Emma by Jane Austen(5)

Emma’s project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while
made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken
their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was
great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet,
from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her
notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every
occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such
that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of ‘Can it
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really be as my brother imagined? can it be possible for this
man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet
to me?—Absurd and insufferable!’— Yet he would be so
anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so
interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs.
Weston; and at last would begin admiring her drawings
with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed
terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort

with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake
she could not be rude; and for Harriet’s, in the hope that
all would yet turn out right, she was even positively civil;
but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of
Mr. Elton’s nonsense, which she particularly wished to
listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was
giving some information about his son; she heard the
words ‘my son,’ and ‘Frank,’ and ‘my son,’ repeated
several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables
very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit
from his son; but before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the
subject was so completely past that any reviving question
from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma’s resolution
of never marrying, there was something in the name, in
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the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested
her. She had frequently thought—especially since his
father’s marriage with Miss Taylor—that if she were to
marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character
and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the
families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose
it to be a match that every body who knew them must
think of. That Mr. and Mrs. Weston did think of it, she
was very strongly persuaded; and though not meaning to
be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than
any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see
him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being
liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in
the idea of their being coupled in their friends’
imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton’s civilities were
dreadfully ill-timed; but she had the comfort of appearing
very polite, while feeling very cross—and of thinking that
the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without
bringing forward the same information again, or the
substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.—So it
proved;— for when happily released from Mr. Elton, and
seated by Mr. Weston, at dinner, he made use of the very
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first interval in the cares of hospitality, the very first leisure
from the saddle of mutton, to say to her,
‘We want only two more to be just the right number. I
should like to see two more here,—your pretty little
friend, Miss Smith, and my son—and then I should say we
were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me telling
the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting
Frank. I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be
with us within a fortnight.’
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and
fully assented to his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill
and Miss Smith making their party quite complete.
‘He has been wanting to come to us,’ continued Mr.
Weston, ‘ever since September: every letter has been full
of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those
to please who must be pleased, and who (between
ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good
many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him
here about the second week in January.’
‘What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs.
Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him, that she
must be almost as happy as yourself.’
‘Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be
another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so
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much as I do: but she does not know the parties so well as
I do. The case, you see, is—(but this is quite between
ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other
room. There are secrets in all families, you know)—The
case is, that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at
Enscombe in January; and that Frank’s coming depends
upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot
stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a
certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a
particular dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to
invite them once in two or three years, they always are
put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest
doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here
before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:
but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper
end of the table) has so few vagaries herself, and has been
so little used to them at Hartfield, that she cannot calculate
on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of
doing.’
‘I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the
case,’ replied Emma; ‘but am disposed to side with you,
Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so
too; for you know Enscombe.’
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‘Yes—I have some right to that knowledge; though I
have never been at the place in my life.—She is an odd
woman!—But I never allow myself to speak ill of her, on
Frank’s account; for I do believe her to be very fond of
him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of
any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to
him (in her way—allowing for little whims and caprices,
and expecting every thing to be as she likes). And it is no
small credit, in my opinion, to him, that he should excite
such an affection; for, though I would not say it to any
body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
general; and the devil of a temper.’
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it,
to Mrs. Weston, very soon after their moving into the
drawing-room: wishing her joy— yet observing, that she
knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.— Mrs.
Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very
glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first
meeting at the time talked of: ‘for I cannot depend upon
his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am
very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.
Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the
matter stands?’
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‘Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the illhumour
of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the
most certain thing in the world.’
‘My Emma!’ replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘what is the
certainty of caprice?’ Then turning to Isabella, who had
not been attending before—‘You must know, my dear
Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing
Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It
depends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in
short, upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I
may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at
Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered woman; and his
coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare
him.’
‘Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs.
Churchill,’ replied Isabella: ‘and I am sure I never think of
that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To
be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must be
dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any
thing of; but it must be a life of misery. What a blessing,
that she never had any children! Poor little creatures, how
unhappy she would have made them!’
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston.
She should then have heard more: Mrs. Weston would
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speak to her, with a degree of unreserve which she would
not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed, would
scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of
which her own imagination had already given her such
instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing
more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed
them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after
dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure.
Neither wine nor conversation was any thing to him; and
gladly did he move to those with whom he was always
comfortable.
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an
opportunity of saying,
‘And so you do not consider this visit from your son as
by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction
must be unpleasant, whenever it takes place; and the
sooner it could be over, the better.’
‘Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of
other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put
off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for
disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance
on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on the
Churchills’ to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy.
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They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short,
I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr.
Weston were less sanguine.’
‘He ought to come,’ said Emma. ‘If he could stay only
a couple of days, he ought to come; and one can hardly
conceive a young man’s not having it in his power to do
as much as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad
hands, may be teazed, and kept at a distance from those
she wants to be with; but one cannot comprehend a
young man’s being under such restraint, as not to be able
to spend a week with his father, if he likes it.’
‘One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of
the family, before one decides upon what he can do,’
replied Mrs. Weston. ‘One ought to use the same caution,
perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual
of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must
not be judged by general rules: she is so very unreasonable;
and every thing gives way to her.’
‘But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a
favourite. Now, according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it
would be most natural, that while she makes no sacrifice
for the comfort of the husband, to whom she owes every
thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards him,
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she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to
whom she owes nothing at all.’
‘My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet
temper, to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for
it: you must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his
having, at times, considerable influence; but it may be
perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand when it
will be.’
Emma listened, and then coolly said, ‘I shall not be
satisfied, unless he comes.’
‘He may have a great deal of influence on some points,’
continued Mrs. Weston, ‘and on others, very little: and
among those, on which she is beyond his reach, it is but
too likely, may be this very circumstance of his coming
away from them to visit us.’
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Chapter XV
Mr. Woodhouse was soon ready for his tea; and when
he had drank his tea he was quite ready to go home; and it
was as much as his three companions could do, to
entertain away his notice of the lateness of the hour,
before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Weston was
chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of
any sort; but at last the drawing-room party did receive an
augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of
the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting
together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and, with
scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them.
Emma, in good spirits too, from the amusement
afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank
Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and
be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making
Harriet his very first subject, was ready to listen with most
friendly smiles.
He professed himself extremely anxious about her fair
friend— her fair, lovely, amiable friend. ‘Did she know?—
had she heard any thing about her, since their being at
Randalls?— he felt much anxiety—he must confess that
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the nature of her complaint alarmed him considerably.’
And in this style he talked on for some time very properly,
not much attending to any answer, but altogether
sufficiently awake to the terror of a bad sore throat; and
Emma was quite in charity with him.
But at last there seemed a perverse turn; it seemed all at
once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore
throat on her account, than on Harriet’s—more anxious
that she should escape the infection, than that there should
be no infection in the complaint. He began with great
earnestness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sickchamber
again, for the present—to entreat her to promise
him not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr.
Perry and learnt his opinion; and though she tried to laugh
it off and bring the subject back into its proper course,
there was no putting an end to his extreme solicitude
about her. She was vexed. It did appear—there was no
concealing it—exactly like the pretence of being in love
with her, instead of Harriet; an inconstancy, if real, the
most contemptible and abominable! and she had difficulty
in behaving with temper. He turned to Mrs. Weston to
implore her assistance, ‘Would not she give him her
support?—would not she add her persuasions to his, to
induce Miss Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard’s till
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it were certain that Miss Smith’s disorder had no infection?
He could not be satisfied without a promise— would not
she give him her influence in procuring it?’
‘So scrupulous for others,’ he continued, ‘and yet so
careless for herself! She wanted me to nurse my cold by
staying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid
the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is
this fair, Mrs. Weston?—Judge between us. Have not I
some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support
and aid.’
Emma saw Mrs. Weston’s surprize, and felt that it must
be great, at an address which, in words and manner, was
assuming to himself the right of first interest in her; and as
for herself, she was too much provoked and offended to
have the power of directly saying any thing to the
purpose. She could only give him a look; but it was such a
look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and
then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and
giving her all her attention.
She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the
reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed; for Mr.
John Knightley now came into the room from examining
the weather, and opened on them all with the information
of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still
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snowing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with
these words to Mr. Woodhouse:
‘This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter
engagements, sir. Something new for your coachman and
horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.’
Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation;
but every body else had something to say; every body was
either surprized or not surprized, and had some question
to ask, or some comfort to offer. Mrs. Weston and Emma
tried earnestly to cheer him and turn his attention from his
son-in-law, who was pursuing his triumph rather
unfeelingly.
‘I admired your resolution very much, sir,’ said he, ‘in
venturing out in such weather, for of course you saw there
would be snow very soon. Every body must have seen the
snow coming on. I admired your spirit; and I dare say we
shall get home very well. Another hour or two’s snow can
hardly make the road impassable; and we are two
carriages; if one is blown over in the bleak part of the
common field there will be the other at hand. I dare say
we shall be all safe at Hartfield before midnight.’
Mr. Weston, with triumph of a different sort, was
confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time,
but had not said a word, lest it should make Mr.
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Woodhouse uncomfortable, and be an excuse for his
hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow
fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a
mere joke; he was afraid they would find no difficulty. He
wished the road might be impassable, that he might be
able to keep them all at Randalls; and with the utmost
good-will was sure that accommodation might be found
for every body, calling on his wife to agree with him, that
with a little contrivance, every body might be lodged,
which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness
of there being but two spare rooms in the house.
‘What is to be done, my dear Emma?—what is to be
done?’ was Mr. Woodhouse’s first exclamation, and all
that he could say for some time. To her he looked for
comfort; and her assurances of safety, her representation of
the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their
having so many friends about them, revived him a little.
His eldest daughter’s alarm was equal to his own. The
horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children
were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination; and
fancying the road to be now just passable for adventurous
people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager
to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain
at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward
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instantly through all the possible accumulations of drifted
snow that might impede them.
‘You had better order the carriage directly, my love,’
said she; ‘I dare say we shall be able to get along, if we set
off directly; and if we do come to any thing very bad, I
can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not
mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you
know, the moment I got home; and it is not the sort of
thing that gives me cold.’
‘Indeed!’ replied he. ‘Then, my dear Isabella, it is the
most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in
general every thing does give you cold. Walk home!—you
are prettily shod for walking home, I dare say. It will be
bad enough for the horses.’
Isabella turned to Mrs. Weston for her approbation of
the plan. Mrs. Weston could only approve. Isabella then
went to Emma; but Emma could not so entirely give up
the hope of their being all able to get away; and they were
still discussing the point, when Mr. Knightley, who had
left the room immediately after his brother’s first report of
the snow, came back again, and told them that he had
been out of doors to examine, and could answer for there
not being the smallest difficulty in their getting home,
whenever they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He
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had gone beyond the sweep— some way along the
Highbury road—the snow was nowhere above half an
inch deep—in many places hardly enough to whiten the
ground; a very few flakes were falling at present, but the
clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of its
being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they
both agreed with him in there being nothing to
apprehend.
To Isabella, the relief of such tidings was very great,
and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her
father’s account, who was immediately set as much at ease
on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the
alarm that had been raised could not be appeased so as to
admit of any comfort for him while he continued at
Randalls. He was satisfied of there being no present danger
in returning home, but no assurances could convince him
that it was safe to stay; and while the others were variously
urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma
settled it in a few brief sentences: thus—
‘Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?’
‘I am ready, if the others are.’
‘Shall I ring the bell?’
‘Yes, do.’
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And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A
few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one
troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to
get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and
happiness when this visit of hardship were over.
The carriage came: and Mr. Woodhouse, always the
first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his
own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston; but not all that
either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at
the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the
discovery of a much darker night than he had been
prepared for. ‘He was afraid they should have a very bad
drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it. And
there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did
not know what they had best do. They must keep as
much together as they could;’ and James was talked to,
and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other
carriage.
Isabella stept in after her father; John Knightley,
forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stept in
after his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on
being escorted and followed into the second carriage by
Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them,
and that they were to have a tete-a-tete drive. It would
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not have been the awkwardness of a moment, it would
have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of
this very day; she could have talked to him of Harriet, and
the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one.
But now, she would rather it had not happened. She
believed he had been drinking too much of Mr. Weston’s
good wine, and felt sure that he would want to be talking
nonsense.
To restrain him as much as might be, by her own
manners, she was immediately preparing to speak with
exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather and the
night; but scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed
the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, than she
found her subject cut up—her hand seized—her attention
demanded, and Mr. Elton actually making violent love to
her: availing himself of the precious opportunity, declaring
sentiments which must be already well known, hoping—
fearing—adoring—ready to die if she refused him; but
flattering himself that his ardent attachment and
unequalled love and unexampled passion could not fail of
having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on
being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was
so. Without scruple—without apology— without much
apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was
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professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him; but
vainly; he would go on, and say it all. Angry as she was,
the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain
herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must
be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might
belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a
mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped
would best suit his half and half state, she replied,
‘I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This to me!
you forget yourself— you take me for my friend—any
message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver; but no
more of this to me, if you please.’
‘Miss Smith!—message to Miss Smith!—What could
she possibly mean!’— And he repeated her words with
such assurance of accent, such boastful pretence of
amazement, that she could not help replying with
quickness,
‘Mr. Elton, this is the most extraordinary conduct! and
I can account for it only in one way; you are not yourself,
or you could not speak either to me, or of Harriet, in such
a manner. Command yourself enough to say no more, and
I will endeavour to forget it.’
But Mr. Elton had only drunk wine enough to elevate
his spirits, not at all to confuse his intellects. He perfectly
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knew his own meaning; and having warmly protested
against her suspicion as most injurious, and slightly
touched upon his respect for Miss Smith as her friend,—
but acknowledging his wonder that Miss Smith should be
mentioned at all,—he resumed the subject of his own
passion, and was very urgent for a favourable answer.
As she thought less of his inebriety, she thought more
of his inconstancy and presumption; and with fewer
struggles for politeness, replied,
‘It is impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have
made yourself too clear. Mr. Elton, my astonishment is
much beyond any thing I can express. After such
behaviour, as I have witnessed during the last month, to
Miss Smith—such attentions as I have been in the daily
habit of observing—to be addressing me in this manner—
this is an unsteadiness of character, indeed, which I had
not supposed possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far,
from gratified in being the object of such professions.’
‘Good Heaven!’ cried Mr. Elton, ‘what can be the
meaning of this?— Miss Smith!—I never thought of Miss
Smith in the whole course of my existence—never paid
her any attentions, but as your friend: never cared whether
she were dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has
fancied otherwise, her own wishes have misled her, and I
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am very sorry—extremely sorry—But, Miss Smith,
indeed!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse! who can think of Miss
Smith, when Miss Woodhouse is near! No, upon my
honour, there is no unsteadiness of character. I have
thought only of you. I protest against having paid the
smallest attention to any one else. Every thing that I have
said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole
view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot
really, seriously, doubt it. No!—(in an accent meant to be
insinuating)—I am sure you have seen and understood
me.’
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt, on
hearing this— which of all her unpleasant sensations was
uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be
immediately able to reply: and two moments of silence
being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton’s sanguine state
of mind, he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously
exclaimed—
‘Charming Miss Woodhouse! allow me to interpret this
interesting silence. It confesses that you have long
understood me.’
‘No, sir,’ cried Emma, ‘it confesses no such thing. So
far from having long understood you, I have been in a
most complete error with respect to your views, till this
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moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should
have been giving way to any feelings— Nothing could be
farther from my wishes—your attachment to my friend
Harriet—your pursuit of her, (pursuit, it appeared,) gave
me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing
you success: but had I supposed that she were not your
attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you
judged ill in making your visits so frequent. Am I to
believe that you have never sought to recommend yourself
particularly to Miss Smith?—that you have never thought
seriously of her?’
‘Never, madam,’ cried he, affronted in his turn: ‘never,
I assure you. I think seriously of Miss Smith!—Miss Smith
is a very good sort of girl; and I should be happy to see her
respectably settled. I wish her extremely well: and, no
doubt, there are men who might not object to—Every
body has their level: but as for myself, I am not, I think,
quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an
equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith!—
No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself
only; and the encouragement I received—‘
‘Encouragement!—I give you encouragement!—Sir,
you have been entirely mistaken in supposing it. I have
seen you only as the admirer of my friend. In no other
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light could you have been more to me than a common
acquaintance. I am exceedingly sorry: but it is well that
the mistake ends where it does. Had the same behaviour
continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a
misconception of your views; not being aware, probably,
any more than myself, of the very great inequality which
you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is
single, and, I trust, will not be lasting. I have no thoughts
of matrimony at present.’
He was too angry to say another word; her manner too
decided to invite supplication; and in this state of swelling
resentment, and mutually deep mortification, they had to
continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of
Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If
there had not been so much anger, there would have been
desperate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions
left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment.
Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage
Lane, or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at
once, at the door of his house; and he was out before
another syllable passed.—Emma then felt it indispensable
to wish him a good night. The compliment was just
returned, coldly and proudly; and, under indescribable
irritation of spirits, she was then conveyed to Hartfield.
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There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by
her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a
solitary drive from Vicarage Lane—turning a corner which
he could never bear to think of— and in strange hands—a
mere common coachman—no James; and there it seemed
as if her return only were wanted to make every thing go
well: for Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour,
was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly
solicitous for the comfort of her father, as to seem—if not
quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel—perfectly
sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome; and the day
was concluding in peace and comfort to all their little
party, except herself.—But her mind had never been in
such perturbation; and it needed a very strong effort to
appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of
separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection.
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Chapter XVI
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and
Emma sat down to think and be miserable.—It was a
wretched business indeed!—Such an overthrow of every
thing she had been wishing for!—Such a development of
every thing most unwelcome!—Such a blow for
Harriet!—that was the worst of all. Every part of it
brought pain and humiliation, of some sort or other; but,
compared with the evil to Harriet, all was light; and she
would gladly have submitted to feel yet more mistaken—
more in error—more disgraced by mis-judgment, than she
actually was, could the effects of her blunders have been
confined to herself.
‘If I had not persuaded Harriet into liking the man, I
could have borne any thing. He might have doubled his
presumption to me— but poor Harriet!’
How she could have been so deceived!—He protested
that he had never thought seriously of Harriet—never! She
looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion.
She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every
thing bend to it. His manners, however, must have been
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unmarked, wavering, dubious, or she could not have been
so misled.
The picture!—How eager he had been about the
picture!— and the charade!—and an hundred other
circumstances;— how clearly they had seemed to point at
Harriet. To be sure, the charade, with its ‘ready wit’—but
then the ‘soft eyes’— in fact it suited neither; it was a
jumble without taste or truth. Who could have seen
through such thick-headed nonsense?
Certainly she had often, especially of late, thought his
manners to herself unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed
as his way, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of
taste, as one proof among others that he had not always
lived in the best society, that with all the gentleness of his
address, true elegance was sometimes wanting; but, till this
very day, she had never, for an instant, suspected it to
mean any thing but grateful respect to her as Harriet’s
friend.
To Mr. John Knightley was she indebted for her first
idea on the subject, for the first start of its possibility.
There was no denying that those brothers had penetration.
She remembered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her
about Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction
he had professed that Mr. Elton would never marry
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indiscreetly; and blushed to think how much truer a
knowledge of his character had been there shewn than any
she had reached herself. It was dreadfully mortifying; but
Mr. Elton was proving himself, in many respects, the very
reverse of what she had meant and believed him; proud,
assuming, conceited; very full of his own claims, and little
concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s
wanting to pay his addresses to her had sunk him in her
opinion. His professions and his proposals did him no
service. She thought nothing of his attachment, and was
insulted by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and
having the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, pretended to
be in love; but she was perfectly easy as to his not suffering
any disappointment that need be cared for. There had
been no real affection either in his language or manners.
Sighs and fine words had been given in abundance; but
she could hardly devise any set of expressions, or fancy any
tone of voice, less allied with real love. She need not
trouble herself to pity him. He only wanted to aggrandise
and enrich himself; and if Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield,
the heiress of thirty thousand pounds, were not quite so
easily obtained as he had fancied, he would soon try for
Miss Somebody else with twenty, or with ten.
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But—that he should talk of encouragement, should
consider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions,
meaning (in short), to marry him!—should suppose
himself her equal in connexion or mind!—look down
upon her friend, so well understanding the gradations of
rank below him, and be so blind to what rose above, as to
fancy himself shewing no presumption in addressing
her!— It was most provoking.
Perhaps it was not fair to expect him to feel how very
much he was her inferior in talent, and all the elegancies
of mind. The very want of such equality might prevent his
perception of it; but he must know that in fortune and
consequence she was greatly his superior. He must know
that the Woodhouses had been settled for several
generations at Hartfield, the younger branch of a very
ancient family—and that the Eltons were nobody. The
landed property of Hartfield certainly was inconsiderable,
being but a sort of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to
which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune,
from other sources, was such as to make them scarcely
secondary to Donwell Abbey itself, in every other kind of
consequence; and the Woodhouses had long held a high
place in the consideration of the neighbourhood which
Mr. Elton had first entered not two years ago, to make his
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way as he could, without any alliances but in trade, or any
thing to recommend him to notice but his situation and
his civility.— But he had fancied her in love with him;
that evidently must have been his dependence; and after
raving a little about the seeming incongruity of gentle
manners and a conceited head, Emma was obliged in
common honesty to stop and admit that her own
behaviour to him had been so complaisant and obliging, so
full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary
observation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying
himself a very decided favourite. If she had so
misinterpreted his feelings, she had little right to wonder
that he, with self-interest to blind him, should have
mistaken hers.
The first error and the worst lay at her door. It was
foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing
any two people together. It was adventuring too far,
assuming too much, making light of what ought to be
serious, a trick of what ought to be simple. She was quite
concerned and ashamed, and resolved to do such things no
more.
‘Here have I,’ said she, ‘actually talked poor Harriet
into being very much attached to this man. She might
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never have thought of him but for me; and certainly never
would have thought of him with hope, if I had not assured
her of his attachment, for she is as modest and humble as I
used to think him. Oh! that I had been satisfied with
persuading her not to accept young Martin. There I was
quite right. That was well done of me; but there I should
have stopped, and left the rest to time and chance. I was
introducing her into good company, and giving her the
opportunity of pleasing some one worth having; I ought
not to have attempted more. But now, poor girl, her
peace is cut up for some time. I have been but half a friend
to her; and if she were not to feel this disappointment so
very much, I am sure I have not an idea of any body else
who would be at all desirable for her;—William Coxe—
Oh! no, I could not endure William Coxe— a pert young
lawyer.’
She stopt to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and
then resumed a more serious, more dispiriting cogitation
upon what had been, and might be, and must be. The
distressing explanation she had to make to Harriet, and all
that poor Harriet would be suffering, with the
awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of
continuing or discontinuing the acquaintance, of subduing
feelings, concealing resentment, and avoiding eclat, were
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enough to occupy her in most unmirthful reflections some
time longer, and she went to bed at last with nothing
settled but the conviction of her having blundered most
dreadfully.
To youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma’s, though
under temporary gloom at night, the return of day will
hardly fail to bring return of spirits. The youth and
cheerfulness of morning are in happy analogy, and of
powerful operation; and if the distress be not poignant
enough to keep the eyes unclosed, they will be sure to
open to sensations of softened pain and brighter hope.
Emma got up on the morrow more disposed for
comfort than she had gone to bed, more ready to see
alleviations of the evil before her, and to depend on
getting tolerably out of it.
It was a great consolation that Mr. Elton should not be
really in love with her, or so particularly amiable as to
make it shocking to disappoint him—that Harriet’s nature
should not be of that superior sort in which the feelings
are most acute and retentive— and that there could be no
necessity for any body’s knowing what had passed except
the three principals, and especially for her father’s being
given a moment’s uneasiness about it.
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These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a
great deal of snow on the ground did her further service,
for any thing was welcome that might justify their all three
being quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though
Christmas Day, she could not go to church. Mr.
Woodhouse would have been miserable had his daughter
attempted it, and she was therefore safe from either
exciting or receiving unpleasant and most unsuitable ideas.
The ground covered with snow, and the atmosphere in
that unsettled state between frost and thaw, which is of all
others the most unfriendly for exercise, every morning
beginning in rain or snow, and every evening setting in to
freeze, she was for many days a most honourable prisoner.
No intercourse with Harriet possible but by note; no
church for her on Sunday any more than on Christmas
Day; and no need to find excuses for Mr. Elton’s absenting
himself.
It was weather which might fairly confine every body
at home; and though she hoped and believed him to be
really taking comfort in some society or other, it was very
pleasant to have her father so well satisfied with his being
all alone in his own house, too wise to stir out; and to
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hear him say to Mr. Knightley, whom no weather could
keep entirely from them,—
‘Ah! Mr. Knightley, why do not you stay at home like
poor Mr. Elton?’
These days of confinement would have been, but for
her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable, as such
seclusion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must
always be of great importance to his companions; and he
had, besides, so thoroughly cleared off his ill-humour at
Randalls, that his amiableness never failed him during the
rest of his stay at Hartfield. He was always agreeable and
obliging, and speaking pleasantly of every body. But with
all the hopes of cheerfulness, and all the present comfort of
delay, there was still such an evil hanging over her in the
hour of explanation with Harriet, as made it impossible for
Emma to be ever perfectly at ease.
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Chapter XVII
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley were not detained long at
Hartfield. The weather soon improved enough for those
to move who must move; and Mr. Woodhouse having, as
usual, tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all
her children, was obliged to see the whole party set off,
and return to his lamentations over the destiny of poor
Isabella;—which poor Isabella, passing her life with those
she doated on, full of their merits, blind to their faults, and
always innocently busy, might have been a model of right
feminine happiness.
The evening of the very day on which they went
brought a note from Mr. Elton to Mr. Woodhouse, a
long, civil, ceremonious note, to say, with Mr. Elton’s best
compliments, ‘that he was proposing to leave Highbury
the following morning in his way to Bath; where, in
compliance with the pressing entreaties of some friends, he
had engaged to spend a few weeks, and very much
regretted the impossibility he was under, from various
circumstances of weather and business, of taking a personal
leave of Mr. Woodhouse, of whose friendly civilities he
should ever retain a grateful sense— and had Mr.
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Woodhouse any commands, should be happy to attend to
them.’
Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s
absence just at this time was the very thing to be desired.
She admired him for contriving it, though not able to give
him much credit for the manner in which it was
announced. Resentment could not have been more plainly
spoken than in a civility to her father, from which she was
so pointedly excluded. She had not even a share in his
opening compliments.—Her name was not mentioned;—
and there was so striking a change in all this, and such an
ill-judged solemnity of leave-taking in his graceful
acknowledgments, as she thought, at first, could not escape
her father’s suspicion.
It did, however.—Her father was quite taken up with
the surprize of so sudden a journey, and his fears that Mr.
Elton might never get safely to the end of it, and saw
nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful
note, for it supplied them with fresh matter for thought
and conversation during the rest of their lonely evening.
Mr. Woodhouse talked over his alarms, and Emma was in
spirits to persuade them away with all her usual
promptitude.
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She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the
dark. She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from
her cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much
time as possible for getting the better of her other
complaint before the gentleman’s return. She went to Mrs.
Goddard’s accordingly the very next day, to undergo the
necessary penance of communication; and a severe one it
was.— She had to destroy all the hopes which she had
been so industriously feeding—to appear in the ungracious
character of the one preferred— and acknowledge herself
grossly mistaken and mis-judging in all her ideas on one
subject, all her observations, all her convictions, all her
prophecies for the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her first shame—
and the sight of Harriet’s tears made her think that she
should never be in charity with herself again.
Harriet bore the intelligence very well—blaming
nobody— and in every thing testifying such an
ingenuousness of disposition and lowly opinion of herself,
as must appear with particular advantage at that moment
to her friend.
Emma was in the humour to value simplicity and
modesty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that
ought to be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her
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own. Harriet did not consider herself as having any thing
to complain of. The affection of such a man as Mr. Elton
would have been too great a distinction.— She never
could have deserved him—and nobody but so partial and
kind a friend as Miss Woodhouse would have thought it
possible.
Her tears fell abundantly—but her grief was so truly
artless, that no dignity could have made it more
respectable in Emma’s eyes— and she listened to her and
tried to console her with all her heart and understanding—
really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior
creature of the two—and that to resemble her would be
more for her own welfare and happiness than all that
genius or intelligence could do.
It was rather too late in the day to set about being
simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every
previous resolution confirmed of being humble and
discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life.
Her second duty now, inferior only to her father’s claims,
was to promote Harriet’s comfort, and endeavour to prove
her own affection in some better method than by matchmaking.
She got her to Hartfield, and shewed her the
most unvarying kindness, striving to occupy and amuse
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her, and by books and conversation, to drive Mr. Elton
from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being
thoroughly done; and she could suppose herself but an
indifferent judge of such matters in general, and very
inadequate to sympathise in an attachment to Mr. Elton in
particular; but it seemed to her reasonable that at Harriet’s
age, and with the entire extinction of all hope, such a
progress might be made towards a state of composure by
the time of Mr. Elton’s return, as to allow them all to
meet again in the common routine of acquaintance,
without any danger of betraying sentiments or increasing
them.
Harriet did think him all perfection, and maintained the
non-existence of any body equal to him in person or
goodness—and did, in truth, prove herself more resolutely
in love than Emma had foreseen; but yet it appeared to
her so natural, so inevitable to strive against an inclination
of that sort unrequited, that she could not comprehend its
continuing very long in equal force.
If Mr. Elton, on his return, made his own indifference
as evident and indubitable as she could not doubt he
would anxiously do, she could not imagine Harriet’s
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persisting to place her happiness in the sight or the
recollection of him.
Their being fixed, so absolutely fixed, in the same
place, was bad for each, for all three. Not one of them had
the power of removal, or of effecting any material change
of society. They must encounter each other, and make the
best of it.
Harriet was farther unfortunate in the tone of her
companions at Mrs. Goddard’s; Mr. Elton being the
adoration of all the teachers and great girls in the school;
and it must be at Hartfield only that she could have any
chance of hearing him spoken of with cooling moderation
or repellent truth. Where the wound had been given,
there must the cure be found if anywhere; and Emma felt
that, till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no
true peace for herself.
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Chapter XVIII
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time
proposed drew near, Mrs. Weston’s fears were justified in
the arrival of a letter of excuse. For the present, he could
not be spared, to his ‘very great mortification and regret;
but still he looked forward with the hope of coming to
Randalls at no distant period.’
Mrs. Weston was exceedingly disappointed—much
more disappointed, in fact, than her husband, though her
dependence on seeing the young man had been so much
more sober: but a sanguine temper, though for ever
expecting more good than occurs, does not always pay for
its hopes by any proportionate depression. It soon flies
over the present failure, and begins to hope again. For half
an hour Mr. Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he
began to perceive that Frank’s coming two or three
months later would be a much better plan; better time of
year; better weather; and that he would be able, without
any doubt, to stay considerably longer with them than if
he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs.
Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw
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nothing but a repetition of excuses and delays; and after all
her concern for what her husband was to suffer, suffered a
great deal more herself.
Emma was not at this time in a state of spirits to care
really about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as a
disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at present
had no charm for her. She wanted, rather, to be quiet, and
out of temptation; but still, as it was desirable that she
should appear, in general, like her usual self, she took care
to express as much interest in the circumstance, and enter
as warmly into Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s disappointment, as
might naturally belong to their friendship.
She was the first to announce it to Mr. Knightley; and
exclaimed quite as much as was necessary, (or, being
acting a part, perhaps rather more,) at the conduct of the
Churchills, in keeping him away. She then proceeded to
say a good deal more than she felt, of the advantage of
such an addition to their confined society in Surry; the
pleasure of looking at somebody new; the gala-day to
Highbury entire, which the sight of him would have
made; and ending with reflections on the Churchills again,
found herself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr.
Knightley; and, to her great amusement, perceived that
she was taking the other side of the question from her real
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opinion, and making use of Mrs. Weston’s arguments
against herself.
‘The Churchills are very likely in fault,’ said Mr.
Knightley, coolly; ‘but I dare say he might come if he
would.’
‘I do not know why you should say so. He wishes
exceedingly to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare
him.’
‘I cannot believe that he has not the power of coming,
if he made a point of it. It is too unlikely, for me to
believe it without proof.’
‘How odd you are! What has Mr. Frank Churchill
done, to make you suppose him such an unnatural
creature?’
‘I am not supposing him at all an unnatural creature, in
suspecting that he may have learnt to be above his
connexions, and to care very little for any thing but his
own pleasure, from living with those who have always set
him the example of it. It is a great deal more natural than
one could wish, that a young man, brought up by those
who are proud, luxurious, and selfish, should be proud,
luxurious, and selfish too. If Frank Churchill had wanted
to see his father, he would have contrived it between
September and January. A man at his age—what is he?—
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three or four-and-twenty—cannot be without the means
of doing as much as that. It is impossible.’
‘That’s easily said, and easily felt by you, who have
always been your own master. You are the worst judge in
the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of
dependence. You do not know what it is to have tempers
to manage.’
‘It is not to be conceived that a man of three or fourand-
twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to
that amount. He cannot want money—he cannot want
leisure. We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of
both, that he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts
in the kingdom. We hear of him for ever at some
watering-place or other. A little while ago, he was at
Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Churchills.’
‘Yes, sometimes he can.’
‘And those times are whenever he thinks it worth his
while; whenever there is any temptation of pleasure.’
‘It is very unfair to judge of any body’s conduct,
without an intimate knowledge of their situation.
Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can
say what the difficulties of any individual of that family
may be. We ought to be acquainted with Enscombe, and
with Mrs. Churchill’s temper, before we pretend to decide
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upon what her nephew can do. He may, at times, be able
to do a great deal more than he can at others.’
‘There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always
do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring
and finessing, but by vigour and resolution. It is Frank
Churchill’s duty to pay this attention to his father. He
knows it to be so, by his promises and messages; but if he
wished to do it, it might be done. A man who felt rightly
would say at once, simply and resolutely, to Mrs.
Churchill— ‘Every sacrifice of mere pleasure you will
always find me ready to make to your convenience; but I
must go and see my father immediately. I know he would
be hurt by my failing in such a mark of respect to him on
the present occasion. I shall, therefore, set off tomorrow.’—
If he would say so to her at once, in the tone
of decision becoming a man, there would be no
opposition made to his going.’
‘No,’ said Emma, laughing; ‘but perhaps there might be
some made to his coming back again. Such language for a
young man entirely dependent, to use!—Nobody but you,
Mr. Knightley, would imagine it possible. But you have
not an idea of what is requisite in situations directly
opposite to your own. Mr. Frank Churchill to be making
such a speech as that to the uncle and aunt, who have
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brought him up, and are to provide for him!—Standing up
in the middle of the room, I suppose, and speaking as loud
as he could!—How can you imagine such conduct
practicable?’
‘Depend upon it, Emma, a sensible man would find no
difficulty in it. He would feel himself in the right; and the
declaration—made, of course, as a man of sense would
make it, in a proper manner— would do him more good,
raise him higher, fix his interest stronger with the people
he depended on, than all that a line of shifts and
expedients can ever do. Respect would be added to
affection. They would feel that they could trust him; that
the nephew who had done rightly by his father, would do
rightly by them; for they know, as well as he does, as well
as all the world must know, that he ought to pay this visit
to his father; and while meanly exerting their power to
delay it, are in their hearts not thinking the better of him
for submitting to their whims. Respect for right conduct is
felt by every body. If he would act in this sort of manner,
on principle, consistently, regularly, their little minds
would bend to his.’
‘I rather doubt that. You are very fond of bending little
minds; but where little minds belong to rich people in
authority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till
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they are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can
imagine, that if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be
transported and placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s
situation, you would be able to say and do just what you
have been recommending for him; and it might have a
very good effect. The Churchills might not have a word
to say in return; but then, you would have no habits of
early obedience and long observance to break through. To
him who has, it might not be so easy to burst forth at once
into perfect independence, and set all their claims on his
gratitude and regard at nought. He may have as strong a
sense of what would be right, as you can have, without
being so equal, under particular circumstances, to act up to
it.’
‘Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to
produce equal exertion, it could not be an equal
conviction.’
‘Oh, the difference of situation and habit! I wish you
would try to understand what an amiable young man may
be likely to feel in directly opposing those, whom as child
and boy he has been looking up to all his life.’
‘Our amiable young man is a very weak young man, if
this be the first occasion of his carrying through a
resolution to do right against the will of others. It ought to
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have been a habit with him by this time, of following his
duty, instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the
fears of the child, but not of the man. As he became
rational, he ought to have roused himself and shaken off
all that was unworthy in their authority. He ought to have
opposed the first attempt on their side to make him slight
his father. Had he begun as he ought, there would have
been no difficulty now.’
‘We shall never agree about him,’ cried Emma; ‘but
that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of
his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not. Mr.
Weston would not be blind to folly, though in his own
son; but he is very likely to have a more yielding,
complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions
of man’s perfection. I dare say he has; and though it may
cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many
others.’
‘Yes; all the advantages of sitting still when he ought to
move, and of leading a life of mere idle pleasure, and
fancying himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it.
He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of
professions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he
has hit upon the very best method in the world of
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preserving peace at home and preventing his father’s
having any right to complain. His letters disgust me.’
‘Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy every
body else.’
‘I suspect they do not satisfy Mrs. Weston. They hardly
can satisfy a woman of her good sense and quick feelings:
standing in a mother’s place, but without a mother’s
affection to blind her. It is on her account that attention to
Randalls is doubly due, and she must doubly feel the
omission. Had she been a person of consequence herself,
he would have come I dare say; and it would not have
signified whether he did or no. Can you think your friend
behindhand in these sort of considerations? Do you
suppose she does not often say all this to herself? No,
Emma, your amiable young man can be amiable only in
French, not in English. He may be very ‘aimable,’ have
very good manners, and be very agreeable; but he can
have no English delicacy towards the feelings of other
people: nothing really amiable about him.’
‘You seem determined to think ill of him.’
‘Me!—not at all,’ replied Mr. Knightley, rather
displeased; ‘I do not want to think ill of him. I should be
as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I
hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is
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well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible
manners.’
‘Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he
will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look
upon fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must
not be nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain.
Cannot you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his
coming will produce? There will be but one subject
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; but
one interest— one object of curiosity; it will be all Mr.
Frank Churchill; we shall think and speak of nobody else.’
‘You will excuse my being so much over-powered. If I
find him conversable, I shall be glad of his acquaintance;
but if he is only a chattering coxcomb, he will not occupy
much of my time or thoughts.’
‘My idea of him is, that he can adapt his conversation
to the taste of every body, and has the power as well as the
wish of being universally agreeable. To you, he will talk of
farming; to me, of drawing or music; and so on to every
body, having that general information on all subjects
which will enable him to follow the lead, or take the lead,
just as propriety may require, and to speak extremely well
on each; that is my idea of him.’
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‘And mine,’ said Mr. Knightley warmly, ‘is, that if he
turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insufferable
fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the
king of his company—the great man— the practised
politician, who is to read every body’s character, and make
every body’s talents conduce to the display of his own
superiority; to be dispensing his flatteries around, that he
may make all appear like fools compared with himself! My
dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a
puppy when it came to the point.’
‘I will say no more about him,’ cried Emma, ‘you turn
every thing to evil. We are both prejudiced; you against, I
for him; and we have no chance of agreeing till he is really
here.’
‘Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.’
‘But I am very much, and without being at all ashamed
of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Weston gives me a
decided prejudice in his favour.’
‘He is a person I never think of from one month’s end
to another,’ said Mr. Knightley, with a degree of vexation,
which made Emma immediately talk of something else,
though she could not comprehend why he should be
angry.
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To take a dislike to a young man, only because he
appeared to be of a different disposition from himself, was
unworthy the real liberality of mind which she was always
used to acknowledge in him; for with all the high opinion
of himself, which she had often laid to his charge, she had
never before for a moment supposed it could make him
unjust to the merit of another.
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Volume II
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Chapter I
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one
morning, and, in Emma’s opinion, had been talking
enough of Mr. Elton for that day. She could not think that
Harriet’s solace or her own sins required more; and she
was therefore industriously getting rid of the subject as
they returned;—but it burst out again when she thought
she had succeeded, and after speaking some time of what
the poor must suffer in winter, and receiving no other
answer than a very plaintive— ‘Mr. Elton is so good to
the poor!’ she found something else must be done.
They were just approaching the house where lived
Mrs. and Miss Bates. She determined to call upon them
and seek safety in numbers. There was always sufficient
reason for such an attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to
be called on, and she knew she was considered by the very
few who presumed ever to see imperfection in her, as
rather negligent in that respect, and as not contributing
what she ought to the stock of their scanty comforts.
She had had many a hint from Mr. Knightley and some
from her own heart, as to her deficiency—but none were
equal to counteract the persuasion of its being very
disagreeable,—a waste of time—tiresome women— and
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all the horror of being in danger of falling in with the
second-rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling
on them for ever, and therefore she seldom went near
them. But now she made the sudden resolution of not
passing their door without going in—observing, as she
proposed it to Harriet, that, as well as she could calculate,
they were just now quite safe from any letter from Jane
Fairfax.
The house belonged to people in business. Mrs. and
Miss Bates occupied the drawing-room floor; and there, in
the very moderate-sized apartment, which was every thing
to them, the visitors were most cordially and even
gratefully welcomed; the quiet neat old lady, who with
her knitting was seated in the warmest corner, wanting
even to give up her place to Miss Woodhouse, and her
more active, talking daughter, almost ready to overpower
them with care and kindness, thanks for their visit,
solicitude for their shoes, anxious inquiries after Mr.
Woodhouse’s health, cheerful communications about her
mother’s, and sweet-cake from the beaufet—‘Mrs. Cole
had just been there, just called in for ten minutes, and had
been so good as to sit an hour with them, and she had
taken a piece of cake and been so kind as to say she liked it
very much; and, therefore, she hoped Miss Woodhouse
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and Miss Smith would do them the favour to eat a piece
too.’
The mention of the Coles was sure to be followed by
that of Mr. Elton. There was intimacy between them, and
Mr. Cole had heard from Mr. Elton since his going away.
Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter
over again, and settle how long he had been gone, and
how much he was engaged in company, and what a
favourite he was wherever he went, and how full the
Master of the Ceremonies’ ball had been; and she went
through it very well, with all the interest and all the
commendation that could be requisite, and always putting
forward to prevent Harriet’s being obliged to say a word.
This she had been prepared for when she entered the
house; but meant, having once talked him handsomely
over, to be no farther incommoded by any troublesome
topic, and to wander at large amongst all the Mistresses
and Misses of Highbury, and their card-parties. She had
not been prepared to have Jane Fairfax succeed Mr. Elton;
but he was actually hurried off by Miss Bates, she jumped
away from him at last abruptly to the Coles, to usher in a
letter from her niece.
‘Oh! yes—Mr. Elton, I understand—certainly as to
dancing— Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the
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rooms at Bath was— Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some
time with us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in,
she began inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a
favourite there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does
not know how to shew her kindness enough; and I must
say that Jane deserves it as much as any body can. And so
she began inquiring after her directly, saying, ‘I know you
cannot have heard from Jane lately, because it is not her
time for writing;’ and when I immediately said, ‘But
indeed we have, we had a letter this very morning,’ I do
not know that I ever saw any body more surprized. ‘Have
you, upon your honour?’ said she; ‘well, that is quite
unexpected. Do let me hear what she says.’’
Emma’s politeness was at hand directly, to say, with
smiling interest—
‘Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am
extremely happy. I hope she is well?’
‘Thank you. You are so kind!’ replied the happily
deceived aunt, while eagerly hunting for the letter.—‘Oh!
here it is. I was sure it could not be far off; but I had put
my huswife upon it, you see, without being aware, and so
it was quite hid, but I had it in my hand so very lately that
I was almost sure it must be on the table. I was reading it
to Mrs. Cole, and since she went away, I was reading it
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again to my mother, for it is such a pleasure to her— a
letter from Jane—that she can never hear it often enough;
so I knew it could not be far off, and here it is, only just
under my huswife—and since you are so kind as to wish
to hear what she says;—but, first of all, I really must, in
justice to Jane, apologise for her writing so short a letter—
only two pages you see— hardly two—and in general she
fills the whole paper and crosses half. My mother often
wonders that I can make it out so well. She often says,
when the letter is first opened, ‘Well, Hetty, now I think
you will be put to it to make out all that checker-work’—
don’t you, ma’am?—And then I tell her, I am sure she
would contrive to make it out herself, if she had nobody
to do it for her— every word of it—I am sure she would
pore over it till she had made out every word. And,
indeed, though my mother’s eyes are not so good as they
were, she can see amazingly well still, thank God! with the
help of spectacles. It is such a blessing! My mother’s are
really very good indeed. Jane often says, when she is here,
‘I am sure, grandmama, you must have had very strong
eyes to see as you do—and so much fine work as you have
done too!—I only wish my eyes may last me as well.’’
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All this spoken extremely fast obliged Miss Bates to
stop for breath; and Emma said something very civil about
the excellence of Miss Fairfax’s handwriting.
‘You are extremely kind,’ replied Miss Bates, highly
gratified; ‘you who are such a judge, and write so
beautifully yourself. I am sure there is nobody’s praise that
could give us so much pleasure as Miss Woodhouse’s. My
mother does not hear; she is a little deaf you know.
Ma’am,’ addressing her, ‘do you hear what Miss
Woodhouse is so obliging to say about Jane’s
handwriting?’
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own silly
compliment repeated twice over before the good old lady
could comprehend it. She was pondering, in the
meanwhile, upon the possibility, without seeming very
rude, of making her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and
had almost resolved on hurrying away directly under some
slight excuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and
seized her attention.
‘My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just
nothing at all. By only raising my voice, and saying any
thing two or three times over, she is sure to hear; but then
she is used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she
should always hear Jane better than she does me. Jane
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speaks so distinct! However, she will not find her
grandmama at all deafer than she was two years ago; which
is saying a great deal at my mother’s time of life—and it
really is full two years, you know, since she was here. We
never were so long without seeing her before, and as I was
telling Mrs. Cole, we shall hardly know how to make
enough of her now.’
‘Are you expecting Miss Fairfax here soon?’
‘Oh yes; next week.’
‘Indeed!—that must be a very great pleasure.’
‘Thank you. You are very kind. Yes, next week. Every
body is so surprized; and every body says the same
obliging things. I am sure she will be as happy to see her
friends at Highbury, as they can be to see her. Yes, Friday
or Saturday; she cannot say which, because Colonel
Campbell will be wanting the carriage himself one of
those days. So very good of them to send her the whole
way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, Friday or
Saturday next. That is what she writes about. That is the
reason of her writing out of rule, as we call it; for, in the
common course, we should not have heard from her
before next Tuesday or Wednesday.’
‘Yes, so I imagined. I was afraid there could be little
chance of my hearing any thing of Miss Fairfax to-day.’
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‘So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if
it had not been for this particular circumstance, of her
being to come here so soon. My mother is so delighted!—
for she is to be three months with us at least. Three
months, she says so, positively, as I am going to have the
pleasure of reading to you. The case is, you see, that the
Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon has persuaded
her father and mother to come over and see her directly.
They had not intended to go over till the summer, but she
is so impatient to see them again—for till she married, last
October, she was never away from them so much as a
week, which must make it very strange to be in different
kingdoms, I was going to say, but however different
countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her
mother—or her father, I declare I do not know which it
was, but we shall see presently in Jane’s letter—wrote in
Mr. Dixon’s name as well as her own, to press their
coming over directly, and they would give them the
meeting in Dublin, and take them back to their country
seat, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I fancy. Jane has heard a
great deal of its beauty; from Mr. Dixon, I mean— I do
not know that she ever heard about it from any body else;
but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to
speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses—
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and as Jane used to be very often walking out with
them—for Colonel and Mrs. Campbell were very
particular about their daughter’s not walking out often
with only Mr. Dixon, for which I do not at all blame
them; of course she heard every thing he might be telling
Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I
think she wrote us word that he had shewn them some
drawings of the place, views that he had taken himself. He
is a most amiable, charming young man, I believe. Jane
was quite longing to go to Ireland, from his account of
things.’
At this moment, an ingenious and animating suspicion
entering Emma’s brain with regard to Jane Fairfax, this
charming Mr. Dixon, and the not going to Ireland, she
said, with the insidious design of farther discovery,
‘You must feel it very fortunate that Miss Fairfax
should be allowed to come to you at such a time.
Considering the very particular friendship between her
and Mrs. Dixon, you could hardly have expected her to be
excused from accompanying Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’
‘Very true, very true, indeed. The very thing that we
have always been rather afraid of; for we should not have
liked to have her at such a distance from us, for months
together—not able to come if any thing was to happen.
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But you see, every thing turns out for the best. They want
her (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) excessively to come over with
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; quite depend upon it;
nothing can be more kind or pressing than their joint
invitation, Jane says, as you will hear presently; Mr. Dixon
does not seem in the least backward in any attention. He is
a most charming young man. Ever since the service he
rendered Jane at Weymouth, when they were out in that
party on the water, and she, by the sudden whirling round
of something or other among the sails, would have been
dashed into the sea at once, and actually was all but gone,
if he had not, with the greatest presence of mind, caught
hold of her habit— (I can never think of it without
trembling!)—But ever since we had the history of that
day, I have been so fond of Mr. Dixon!’
‘But, in spite of all her friends’ urgency, and her own
wish of seeing Ireland, Miss Fairfax prefers devoting the
time to you and Mrs. Bates?’
‘Yes—entirely her own doing, entirely her own choice;
and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think she does quite
right, just what they should recommend; and indeed they
particularly wish her to try her native air, as she has not
been quite so well as usual lately.’
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‘I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wisely.
But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs.
Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of personal
beauty; is not, by any means, to be compared with Miss
Fairfax.’
‘Oh! no. You are very obliging to say such things—but
certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss
Campbell always was absolutely plain—but extremely
elegant and amiable.’
‘Yes, that of course.’
‘Jane caught a bad cold, poor thing! so long ago as the
7th of November, (as I am going to read to you,) and has
never been well since. A long time, is not it, for a cold to
hang upon her? She never mentioned it before, because
she would not alarm us. Just like her! so considerate!—But
however, she is so far from well, that her kind friends the
Campbells think she had better come home, and try an air
that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that
three or four months at Highbury will entirely cure her—
and it is certainly a great deal better that she should come
here, than go to Ireland, if she is unwell. Nobody could
nurse her, as we should do.’
‘It appears to me the most desirable arrangement in the
world.’
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‘And so she is to come to us next Friday or Saturday,
and the Campbells leave town in their way to Holyhead
the Monday following— as you will find from Jane’s
letter. So sudden!—You may guess, dear Miss
Woodhouse, what a flurry it has thrown me in! If it was
not for the drawback of her illness—but I am afraid we
must expect to see her grown thin, and looking very
poorly. I must tell you what an unlucky thing happened to
me, as to that. I always make a point of reading Jane’s
letters through to myself first, before I read them aloud to
my mother, you know, for fear of there being any thing in
them to distress her. Jane desired me to do it, so I always
do: and so I began to-day with my usual caution; but no
sooner did I come to the mention of her being unwell,
than I burst out, quite frightened, with ‘Bless me! poor
Jane is ill!’— which my mother, being on the watch,
heard distinctly, and was sadly alarmed at. However, when
I read on, I found it was not near so bad as I had fancied at
first; and I make so light of it now to her, that she does
not think much about it. But I cannot imagine how I
could be so off my guard. If Jane does not get well soon,
we will call in Mr. Perry. The expense shall not be
thought of; and though he is so liberal, and so fond of Jane
that I dare say he would not mean to charge any thing for
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attendance, we could not suffer it to be so, you know. He
has a wife and family to maintain, and is not to be giving
away his time. Well, now I have just given you a hint of
what Jane writes about, we will turn to her letter, and I
am sure she tells her own story a great deal better than I
can tell it for her.’
‘I am afraid we must be running away,’ said Emma,
glancing at Harriet, and beginning to rise—‘My father will
be expecting us. I had no intention, I thought I had no
power of staying more than five minutes, when I first
entered the house. I merely called, because I would not
pass the door without inquiring after Mrs. Bates; but I
have been so pleasantly detained! Now, however, we must
wish you and Mrs. Bates good morning.’
And not all that could be urged to detain her
succeeded. She regained the street—happy in this, that
though much had been forced on her against her will,
though she had in fact heard the whole substance of Jane
Fairfax’s letter, she had been able to escape the letter itself.
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Chapter II
Jane Fairfax was an orphan, the only child of Mrs.
Bates’s youngest daughter.
The marriage of Lieut. Fairfax of the regiment of
infantry, and Miss Jane Bates, had had its day of fame and
pleasure, hope and interest; but nothing now remained of
it, save the melancholy remembrance of him dying in
action abroad—of his widow sinking under consumption
and grief soon afterwards—and this girl.
By birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at three
years old, on losing her mother, she became the property,
the charge, the consolation, the fondling of her
grandmother and aunt, there had seemed every probability
of her being permanently fixed there; of her being taught
only what very limited means could command, and
growing up with no advantages of connexion or
improvement, to be engrafted on what nature had given
her in a pleasing person, good understanding, and warmhearted,
well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father
gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell,
who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent
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officer and most deserving young man; and farther, had
been indebted to him for such attentions, during a severe
camp-fever, as he believed had saved his life. These were
claims which he did not learn to overlook, though some
years passed away from the death of poor Fairfax, before
his own return to England put any thing in his power.
When he did return, he sought out the child and took
notice of her. He was a married man, with only one living
child, a girl, about Jane’s age: and Jane became their guest,
paying them long visits and growing a favourite with all;
and before she was nine years old, his daughter’s great
fondness for her, and his own wish of being a real friend,
united to produce an offer from Colonel Campbell of
undertaking the whole charge of her education. It was
accepted; and from that period Jane had belonged to
Colonel Campbell’s family, and had lived with them
entirely, only visiting her grandmother from time to time.
The plan was that she should be brought up for
educating others; the very few hundred pounds which she
inherited from her father making independence
impossible. To provide for her otherwise was out of
Colonel Campbell’s power; for though his income, by pay
and appointments, was handsome, his fortune was
moderate and must be all his daughter’s; but, by giving her
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an education, he hoped to be supplying the means of
respectable subsistence hereafter.
Such was Jane Fairfax’s history. She had fallen into
good hands, known nothing but kindness from the
Campbells, and been given an excellent education. Living
constantly with right-minded and well-informed people,
her heart and understanding had received every advantage
of discipline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s
residence being in London, every lighter talent had been
done full justice to, by the attendance of first-rate masters.
Her disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all
that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen she
was, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care
of children, fully competent to the office of instruction
herself; but she was too much beloved to be parted with.
Neither father nor mother could promote, and the
daughter could not endure it. The evil day was put off. It
was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane
remained with them, sharing, as another daughter, in all
the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a judicious
mixture of home and amusement, with only the drawback
of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own good
understanding to remind her that all this might soon be
over.
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The affection of the whole family, the warm
attachment of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more
honourable to each party from the circumstance of Jane’s
decided superiority both in beauty and acquirements. That
nature had given it in feature could not be unseen by the
young woman, nor could her higher powers of mind be
unfelt by the parents. They continued together with
unabated regard however, till the marriage of Miss
Campbell, who by that chance, that luck which so often
defies anticipation in matrimonial affairs, giving attraction
to what is moderate rather than to what is superior,
engaged the affections of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich
and agreeable, almost as soon as they were acquainted; and
was eligibly and happily settled, while Jane Fairfax had yet
her bread to earn.
This event had very lately taken place; too lately for
any thing to be yet attempted by her less fortunate friend
towards entering on her path of duty; though she had now
reached the age which her own judgment had fixed on for
beginning. She had long resolved that one-and-twenty
should be the period. With the fortitude of a devoted
novitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete
the sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of
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rational intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, to
penance and mortification for ever.
The good sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could
not oppose such a resolution, though their feelings did. As
long as they lived, no exertions would be necessary, their
home might be hers for ever; and for their own comfort
they would have retained her wholly; but this would be
selfishness:—what must be at last, had better be soon.
Perhaps they began to feel it might have been kinder and
wiser to have resisted the temptation of any delay, and
spared her from a taste of such enjoyments of ease and
leisure as must now be relinquished. Still, however,
affection was glad to catch at any reasonable excuse for not
hurrying on the wretched moment. She had never been
quite well since the time of their daughter’s marriage; and
till she should have completely recovered her usual
strength, they must forbid her engaging in duties, which,
so far from being compatible with a weakened frame and
varying spirits, seemed, under the most favourable
circumstances, to require something more than human
perfection of body and mind to be discharged with
tolerable comfort.
With regard to her not accompanying them to Ireland,
her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth,
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though there might be some truths not told. It was her
own choice to give the time of their absence to Highbury;
to spend, perhaps, her last months of perfect liberty with
those kind relations to whom she was so very dear: and
the Campbells, whatever might be their motive or
motives, whether single, or double, or treble, gave the
arrangement their ready sanction, and said, that they
depended more on a few months spent in her native air,
for the recovery of her health, than on any thing else.
Certain it was that she was to come; and that Highbury,
instead of welcoming that perfect novelty which had been
so long promised it—Mr. Frank Churchill—must put up
for the present with Jane Fairfax, who could bring only
the freshness of a two years’ absence.
Emma was sorry;—to have to pay civilities to a person
she did not like through three long months!—to be always
doing more than she wished, and less than she ought!
Why she did not like Jane Fairfax might be a difficult
question to answer; Mr. Knightley had once told her it
was because she saw in her the really accomplished young
woman, which she wanted to be thought herself; and
though the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the
time, there were moments of self-examination in which
her conscience could not quite acquit her. But ‘she could
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never get acquainted with her: she did not know how it
was, but there was such coldness and reserve— such
apparent indifference whether she pleased or not—and
then, her aunt was such an eternal talker!—and she was
made such a fuss with by every body!—and it had been
always imagined that they were to be so intimate—
because their ages were the same, every body had
supposed they must be so fond of each other.’ These were
her reasons— she had no better.
It was a dislike so little just—every imputed fault was so
magnified by fancy, that she never saw Jane Fairfax the
first time after any considerable absence, without feeling
that she had injured her; and now, when the due visit was
paid, on her arrival, after a two years’ interval, she was
particularly struck with the very appearance and manners,
which for those two whole years she had been
depreciating. Jane Fairfax was very elegant, remarkably
elegant; and she had herself the highest value for elegance.
Her height was pretty, just such as almost every body
would think tall, and nobody could think very tall; her
figure particularly graceful; her size a most becoming
medium, between fat and thin, though a slight appearance
of ill-health seemed to point out the likeliest evil of the
two. Emma could not but feel all this; and then, her
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face—her features— there was more beauty in them
altogether than she had remembered; it was not regular,
but it was very pleasing beauty. Her eyes, a deep grey,
with dark eye-lashes and eyebrows, had never been denied
their praise; but the skin, which she had been used to cavil
at, as wanting colour, had a clearness and delicacy which
really needed no fuller bloom. It was a style of beauty, of
which elegance was the reigning character, and as such,
she must, in honour, by all her principles, admire it:—
elegance, which, whether of person or of mind, she saw so
little in Highbury. There, not to be vulgar, was
distinction, and merit.
In short, she sat, during the first visit, looking at Jane
Fairfax with twofold complacency; the sense of pleasure
and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining
that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in
her history, indeed, her situation, as well as her beauty;
when she considered what all this elegance was destined
to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going
to live, it seemed impossible to feel any thing but
compassion and respect; especially, if to every well-known
particular entitling her to interest, were added the highly
probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr. Dixon,
which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case,
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nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than
the sacrifices she had resolved on. Emma was very willing
now to acquit her of having seduced Mr. Dixon’s actions
from his wife, or of any thing mischievous which her
imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might
be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She
might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison,
while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and
from the best, the purest of motives, might now be
denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide
herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon
beginning her career of laborious duty.
Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened,
charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking
home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man
worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she
could wish to scheme about for her.
These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before
she had committed herself by any public profession of
eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a
recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to
Mr. Knightley, ‘She certainly is handsome; she is better
than handsome!’ Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield
with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was
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relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations
reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more
tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to
admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the
description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate
for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner,
as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new
workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane’s offences
rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play;
and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed
appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of
greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her
own very superior performance. She was, besides, which
was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no
getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of
politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She
was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.
If any thing could be more, where all was most, she
was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the
Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real
insight into Mr. Dixon’s character, or her own value for
his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match.
It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing
delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however.
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Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and
returned to her first surmises. There probably was
something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr.
Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend
for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the
sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.
The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr.
Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time.
It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a
syllable of real information could Emma procure as to
what he truly was. ‘Was he handsome?’—‘She believed he
was reckoned a very fine young man.’ ‘Was he
agreeable?’— ‘He was generally thought so.’ ‘Did he
appear a sensible young man; a young man of
information?’—‘At a watering-place, or in a common
London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such
points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of,
under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of
Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners
pleasing.’ Emma could not forgive her.
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Chapter III
Emma could not forgive her;—but as neither
provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr.
Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only
proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he
was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again
on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the
whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father
been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be
very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her
unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an
improvement.
‘A very pleasant evening,’ he began, as soon as Mr.
Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told
that he understood, and the papers swept away;—
‘particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some
very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state,
sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole
evening by two such young women; sometimes with
music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss
Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You
left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so
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much, for having no instrument at her grandmother’s, it
must have been a real indulgence.’
‘I am happy you approved,’ said Emma, smiling; ‘but I
hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at
Hartfield.’
‘No, my dear,’ said her father instantly; ‘that I am sure
you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as
you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin
last night—if it had been handed round once, I think it
would have been enough.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; ‘you
are not often deficient; not often deficient either in
manner or comprehension. I think you understand me,
therefore.’
An arch look expressed—‘I understand you well
enough;’ but she said only, ‘Miss Fairfax is reserved.’
‘I always told you she was—a little; but you will soon
overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be
overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What
arises from discretion must be honoured.’
‘You think her diffident. I do not see it.’
‘My dear Emma,’ said he, moving from his chair into
one close by her, ‘you are not going to tell me, I hope,
that you had not a pleasant evening.’
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‘Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in
asking questions; and amused to think how little
information I obtained.’
‘I am disappointed,’ was his only answer.
‘I hope every body had a pleasant evening,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse, in his quiet way. ‘I had. Once, I felt the fire
rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little,
a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very
chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she
speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable,
and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends;
and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a
very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed.
She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr.
Knightley, because she had Emma.’
‘True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.’
Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at
least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no
one could question—
‘She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep
one’s eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and
I do pity her from my heart.’
Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than
he cared to express; and before he could make any reply,
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Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates’s,
said—
‘It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so
confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished—
but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling
presents, of any thing uncommon— Now we have killed
a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a
leg; it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like
any other pork—but still it is pork—and, my dear Emma,
unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks,
nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease,
and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork—I
think we had better send the leg— do not you think so,
my dear?’
‘My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew
you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you
know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed
directly in any manner they like.’
‘That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of
it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt
the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very
thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very
moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or
parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.’
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‘Emma,’ said Mr. Knightley presently, ‘I have a piece
of news for you. You like news—and I heard an article in
my way hither that I think will interest you.’
‘News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?—why
do you smile so?—where did you hear it?—at Randalls?’
He had time only to say,
‘No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls,’
when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss
Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of
news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr.
Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that
not another syllable of communication could rest with
him.
‘Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear
Miss Woodhouse— I come quite over-powered. Such a
beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful!
Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be
married.’
Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton,
and she was so completely surprized that she could not
avoid a little start, and a little blush, at the sound.
‘There is my news:—I thought it would interest you,’
said Mr. Knightley, with a smile which implied a
conviction of some part of what had passed between them.
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‘But where could you hear it?’ cried Miss Bates.
‘Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is
not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole’s note—no, it
cannot be more than five— or at least ten—for I had got
my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I was
only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork—
Jane was standing in the passage—were not you, Jane?—
for my mother was so afraid that we had not any saltingpan
large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and
Jane said, ‘Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a
little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh!
my dear,’ said I—well, and just then came the note. A
Miss Hawkins— that’s all I know. A Miss Hawkins of
Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have
heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of
it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—‘
‘I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half
ago. He had just read Elton’s letter as I was shewn in, and
handed it to me directly.’
‘Well! that is quite—I suppose there never was a piece
of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really
are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best
compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says
you really quite oppress her.’
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‘We consider our Hartfield pork,’ replied Mr.
Woodhouse—‘indeed it certainly is, so very superior to all
other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater
pleasure than—-‘
‘Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are
only too good to us. If ever there were people who,
without having great wealth themselves, had every thing
they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say
that ‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr.
Knightley, and so you actually saw the letter; well—‘
‘It was short—merely to announce—but cheerful,
exulting, of course.’— Here was a sly glance at Emma.
‘He had been so fortunate as to— I forget the precise
words—one has no business to remember them. The
information was, as you state, that he was going to be
married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine
it just settled.’
‘Mr. Elton going to be married!’ said Emma, as soon as
she could speak. ‘He will have every body’s wishes for his
happiness.’
‘He is very young to settle,’ was Mr. Woodhouse’s
observation. ‘He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed
to me very well off as he was. We were always glad to see
him at Hartfield.’
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‘A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!’ said
Miss Bates, joyfully; ‘my mother is so pleased!—she says
she cannot bear to have the poor old Vicarage without a
mistress. This is great news, indeed. Jane, you have never
seen Mr. Elton!—no wonder that you have such a
curiosity to see him.’
Jane’s curiosity did not appear of that absorbing nature
as wholly to occupy her.
‘No—I have never seen Mr. Elton,’ she replied, starting
on this appeal; ‘is he—is he a tall man?’
‘Who shall answer that question?’ cried Emma. ‘My
father would say ‘yes,’ Mr. Knightley ‘no;’ and Miss Bates
and I that he is just the happy medium. When you have
been here a little longer, Miss Fairfax, you will understand
that Mr. Elton is the standard of perfection in Highbury,
both in person and mind.’
‘Very true, Miss Woodhouse, so she will. He is the
very best young man—But, my dear Jane, if you
remember, I told you yesterday he was precisely the
height of Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an
excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my
mother— wanting her to sit in the vicarage pew, that she
might hear the better, for my mother is a little deaf, you
know—it is not much, but she does not hear quite quick.
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Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a little deaf. He fancied
bathing might be good for it—the warm bath— but she
says it did him no lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you
know, is quite our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems a very
charming young man, quite worthy of him. It is such a
happiness when good people get together—and they
always do. Now, here will be Mr. Elton and Miss
Hawkins; and there are the Coles, such very good people;
and the Perrys—I suppose there never was a happier or a
better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir,’ turning
to Mr. Woodhouse, ‘I think there are few places with
such society as Highbury. I always say, we are quite
blessed in our neighbours.—My dear sir, if there is one
thing my mother loves better than another, it is pork— a
roast loin of pork—‘
‘As to who, or what Miss Hawkins is, or how long he
has been acquainted with her,’ said Emma, ‘nothing I
suppose can be known. One feels that it cannot be a very
long acquaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.’
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few
more wonderings, Emma said,
‘You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to
take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing
and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must
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have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s
account—we shall not excuse your being indifferent about
Mr. Elton and Miss Hawkins.’
‘When I have seen Mr. Elton,’ replied Jane, ‘ I dare say
I shall be interested—but I believe it requires that with
me. And as it is some months since Miss Campbell
married, the impression may be a little worn off.’
‘Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you observe,
Miss Woodhouse,’ said Miss Bates, ‘four weeks
yesterday.—A Miss Hawkins!—Well, I had always rather
fancied it would be some young lady hereabouts; not that
I ever—Mrs. Cole once whispered to me—but I
immediately said, ‘No, Mr. Elton is a most worthy young
man—but’—In short, I do not think I am particularly
quick at those sort of discoveries. I do not pretend to it.
What is before me, I see. At the same time, nobody could
wonder if Mr. Elton should have aspired—Miss
Woodhouse lets me chatter on, so good-humouredly. She
knows I would not offend for the world. How does Miss
Smith do? She seems quite recovered now. Have you
heard from Mrs. John Knightley lately? Oh! those dear
little children. Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr.
Dixon like Mr. John Knightley. I mean in person—tall,
and with that sort of look—and not very talkative.’
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‘Quite wrong, my dear aunt; there is no likeness at all.’
‘Very odd! but one never does form a just idea of any
body beforehand. One takes up a notion, and runs away
with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking,
handsome?’
‘Handsome! Oh! no—far from it—certainly plain. I
told you he was plain.’
‘My dear, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow
him to be plain, and that you yourself—‘
‘Oh! as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where
I have a regard, I always think a person well-looking. But
I gave what I believed the general opinion, when I called
him plain.’
‘Well, my dear Jane, I believe we must be running
away. The weather does not look well, and grandmama
will be uneasy. You are too obliging, my dear Miss
Woodhouse; but we really must take leave. This has been
a most agreeable piece of news indeed. I shall just go
round by Mrs. Cole’s; but I shall not stop three minutes:
and, Jane, you had better go home directly—I would not
have you out in a shower!—We think she is the better for
Highbury already. Thank you, we do indeed. I shall not
attempt calling on Mrs. Goddard, for I really do not think
she cares for any thing but boiled pork: when we dress the
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leg it will be another thing. Good morning to you, my
dear sir. Oh! Mr. Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so
very!—I am sure if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to
give her your arm.—Mr. Elton, and Miss Hawkins!—
Good morning to you.’
Emma, alone with her father, had half her attention
wanted by him while he lamented that young people
would be in such a hurry to marry— and to marry
strangers too—and the other half she could give to her
own view of the subject. It was to herself an amusing and
a very welcome piece of news, as proving that Mr. Elton
could not have suffered long; but she was sorry for
Harriet: Harriet must feel it—and all that she could hope
was, by giving the first information herself, to save her
from hearing it abruptly from others. It was now about the
time that she was likely to call. If she were to meet Miss
Bates in her way!—and upon its beginning to rain, Emma
was obliged to expect that the weather would be detaining
her at Mrs. Goddard’s, and that the intelligence would
undoubtedly rush upon her without preparation.
The shower was heavy, but short; and it had not been
over five minutes, when in came Harriet, with just the
heated, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full
heart was likely to give; and the ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
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what do you think has happened!’ which instantly burst
forth, had all the evidence of corresponding perturbation.
As the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not now
shew greater kindness than in listening; and Harriet,
unchecked, ran eagerly through what she had to tell. ‘She
had set out from Mrs. Goddard’s half an hour ago—she
had been afraid it would rain—she had been afraid it
would pour down every moment—but she thought she
might get to Hartfield first—she had hurried on as fast as
possible; but then, as she was passing by the house where a
young woman was making up a gown for her, she thought
she would just step in and see how it went on; and though
she did not seem to stay half a moment there, soon after
she came out it began to rain, and she did not know what
to do; so she ran on directly, as fast as she could, and took
shelter at Ford’s.’—Ford’s was the principal woollendraper,
linen-draper, and haberdasher’s shop united; the
shop first in size and fashion in the place.—‘And so, there
she had set, without an idea of any thing in the world, full
ten minutes, perhaps—when, all of a sudden, who should
come in— to be sure it was so very odd!—but they always
dealt at Ford’s— who should come in, but Elizabeth
Martin and her brother!— Dear Miss Woodhouse! only
think. I thought I should have fainted. I did not know
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what to do. I was sitting near the door—Elizabeth saw me
directly; but he did not; he was busy with the umbrella. I
am sure she saw me, but she looked away directly, and
took no notice; and they both went to quite the farther
end of the shop; and I kept sitting near the door!—Oh!
dear; I was so miserable! I am sure I must have been as
white as my gown. I could not go away you know,
because of the rain; but I did so wish myself anywhere in
the world but there.—Oh! dear, Miss Woodhouse—well,
at last, I fancy, he looked round and saw me; for instead of
going on with her buyings, they began whispering to one
another. I am sure they were talking of me; and I could
not help thinking that he was persuading her to speak to
me—(do you think he was, Miss Woodhouse?)—for
presently she came forward—came quite up to me, and
asked me how I did, and seemed ready to shake hands, if I
would. She did not do any of it in the same way that she
used; I could see she was altered; but, however, she
seemed to try to be very friendly, and we shook hands,
and stood talking some time; but I know no more what I
said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember she said she
was sorry we never met now; which I thought almost too
kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely miserable!
By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and I was
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determined that nothing should stop me from getting
away—and then—only think!— I found he was coming
up towards me too—slowly you know, and as if he did
not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke,
and I answered—and I stood for a minute, feeling
dreadfully, you know, one can’t tell how; and then I took
courage, and said it did not rain, and I must go; and so off
I set; and I had not got three yards from the door, when
he came after me, only to say, if I was going to Hartfield,
he thought I had much better go round by Mr. Cole’s
stables, for I should find the near way quite floated by this
rain. Oh! dear, I thought it would have been the death of
me! So I said, I was very much obliged to him: you know
I could not do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth,
and I came round by the stables—I believe I did—but I
hardly knew where I was, or any thing about it. Oh! Miss
Woodhouse, I would rather done any thing than have it
happen: and yet, you know, there was a sort of satisfaction
in seeing him behave so pleasantly and so kindly. And
Elizabeth, too. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do talk to me and
make me comfortable again.’
Very sincerely did Emma wish to do so; but it was not
immediately in her power. She was obliged to stop and
think. She was not thoroughly comfortable herself. The
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young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result of
real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Harriet
described it, there had been an interesting mixture of
wounded affection and genuine delicacy in their
behaviour. But she had believed them to be well-meaning,
worthy people before; and what difference did this make
in the evils of the connexion? It was folly to be disturbed
by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose her—they must
be all sorry. Ambition, as well as love, had probably been
mortified. They might all have hoped to rise by Harriet’s
acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet’s
description?—So easily pleased—so little discerning;—
what signified her praise?
She exerted herself, and did try to make her
comfortable, by considering all that had passed as a mere
trifle, and quite unworthy of being dwelt on,
‘It might be distressing, for the moment,’ said she; ‘but
you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over—
and may never— can never, as a first meeting, occur
again, and therefore you need not think about it.’
Harriet said, ‘very true,’ and she ‘would not think
about it;’ but still she talked of it—still she could talk of
nothing else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the
Martins out of her head, was obliged to hurry on the
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news, which she had meant to give with so much tender
caution; hardly knowing herself whether to rejoice or be
angry, ashamed or only amused, at such a state of mind in
poor Harriet—such a conclusion of Mr. Elton’s
importance with her!
Mr. Elton’s rights, however, gradually revived. Though
she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have
done the day before, or an hour before, its interest soon
increased; and before their first conversation was over, she
had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity,
wonder and regret, pain and pleasure, as to this fortunate
Miss Hawkins, which could conduce to place the Martins
under proper subordination in her fancy.
Emma learned to be rather glad that there had been
such a meeting. It had been serviceable in deadening the
first shock, without retaining any influence to alarm. As
Harriet now lived, the Martins could not get at her,
without seeking her, where hitherto they had wanted
either the courage or the condescension to seek her; for
since her refusal of the brother, the sisters never had been
at Mrs. Goddard’s; and a twelvemonth might pass without
their being thrown together again, with any necessity, or
even any power of speech.
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Chapter IV
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who
are in interesting situations, that a young person, who
either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins’s name was
first mentioned in Highbury, before she was, by some
means or other, discovered to have every recommendation
of person and mind; to be handsome, elegant, highly
accomplished, and perfectly amiable: and when Mr. Elton
himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects, and
circulate the fame of her merits, there was very little more
for him to do, than to tell her Christian name, and say
whose music she principally played.
Mr. Elton returned, a very happy man. He had gone
away rejected and mortified—disappointed in a very
sanguine hope, after a series of what appeared to him
strong encouragement; and not only losing the right lady,
but finding himself debased to the level of a very wrong
one. He had gone away deeply offended—he came back
engaged to another—and to another as superior, of course,
to the first, as under such circumstances what is gained
always is to what is lost. He came back gay and selfEmma
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satisfied, eager and busy, caring nothing for Miss
Woodhouse, and defying Miss Smith.
The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the
usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in
possession of an independent fortune, of so many
thousands as would always be called ten; a point of some
dignity, as well as some convenience: the story told well;
he had not thrown himself away—he had gained a woman
of 10,000 l. or thereabouts; and he had gained her with
such delightful rapidity— the first hour of introduction
had been so very soon followed by distinguishing notice;
the history which he had to give Mrs. Cole of the rise and
progress of the affair was so glorious—the steps so quick,
from the accidental rencontre, to the dinner at Mr.
Green’s, and the party at Mrs. Brown’s—smiles and
blushes rising in importance— with consciousness and
agitation richly scattered—the lady had been so easily
impressed—so sweetly disposed—had in short, to use a
most intelligible phrase, been so very ready to have him,
that vanity and prudence were equally contented.
He had caught both substance and shadow—both
fortune and affection, and was just the happy man he
ought to be; talking only of himself and his own
concerns—expecting to be congratulated—ready to be
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laughed at—and, with cordial, fearless smiles, now
addressing all the young ladies of the place, to whom, a
few weeks ago, he would have been more cautiously
gallant.
The wedding was no distant event, as the parties had
only themselves to please, and nothing but the necessary
preparations to wait for; and when he set out for Bath
again, there was a general expectation, which a certain
glance of Mrs. Cole’s did not seem to contradict, that
when he next entered Highbury he would bring his bride.
During his present short stay, Emma had barely seen
him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was
over, and to give her the impression of his not being
improved by the mixture of pique and pretension, now
spread over his air. She was, in fact, beginning very much
to wonder that she had ever thought him pleasing at all;
and his sight was so inseparably connected with some very
disagreeable feelings, that, except in a moral light, as a
penance, a lesson, a source of profitable humiliation to her
own mind, she would have been thankful to be assured of
never seeing him again. She wished him very well; but he
gave her pain, and his welfare twenty miles off would
administer most satisfaction.
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The pain of his continued residence in Highbury,
however, must certainly be lessened by his marriage. Many
vain solicitudes would be prevented— many
awkwardnesses smoothed by it. A Mrs. Elton would be an
excuse for any change of intercourse; former intimacy
might sink without remark. It would be almost beginning
their life of civility again.
Of the lady, individually, Emma thought very little.
She was good enough for Mr. Elton, no doubt;
accomplished enough for Highbury— handsome
enough—to look plain, probably, by Harriet’s side. As to
connexion, there Emma was perfectly easy; persuaded,
that after all his own vaunted claims and disdain of Harriet,
he had done nothing. On that article, truth seemed
attainable. What she was, must be uncertain; but who she
was, might be found out; and setting aside the 10,000 l., it
did not appear that she was at all Harriet’s superior. She
brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins
was the youngest of the two daughters of a Bristol—
merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the whole
of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very
moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line
of trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter
she had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her
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home, the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and
mother had died some years ago, an uncle remained— in
the law line—nothing more distinctly honourable was
hazarded of him, than that he was in the law line; and
with him the daughter had lived. Emma guessed him to be
the drudge of some attorney, and too stupid to rise. And
all the grandeur of the connexion seemed dependent on
the elder sister, who was very well married, to a gentleman
in a great way, near Bristol, who kept two carriages! That
was the wind-up of the history; that was the glory of Miss
Hawkins.
Could she but have given Harriet her feelings about it
all! She had talked her into love; but, alas! she was not so
easily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to
occupy the many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to
be talked away. He might be superseded by another; he
certainly would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a
Robert Martin would have been sufficient; but nothing
else, she feared, would cure her. Harriet was one of those,
who, having once begun, would be always in love. And
now, poor girl! she was considerably worse from this
reappearance of Mr. Elton. She was always having a
glimpse of him somewhere or other. Emma saw him only
once; but two or three times every day Harriet was sure
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just to meet with him, or just to miss him, just to hear his
voice, or see his shoulder, just to have something occur to
preserve him in her fancy, in all the favouring warmth of
surprize and conjecture. She was, moreover, perpetually
hearing about him; for, excepting when at Hartfield, she
was always among those who saw no fault in Mr. Elton,
and found nothing so interesting as the discussion of his
concerns; and every report, therefore, every guess—all that
had already occurred, all that might occur in the
arrangement of his affairs, comprehending income,
servants, and furniture, was continually in agitation around
her. Her regard was receiving strength by invariable praise
of him, and her regrets kept alive, and feelings irritated by
ceaseless repetitions of Miss Hawkins’s happiness, and
continual observation of, how much he seemed
attached!— his air as he walked by the house—the very
sitting of his hat, being all in proof of how much he was in
love!
Had it been allowable entertainment, had there been
no pain to her friend, or reproach to herself, in the
waverings of Harriet’s mind, Emma would have been
amused by its variations. Sometimes Mr. Elton
predominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was
occasionally useful as a check to the other. Mr. Elton’s
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engagement had been the cure of the agitation of meeting
Mr. Martin. The unhappiness produced by the knowledge
of that engagement had been a little put aside by Elizabeth
Martin’s calling at Mrs. Goddard’s a few days afterwards.
Harriet had not been at home; but a note had been
prepared and left for her, written in the very style to
touch; a small mixture of reproach, with a great deal of
kindness; and till Mr. Elton himself appeared, she had been
much occupied by it, continually pondering over what
could be done in return, and wishing to do more than she
dared to confess. But Mr. Elton, in person, had driven
away all such cares. While he staid, the Martins were
forgotten; and on the very morning of his setting off for
Bath again, Emma, to dissipate some of the distress it
occasioned, judged it best for her to return Elizabeth
Martin’s visit.
How that visit was to be acknowledged—what would
be necessary— and what might be safest, had been a point
of some doubtful consideration. Absolute neglect of the
mother and sisters, when invited to come, would be
ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a
renewal of the acquaintance!—
After much thinking, she could determine on nothing
better, than Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that,
Emma