘Dear Emma bears every thing so well,’ said her father.
‘But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor
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Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she
thinks for.’
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears
and smiles. ‘It is impossible that Emma should not miss
such a companion,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘We should not
like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but
she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at
Miss Taylor’s time of life, to be settled in a home of her
own, and how important to her to be secure of a
comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself
to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss
Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.’
‘And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,’ said
Emma, ‘and a very considerable one—that I made the
match myself. I made the match, you know, four years
ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right,
when so many people said Mr. Weston would never
marry again, may comfort me for any thing.’
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly
replied, ‘Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make
matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always
comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.’
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‘I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I
must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest
amusement in the world! And after such success, you
know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never
marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a
widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly
comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either
in his business in town or among his friends here, always
acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful— Mr.
Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone
if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would
never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise
to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the
uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was
talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
‘Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss
Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when,
because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much
gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer
Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned
the match from that hour; and when such success has
blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think
that I shall leave off match-making.’
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‘I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’’ said
Mr. Knightley. ‘Success supposes endeavour. Your time
has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been
endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this
marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind!
But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as
you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to
yourself one idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good
thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,’
and saying it again to yourself every now and then
afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your
merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess;
and that is all that can be said.’
‘And have you never known the pleasure and triumph
of a lucky guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—
for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck.
There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word
‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am
so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two
pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third—a
something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had
not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many
little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it
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might not have come to any thing after all. I think you
must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that.’
‘A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and
a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be
safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more
likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them,
by interference.’
‘Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to
others,’ rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in
part. ‘But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches;
they are silly things, and break up one’s family circle
grievously.’
‘Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr.
Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a
wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves
him—and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up
his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
him single any longer—and I thought when he was
joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if
he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I
think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I
have of doing him a service.’
‘Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a
very good young man, and I have a great regard for him.
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But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask
him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a
much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
kind as to meet him.’
‘With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,’ said Mr.
Knightley, laughing, ‘and I agree with you entirely, that it
will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma,
and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but
leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man
of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.’
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Chapter II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a
respectable family, which for the last two or three
generations had been rising into gentility and property. He
had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in
life to a small independence, had become indisposed for
any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers
were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind
and social temper by entering into the militia of his
county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill
fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her
brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who
were full of pride and importance, which the connexion
would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the
full command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no
proportion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded
from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite
mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her
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off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion,
and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought
to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose
warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing
due to her in return for the great goodness of being in
love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she
had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her
own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain
from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s unreasonable
anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in
comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her
husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain
Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially
by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was
proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when
his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a
poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon
relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim
of a lingering illness of his mother’s, been the means of a
sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having
no children of their own, nor any other young creature of
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equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples
and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed
to have felt; but as they were overcome by other
considerations, the child was given up to the care and the
wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted
the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already
established in a good way in London, which afforded him
a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just
employment enough. He had still a small house in
Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and
between useful occupation and the pleasures of society,
the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed
cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy
competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little
estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed
for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as
Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his
own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to
influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic
influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his
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determination of never settling till he could purchase
Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward
to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in
view, till they were accomplished. He had made his
fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was
beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed
through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own
temper had secured him from that, even in his first
marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a
well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must
give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal
better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude
than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune
was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being
tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so
avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of
Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance.
His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a
capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but
it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to imagine that any
caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and,
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as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every
year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond
report of him as a very fine young man had made
Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked
on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits
and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of
Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed,
though the compliment was so little returned that he had
never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father
had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally
proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should
take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the
subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and
Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come
among them; and the hope strengthened when it was
understood that he had written to his new mother on the
occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury
included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs.
Weston had received. ‘I suppose you have heard of the
handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs.
Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,
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indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome
letter in his life.’
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had,
of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young
man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof
of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to
every source and every expression of congratulation which
her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know
how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only
regret was for a partial separation from friends whose
friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill
bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could
not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single
pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of
her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most
girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and
spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and
happily through its little difficulties and privations. And
then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of
Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary
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female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and
circumstances, which would make the approaching season
no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the
week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of
gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret;
and her satisfaction—-her more than satisfaction—her
cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that
Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken
by surprize at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’
when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every
domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening
attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own.
But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a
gentle sigh, and saying, ‘Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would
be very glad to stay.’
There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much
likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought
some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of
his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the
wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was
all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and
he could never believe other people to be different from
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himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to
dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and
when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any
body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting
Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was
an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits
were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and
upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge
(though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination)
that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—
perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With
such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr.
Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly
married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no
rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s weddingcake
in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never
believe it.
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Chapter III
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.
He liked very much to have his friends come and see him;
and from various united causes, from his long residence at
Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house,
and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own
little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not
much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his
horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him
unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on
his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including
Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the
parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended
many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s
persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine
with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;
and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in
which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and
Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living
alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any
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vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies
and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the
smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being
thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most comeat-
able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs.
Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an
invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no
hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place
only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury,
was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and
quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very
small way, and was considered with all the regard and
respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most
uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither
young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in
the very worst predicament in the world for having much
of the public favour; and she had no intellectual
superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those
who might hate her into outward respect. She had never
boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed
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without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to
the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a
small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy
woman, and a woman whom no one named without
good-will. It was her own universal good-will and
contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
every body, was interested in every body’s happiness,
quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most
fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such
an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and
friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented
and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body,
and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker
upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,
full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a
seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which
professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to
combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon
new principles and new systems—and where young ladies
for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into
vanity—but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school,
where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold
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at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be
out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little
education, without any danger of coming back prodigies.
Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very
deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly
healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the
children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a
great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their
chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a
train of twenty young couple now walked after her to
church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who
had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself
entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having
formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt
his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung
round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or
lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very
frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her
father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself
concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs.
Weston. She was delighted to see her father look
comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for
contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three
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such women made her feel that every evening so spent
was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully
anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly
such a close of the present day, a note was brought from
Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be
allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome
request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom
Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an
interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious
invitation was returned, and the evening no longer
dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs.
Goddard’s school, and somebody had lately raised her
from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder.
This was all that was generally known of her history. She
had no visible friends but what had been acquired at
Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in
the country to some young ladies who had been at school
there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to
be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was
short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light
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hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and,
before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased
with her manners as her person, and quite determined to
continue the acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in
Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether
very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to
talk—and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and
becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for
being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what
she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and
deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should
not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its
connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had
just parted, though very good sort of people, must be
doing her harm. They were a family of the name of
Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a
large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of
Donwell—very creditably, she believed—she knew Mr.
Knightley thought highly of them—but they must be
coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates
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of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and
elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice her; she
would improve her; she would detach her from her bad
acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she
would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an
interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly
becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and
powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in
talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the
in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual
rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such
parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch
the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved
forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity
beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was
never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well
and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind
delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the
honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced
chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she
knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil
scruples of their guests.
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Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings
were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid,
because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his
conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his
hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every
thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they
would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was
all that he could, with thorough self-approbation,
recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the
ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
‘Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of
these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.
Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I
would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else;
but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—
one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let
Emma help you to a little bit of tart—a very little bit.
Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of
unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard.
Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine? A
small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think
it could disagree with you.’
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Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her
visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the
present evening had particular pleasure in sending them
away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal
to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a
personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the
introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the
humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified
feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually
shaken hands with her at last!
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Chapter IV
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled
thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time
in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very
often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their
satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma
had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In
that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her
father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two
divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or
his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s
marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She
had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not
pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she
could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw
more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all
her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet,
docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit,
and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up
to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and
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her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that
there was no want of taste, though strength of
understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was
quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the
young friend she wanted—exactly the something which
her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out
of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two
such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of
thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston
was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude
and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she
could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be
done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to
find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this
subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy
what she liked—but she could never believe that in the
same situation she should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear
and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and
looked no farther.
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Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the
affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great
part of the conversation—and but for her acquaintance
with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been
the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good
deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,
and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and
describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
Emma encouraged her talkativeness— amused by such a
picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful
simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of
Mrs. Martin’s having ‘two parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs.
Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her having an upper
maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and
of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and
one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow
indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of
it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a very
handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day
next year they were all to drink tea:— a very handsome
summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people.’
For some time she was amused, without thinking
beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to
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understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had
taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but
when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in
the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation
for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was
a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no
wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she
were not taken care of, she might be required to sink
herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in
number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to
talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no
dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share
he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening
games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles
round one day in order to bring her some walnuts,
because she had said how fond she was of them, and in
every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to
sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a
little himself. She believed he was very clever, and
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understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and,
while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
wool than any body in the country. She believed every
body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very
fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there
was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any
body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she wanted him to marry. She was in no hurry at
all.
‘Well done, Mrs. Martin!’ thought Emma. ‘You know
what you are about.’
‘And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so
very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the
finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard
had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss
Richardson, to sup with her.’
‘Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information
beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?’
‘Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe
he has read a good deal—but not what you would think
any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some
other books that lay in one of the window seats—but he
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reads all them to himself. But sometimes of an evening,
before we went to cards, he would read something aloud
out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know
he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the
Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.
He had never heard of such books before I mentioned
them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as
ever he can.’
The next question was—
‘What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?’
‘Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought
him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain
now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you
never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then,
and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
Kingston. He has passed you very often.’
‘That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but
without having any idea of his name. A young farmer,
whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of
person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely
the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing
to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance
might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their
families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none
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of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above
my notice as in every other he is below it.’
‘To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever
have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—
I mean by sight.’
‘I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young
man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him
well. What do you imagine his age to be?’
‘He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my
birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s
difference—which is very odd.’
‘Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His
mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem
very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any
pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six
years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young
woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it
might be very desirable.’
‘Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be
thirty years old!’
‘Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to
marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin,
I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at
all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might
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come into when his father died, whatever his share of the
family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in
his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and
good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible
that he should have realised any thing yet.’
‘To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably.
They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any
thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.’
‘I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet,
whenever he does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted
with his wife—for though his sisters, from a superior
education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not
follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to
notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you
particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no
doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter, and you must
support your claim to that station by every thing within
your own power, or there will be plenty of people who
would take pleasure in degrading you.’
‘Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I
am not afraid of what any body can do.’
‘You understand the force of influence pretty well,
Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in
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good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and
Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well
connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as
few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that
if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin
marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy
with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will
probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, without
education.’
‘To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would
ever marry any body but what had had some education—
and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean
to set up my opinion against your’s—and I am sure I shall
not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always
have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially
Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for
they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a
very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not
visit her, if I can help it.’
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this
speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The
young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted
there was no other hold, and that there would be no
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