Emma by Jane Austen(4)

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‘My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to
induce me to marry; I must find other people charming—
one other person at least. And I am not only, not going to
be married, at present, but have very little intention of
ever marrying at all.’
‘Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.’
‘I must see somebody very superior to any one I have
seen yet, to be tempted; Mr. Elton, you know,
(recollecting herself,) is out of the question: and I do not
wish to see any such person. I would rather not be
tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to
marry, I must expect to repent it.’
‘Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!’—
‘I have none of the usual inducements of women to
marry. Were I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a
different thing! but I never have been in love; it is not my
way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever shall. And,

without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a
situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I
do not want; consequence I do not want: I believe few
married women are half as much mistress of their
husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never
could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so
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always first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in
my father’s.’
‘But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!’
‘That is as formidable an image as you could present,
Harriet; and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates!
so silly—so satisfied— so smiling—so prosing—so
undistinguishing and unfastidious— and so apt to tell
every thing relative to every body about me, I would
marry to-morrow. But between us, I am convinced there
never can be any likeness, except in being unmarried.’
‘But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so
dreadful!’
‘Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid;
and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible
to a generous public! A single woman, with a very narrow
income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable old maid! the
proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of
good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible
and pleasant as any body else. And the distinction is not
quite so much against the candour and common sense of
the world as appears at first; for a very narrow income has
a tendency to contract the mind, and sour the temper.
Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a
very small, and generally very inferior, society, may well
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be illiberal and cross. This does not apply, however, to
Miss Bates; she is only too good natured and too silly to
suit me; but, in general, she is very much to the taste of
every body, though single and though poor. Poverty
certainly has not contracted her mind: I really believe, if
she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very
likely to give away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of
her: that is a great charm.’
‘Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you
employ yourself when you grow old?’
‘If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy
mind, with a great many independent resources; and I do
not perceive why I should be more in want of
employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty.
Woman’s usual occupations of hand and mind will be as
open to me then as they are now; or with no important
variation. If I draw less, I shall read more; if I give up
music, I shall take to carpet-work. And as for objects of
interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the
great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the
great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very
well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much, to
care about. There will be enough of them, in all
probability, to supply every sort of sensation that declining
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life can need. There will be enough for every hope and
every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal
that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than
what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces!—I
shall often have a niece with me.’
‘Do you know Miss Bates’s niece? That is, I know you
must have seen her a hundred times—but are you
acquainted?’
‘Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted
whenever she comes to Highbury. By the bye, that is
almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece.
Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore people half
so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does
about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane
Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over; her
compliments to all friends go round and round again; and
if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher, or
knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of
nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well;
but she tires me to death.’
They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle
topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate;
and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from
her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her
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patience, as from her purse. She understood their ways,
could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had
no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from
those for whom education had done so little; entered into
their troubles with ready sympathy, and always gave her
assistance with as much intelligence as good-will. In the
present instance, it was sickness and poverty together
which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long
as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the
cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her
say to Harriet, as they walked away,
‘These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How
trifling they make every thing else appear!—I feel now as
if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the
rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all
vanish from my mind?’
‘Very true,’ said Harriet. ‘Poor creatures! one can think
of nothing else.’
‘And really, I do not think the impression will soon be
over,’ said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and
tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path
through the cottage garden, and brought them into the
lane again. ‘I do not think it will,’ stopping to look once
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more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and
recall the still greater within.
‘Oh! dear, no,’ said her companion.
They walked on. The lane made a slight bend; and
when that bend was passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in
sight; and so near as to give Emma time only to say
farther,
‘Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our
stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling,) I hope it may
be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and
relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important.
If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we can for
them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to
ourselves.’
Harriet could just answer, ‘Oh! dear, yes,’ before the
gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the
poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting.
He had been going to call on them. His visit he would
now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about
what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then
turned back to accompany them.
‘To fall in with each other on such an errand as this,’
thought Emma; ‘to meet in a charitable scheme; this will
bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not
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wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I
were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.’
Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she
could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow
footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving
them together in the main road. But she had not been
there two minutes when she found that Harriet’s habits of
dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and
that, in short, they would both be soon after her. This
would not do; she immediately stopped, under pretence of
having some alteration to make in the lacing of her halfboot,
and stooping down in complete occupation of the
footpath, begged them to have the goodness to walk on,
and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they
were desired; and by the time she judged it reasonable to
have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther
delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the
cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher,
to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this
child, and talk to and question her, was the most natural
thing in the world, or would have been the most natural,
had she been acting just then without design; and by this
means the others were still able to keep ahead, without
any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them,
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however, involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and
theirs rather slow; and she was the more concerned at it,
from their being evidently in a conversation which
interested them. Mr. Elton was speaking with animation,
Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,
having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she
might draw back a little more, when they both looked
around, and she was obliged to join them.
Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some
interesting detail; and Emma experienced some
disappointment when she found that he was only giving
his fair companion an account of the yesterday’s party at
his friend Cole’s, and that she was come in herself for the
Stilton cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery,
the beet-root, and all the dessert.
‘This would soon have led to something better, of
course,’ was her consoling reflection; ‘any thing interests
between those who love; and any thing will serve as
introduction to what is near the heart. If I could but have
kept longer away!’
They now walked on together quietly, till within view
of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least
getting Harriet into the house, made her again find
something very much amiss about her boot, and fall
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behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace
off short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was
presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and
acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights so as to
be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.
‘Part of my lace is gone,’ said she, ‘and I do not know
how I am to contrive. I really am a most troublesome
companion to you both, but I hope I am not often so illequipped.
Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your
house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or
string, or any thing just to keep my boot on.’
Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and
nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in
conducting them into his house and endeavouring to
make every thing appear to advantage. The room they
were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and
looking forwards; behind it was another with which it
immediately communicated; the door between them was
open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to
receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She
was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she
fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not
closed, however, it still remained ajar; but by engaging the
housekeeper in incessant conversation, she hoped to make
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it practicable for him to chuse his own subject in the
adjoining room. For ten minutes she could hear nothing
but herself. It could be protracted no longer. She was then
obliged to be finished, and make her appearance.
The lovers were standing together at one of the
windows. It had a most favourable aspect; and, for half a
minute, Emma felt the glory of having schemed
successfully. But it would not do; he had not come to the
point. He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he
had told Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had
purposely followed them; other little gallantries and
allusions had been dropt, but nothing serious.
‘Cautious, very cautious,’ thought Emma; ‘he advances
inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes
himself secure.’
Still, however, though every thing had not been
accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but
flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much
present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them
forward to the great event.
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Chapter XI
Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer
in Emma’s power to superintend his happiness or quicken
his measures. The coming of her sister’s family was so very
near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality,
it became henceforth her prime object of interest; and
during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to
be expected—she did not herself expect— that any thing
beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded
by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they
would, however; they must advance somehow or other
whether they would or no. She hardly wished to have
more leisure for them. There are people, who the more
you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer
than usual absent from Surry, were exciting of course
rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every
long vacation since their marriage had been divided
between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the
holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for
the children, and it was therefore many months since they
had been seen in a regular way by their Surry connexions,
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or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be
induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella’s
sake; and who consequently was now most nervously and
apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit.
He thought much of the evils of the journey for her,
and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and
coachman who were to bring some of the party the last
half of the way; but his alarms were needless; the sixteen
miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of
nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle
and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to,
welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and
disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his
nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor
have endured much longer even for this; but the ways of
Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected
by Mrs. John Knightley, that in spite of maternal solicitude
for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for
their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the
eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing, which they
could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the
children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to
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him, either in themselves or in any restless attendance on
them.
Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman,
of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably
amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted
wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her
father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer
love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a
fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong
understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance
of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution;
was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her
children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond
of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be
of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general
benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for
every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very
clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and
respectable in his private character; but with reserved
manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and
capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an
ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to
deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great
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perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it
was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not
be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must
hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind
which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an
ungracious, or say a severe thing.
He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law.
Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in
feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never
felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had
his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they
were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend,
without praise and without blindness; but hardly any
degree of personal compliment could have made her
regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he
sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance
towards her father. There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s
peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking
him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally illbestowed.
It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley
had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and
generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was
too often for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the
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pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the
offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit
displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of
necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in
unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and
composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy
shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention
to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.
‘Ah, my dear,’ said he, ‘poor Miss Taylor—It is a
grievous business.’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ cried she with ready sympathy, ‘how you
must miss her! And dear Emma, too!—What a dreadful
loss to you both!— I have been so grieved for you.—I
could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.—It is a sad change indeed.—But I hope she is pretty
well, sir.’
‘Pretty well, my dear—I hope—pretty well.—I do not
know but that the place agrees with her tolerably.’
Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether
there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.
‘Oh! no—none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston
better in my life— never looking so well. Papa is only
speaking his own regret.’
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‘Very much to the honour of both,’ was the handsome
reply.
‘And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?’ asked Isabella
in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.
Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.—‘Not near so often, my
dear, as I could wish.’
‘Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire
day since they married. Either in the morning or evening
of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr.
Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at
Randalls or here—and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits.
Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak
in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false
idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor
must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured
that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing
her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated—
which is the exact truth.’
‘Just as it should be,’ said Mr. John Knightley, ‘and just
as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing
you attention could not be doubted, and his being a
disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been
always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the
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change being so very material to Hartfield as you
apprehended; and now you have Emma’s account, I hope
you will be satisfied.’
‘Why, to be sure,’ said Mr. Woodhouse—‘yes,
certainly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs.
Weston, does come and see us pretty often— but then—
she is always obliged to go away again.’
‘It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not,
papa.— You quite forget poor Mr. Weston.’
‘I think, indeed,’ said John Knightley pleasantly, ‘that
Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will
venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a
husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man
may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella,
she has been married long enough to see the convenience
of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.’
‘Me, my love,’ cried his wife, hearing and
understanding only in part.— ‘Are you talking about
me?—I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater
advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been
for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have
thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman
in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that
excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not
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deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men
that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I
do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his
flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last
Easter—and ever since his particular kindness last
September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve
o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was
no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there
could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in
existence.—If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss
Taylor.’
‘Where is the young man?’ said John Knightley. ‘Has
he been here on this occasion—or has he not?’
‘He has not been here yet,’ replied Emma. ‘There was
a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage,
but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him
mentioned lately.’
‘But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,’ said
her father. ‘He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to
congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it
was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of
him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one
cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps—‘
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‘My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget
how time passes.’
‘Three-and-twenty!—is he indeed?—Well, I could not
have thought it— and he was but two years old when he
lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed!—and my
memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good,
pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of
pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and
dated Sept. 28th—and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I
forget how it went on; and it was signed ‘F. C. Weston
Churchill.’— I remember that perfectly.’
‘How very pleasing and proper of him!’ cried the
good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. ‘I have no doubt of his
being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he
should not live at home with his father! There is
something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from
his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend
how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one’s
child! I really never could think well of any body who
proposed such a thing to any body else.’
‘Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,’
observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. ‘But you need not
imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in
giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy,
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cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he
takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of
them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much
more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is,
upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist
with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family
affection, or any thing that home affords.’
Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on
Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she
struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if
possible; and there was something honourable and
valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency
of home to himself, whence resulted her brother’s
disposition to look down on the common rate of social
intercourse, and those to whom it was important.—It had
a high claim to forbearance.
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Chapter XII
Mr. Knightley was to dine with them—rather against
the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that
any one should share with him in Isabella’s first day.
Emma’s sense of right however had decided it; and besides
the consideration of what was due to each brother, she
had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late
disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in
procuring him the proper invitation.
She hoped they might now become friends again. She
thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would
not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he
would never own that he had. Concession must be out of
the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they
had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist
the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the
room she had one of the children with her—the youngest,
a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now
making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be
danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though
he began with grave looks and short questions, he was
soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to
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take the child out of her arms with all the
unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were
friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great
satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help
saying, as he was admiring the baby,
‘What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our
nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions
are sometimes very different; but with regard to these
children, I observe we never disagree.’
‘If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate
of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy
and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where
these children are concerned, we might always think
alike.’
‘To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from
my being in the wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said he, smiling—‘and reason good. I was sixteen
years old when you were born.’
‘A material difference then,’ she replied—‘and no
doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that
period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-andtwenty
years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?’
‘Yes—a good deal nearer.’
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‘But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being
right, if we think differently.’
‘I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’
experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a
spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and
say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she
ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old
grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is
now.’
‘That’s true,’ she cried—‘very true. Little Emma, grow
up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer
and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or
two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions
went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects
on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only
want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly
disappointed.’
‘A man cannot be more so,’ was his short, full answer.
‘Ah!—Indeed I am very sorry.—Come, shake hands
with me.’
This had just taken place and with great cordiality,
when John Knightley made his appearance, and ‘How
d’ye do, George?’ and ‘John, how are you?’ succeeded in
the true English style, burying under a calmness that
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seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which
would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every
thing for the good of the other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr.
Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of
comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party
made two natural divisions; on one side he and his
daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their
subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing—and Emma
only occasionally joining in one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits,
but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by
much the most communicative, and who was always the
greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point
of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious
anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the
home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was
to bear next year, and to give all such local information as
could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose
home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and
whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the
change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination
of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was
entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as
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his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing
brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his
inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness.
While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr.
Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and
fearful affection with his daughter.
‘My poor dear Isabella,’ said he, fondly taking her hand,
and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for
some one of her five children—‘How long it is, how
terribly long since you were here! And how tired you
must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my
dear—and I recommend a little gruel to you before you
go.—You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.
My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel.’
Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as
she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as
unpersuadable on that article as herself;—and two basins
only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise
of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every
evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of
grave reflection,
‘It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending
the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never
had much opinion of the sea air.’
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‘Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir—
or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all
the children, but particularly for the weakness in little
Bella’s throat,— both sea air and bathing.’
‘Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea
doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long
perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so
before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am
sure it almost killed me once.’
‘Come, come,’ cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe
subject, ‘I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me
envious and miserable;— I who have never seen it! South
End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have
not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and
he never forgets you.’
‘Oh! good Mr. Perry—how is he, sir?’
‘Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is
bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself—he
tells me he has not time to take care of himself—which is
very sad—but he is always wanted all round the country. I
suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But
then there is not so clever a man any where.’
‘And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the
children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope
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he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my
little ones.’
‘I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a
question or two to ask him about myself of some
consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had
better let him look at little Bella’s throat.’
‘Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I
have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has
been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be
attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield’s,
which we have been applying at times ever since August.’
‘It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have
been of use to her—and if I had known you were wanting
an embrocation, I would have spoken to—
‘You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss
Bates,’ said Emma, ‘I have not heard one inquiry after
them.’
‘Oh! the good Bateses—I am quite ashamed of
myself—but you mention them in most of your letters. I
hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates—I will call
upon her to-morrow, and take my children.—They are
always so pleased to see my children.— And that excellent
Miss Bates!—such thorough worthy people!— How are
they, sir?’
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‘Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor
Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago.’
‘How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as
they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that
he has never known them more general or heavy—except
when it has been quite an influenza.’
‘That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not
to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have
been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often
known them in November. Perry does not call it
altogether a sickly season.’
‘No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it
very sickly except—
‘Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it
is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London,
nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to
live there! so far off!— and the air so bad!’
‘No, indeed—we are not at all in a bad air. Our part of
London is very superior to most others!—You must not
confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The
neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from
almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be
unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;—
there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have
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my children in: but we are so remarkably airy!—Mr.
Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square
decidedly the most favourable as to air.’
‘Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the
best of it— but after you have been a week at Hartfield,
you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like
the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of
you looking well at present.’
‘I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you,
excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations
which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite
well myself; and if the children were rather pale before
they went to bed, it was only because they were a little
more tired than usual, from their journey and the
happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their
looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me,
that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether,
in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think
Mr. Knightley looking ill,’ turning her eyes with
affectionate anxiety towards her husband.
‘Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think
Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well.’
‘What is the matter, sir?—Did you speak to me?’ cried
Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name.
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‘I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not
think you looking well—but I hope it is only from being a
little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you
know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left
home.’
‘My dear Isabella,’—exclaimed he hastily—‘pray do not
concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with
doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let
me look as I chuse.’
‘I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling
your brother,’ cried Emma, ‘about your friend Mr.
Graham’s intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to
look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not
the old prejudice be too strong?’
And she talked in this way so long and successfully that,
when forced to give her attention again to her father and
sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella’s kind
inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane Fairfax, though no
great favourite with her in general, she was at that
moment very happy to assist in praising.
‘That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!’ said Mrs. John
Knightley.— ‘It is so long since I have seen her, except
now and then for a moment accidentally in town! What
happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and
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excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them! I always
regret excessively on dear Emma’s account that she cannot
be more at Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I
suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to
part with her at all. She would be such a delightful
companion for Emma.’
Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,
‘Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such
another pretty kind of young person. You will like
Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than
Harriet.’
‘I am most happy to hear it—but only Jane Fairfax one
knows to be so very accomplished and superior!—and
exactly Emma’s age.’
This topic was discussed very happily, and others
succeeded of similar moment, and passed away with
similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a
little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a
great deal to be said—much praise and many comments—
undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every
constitution, and pretty severe Philippics upon the many
houses where it was never met with tolerable;—but,
unfortunately, among the failures which the daughter had
to instance, the most recent, and therefore most
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prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young
woman hired for the time, who never had been able to
understand what she meant by a basin of nice smooth
gruel, thin, but not too thin. Often as she had wished for
and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing
tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing
his eyes on her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in
Emma’s ear expressed, ‘Ah! there is no end of the sad
consequences of your going to South End. It does not
bear talking of.’ And for a little while she hoped he would
not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to
restore him to the relish of his own smooth gruel. After an
interval of some minutes, however, he began with,
‘I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea
this autumn, instead of coming here.’
‘But why should you be sorry, sir?—I assure you, it did
the children a great deal of good.’
‘And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better
not have been to South End. South End is an unhealthy
place. Perry was surprized to hear you had fixed upon
South End.’
‘I know there is such an idea with many people, but
indeed it is quite a mistake, sir.—We all had our health
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perfectly well there, never found the least inconvenience
from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it is entirely a
mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he
may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the
nature of the air, and his own brother and family have
been there repeatedly.’
‘You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you
went anywhere.— Perry was a week at Cromer once, and
he holds it to be the best of all the sea-bathing places. A
fine open sea, he says, and very pure air. And, by what I
understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away
from the sea—a quarter of a mile off—very comfortable.
You should have consulted Perry.’
‘But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;—only
consider how great it would have been.—An hundred
miles, perhaps, instead of forty.’
‘Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake,
nothing else should be considered; and if one is to travel,
there is not much to chuse between forty miles and an
hundred.—Better not move at all, better stay in London
altogether than travel forty miles to get into a worse air.
This is just what Perry said. It seemed to him a very illjudged
measure.’
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Emma’s attempts to stop her father had been vain; and
when he had reached such a point as this, she could not
wonder at her brother-in-law’s breaking out.
‘Mr. Perry,’ said he, in a voice of very strong
displeasure, ‘would do as well to keep his opinion till it is
asked for. Why does he make it any business of his, to
wonder at what I do?— at my taking my family to one
part of the coast or another?—I may be allowed, I hope,
the use of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.— I want his
directions no more than his drugs.’ He paused— and
growing cooler in a moment, added, with only sarcastic
dryness, ‘If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a wife
and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles
with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance
of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South
End as he could himself.’
‘True, true,’ cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready
interposition— ‘very true. That’s a consideration
indeed.—But John, as to what I was telling you of my idea
of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the
right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I
cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it
were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury
people, but if you call to mind exactly the present line of
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the path…. The only way of proving it, however, will be
to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey tomorrow
morning I hope, and then we will look them
over, and you shall give me your opinion.’
Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh
reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact,
though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own
feelings and expressions;— but the soothing attentions of
his daughters gradually removed the present evil, and the
immediate alertness of one brother, and better
recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.
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Chapter XIII
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world
than Mrs. John Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield,
going about every morning among her old acquaintance
with her five children, and talking over what she had done
every evening with her father and sister. She had nothing
to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
It was a delightful visit;—perfect, in being much too short.
In general their evenings were less engaged with friends
than their mornings; but one complete dinner
engagement, and out of the house too, there was no
avoiding, though at Christmas. Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;—even Mr.
Woodhouse was persuaded to think it a possible thing in
preference to a division of the party.
How they were all to be conveyed, he would have
made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter’s
carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not
able to make more than a simple question on that head; it
hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
to convince him that they might in one of the carriages
find room for Harriet also.
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Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own
especial set, were the only persons invited to meet
them;—the hours were to be early, as well as the numbers
few; Mr. Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being
consulted in every thing.
The evening before this great event (for it was a very
great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the
24th of December) had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield,
and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold,
that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the
house. Emma called on her the next day, and found her
doom already signed with regard to Randalls. She was
very feverish and had a bad sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was
full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and
Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority
which excluded her from this delightful engagement,
though she could not speak of her loss without many tears.
Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her
in Mrs. Goddard’s unavoidable absences, and raise her
spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton’s would be
depressed when he knew her state; and left her at last
tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his
having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her
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very much. She had not advanced many yards from Mrs.
Goddard’s door, when she was met by Mr. Elton himself,
evidently coming towards it, and as they walked on slowly
together in conversation about the invalid— of whom he,
on the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to
inquire, that he might carry some report of her to
Hartfield— they were overtaken by Mr. John Knightley
returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his two
eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the
benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick
despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were
hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded
together. Emma was just describing the nature of her
friend’s complaint;— ‘a throat very much inflamed, with a
great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c. and
she was sorry to find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was
liable to very bad sore-throats, and had often alarmed her
with them.’ Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as
he exclaimed,
‘A sore-throat!—I hope not infectious. I hope not of a
putrid infectious sort. Has Perry seen her? Indeed you
should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let
me entreat you to run no risks. Why does not Perry see
her?’
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Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself,
tranquillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of
Mrs. Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still
remain a degree of uneasiness which she could not wish to
reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than
not, she added soon afterwards—as if quite another
subject,
‘It is so cold, so very cold—and looks and feels so very
much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with
any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day—
and dissuade my father from venturing; but as he has made
up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I
do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so great a
disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my
word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse
myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when
you consider what demand of voice and what fatigues tomorrow
will bring, I think it would be no more than
common prudence to stay at home and take care of
yourself to-night.’
Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what
answer to make; which was exactly the case; for though
very much gratified by the kind care of such a fair lady,
and not liking to resist any advice of her’s, he had not
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really the least inclination to give up the visit;— but
Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous
conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him
with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his
muttering acknowledgment of its being ‘very cold,
certainly very cold,’ and walked on, rejoicing in having
extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power
of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the
evening.
‘You do quite right,’ said she;—‘we will make your
apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.’
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her
brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the
weather were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton
actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction.
It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at
this moment; never had his smile been stronger, nor his
eyes more exulting than when he next looked at her.
‘Well,’ said she to herself, ‘this is most strange!—After I
had got him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and
leave Harriet ill behind!—Most strange indeed!—But
there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men,
such an inclination— such a passion for dining out—a
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dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that
any thing gives way to it—and this must be the case with
Mr. Elton; a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man
undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet; but
still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must dine out
wherever he is asked. What a strange thing love is! he can
see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her.’
Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could
not but do him the justice of feeling that there was a great
deal of sentiment in his manner of naming Harriet at
parting; in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he
should call at Mrs. Goddard’s for news of her fair friend,
the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of
meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a
better report; and he sighed and smiled himself off in a
way that left the balance of approbation much in his
favour.
After a few minutes of entire silence between them,
John Knightley began with—
‘I never in my life saw a man more intent on being
agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him
where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational
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and unaffected, but when he has ladies to please, every
feature works.’
‘Mr. Elton’s manners are not perfect,’ replied Emma;
‘but where there is a wish to please, one ought to
overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a
man does his best with only moderate powers, he will
have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is
such perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as
one cannot but value.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some
slyness, ‘he seems to have a great deal of good-will
towards you.’
‘Me!’ she replied with a smile of astonishment, ‘are you
imagining me to be Mr. Elton’s object?’
‘Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma;
and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well
take it into consideration now.’
‘Mr. Elton in love with me!—What an idea!’
‘I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider
whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour
accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I
speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you,
and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do.’
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‘I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken.
Mr. Elton and I are very good friends, and nothing more;’
and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of
the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of
circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high
pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not
very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind
and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more.
Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind
to the visit, that in spite of the increasing coldness, he
seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set
forward at last most punctually with his eldest daughter in
his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the
weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder
of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at
Randalls to see that it was cold, and too well wrapt up to
feel it. The cold, however, was severe; and by the time the
second carriage was in motion, a few flakes of snow were
finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of
being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to
produce a very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the
happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in
such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after
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dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr.
John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase;
and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by
him in expressing his discontent.
‘A man,’ said he, ‘must have a very good opinion of
himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside,
and encounter such a day as this, for the sake of coming to
see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow; I
could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity—
Actually snowing at this moment!— The folly of not
allowing people to be comfortable at home—and the folly
of people’s not staying comfortably at home when they
can! If we were obliged to go out such an evening as this,
by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should
deem it;—and here are we, probably with rather thinner
clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without
excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man,
in every thing given to his view or his feelings, to stay at
home himself, and keep all under shelter that he can;—
here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in
another man’s house, with nothing to say or to hear that
was not said and heard yesterday, and may not be said and
heard again to-morrow. Going in dismal weather, to
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return probably in worse;—four horses and four servants
taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering
creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they
might have had at home.’
Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased
assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to
emulate the ‘Very true, my love,’ which must have been
usually administered by his travelling companion; but she
had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer
at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being
quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence. She
allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped
herself up, without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let
down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with
them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some
change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and
cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities
indeed, that she began to think he must have received a
different account of Harriet from what had reached her.
She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been,
‘Much the same— not better.’
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‘My report from Mrs. Goddard’s,’ said she presently,
‘was not so pleasant as I had hoped—‘Not better’ was my
answer.’
His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the
voice of sentiment as he answered.
‘Oh! no—I am grieved to find—I was on the point of
telling you that when I called at Mrs. Goddard’s door,
which I did the very last thing before I returned to dress, I
was told that Miss Smith was not better, by no means
better, rather worse. Very much grieved and concerned—
I had flattered myself that she must be better after such a
cordial as I knew had been given her in the morning.’
Emma smiled and answered—‘My visit was of use to
the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I
can charm away a sore throat; it is a most severe cold
indeed. Mr. Perry has been with her, as you probably
heard.’
‘Yes—I imagined—that is—I did not—‘
‘He has been used to her in these complaints, and I
hope to-morrow morning will bring us both a more
comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel
uneasiness. Such a sad loss to our party to-day!’
‘Dreadful!—Exactly so, indeed.—She will be missed
every moment.’
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This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it
was really estimable; but it should have lasted longer.
Emma was rather in dismay when only half a minute
afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a
voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.
‘What an excellent device,’ said he, ‘the use of a
sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make
it;—impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The
contrivances of modern days indeed have rendered a
gentleman’s carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced
and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can
find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of
no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon—but in this
carriage we know nothing of the matter.—Ha! snows a
little I see.’
‘Yes,’ said John Knightley, ‘and I think we shall have a
good deal of it.’
‘Christmas weather,’ observed Mr. Elton. ‘Quite
seasonable; and extremely fortunate we may think
ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this
day’s party, which it might very possibly have done, for
Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there
been much snow on the ground; but now it is of no
consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly
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meetings. At Christmas every body invites their friends
about them, and people think little of even the worst
weather. I was snowed up at a friend’s house once for a
week. Nothing could be pleasanter. I went for only one
night, and could not get away till that very day se’nnight.’
Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not
comprehend the pleasure, but said only, coolly,
‘I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls.’
At another time Emma might have been amused, but
she was too much astonished now at Mr. Elton’s spirits for
other feelings. Harriet seemed quite forgotten in the
expectation of a pleasant party.
‘We are sure of excellent fires,’ continued he, ‘and
every thing in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr.
and Mrs. Weston;— Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond
praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable,
and so fond of society;— it will be a small party, but
where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most
agreeable of any. Mr. Weston’s dining-room does not
accommodate more than ten comfortably; and for my part,
I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two
than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me,
(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly
have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps,
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from being used to the large parties of London, may not
quite enter into our feelings.’
‘I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir—I
never dine with any body.’
‘Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea
that the law had been so great a slavery. Well, sir, the time
must come when you will be paid for all this, when you
will have little labour and great enjoyment.’
‘My first enjoyment,’ replied John Knightley, as they
passed through the sweep-gate, ‘will be to find myself safe
at Hartfield again.’
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Chapter XIV
Some change of countenance was necessary for each
gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawingroom;—
Mr. Elton must compose his joyous looks, and
Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton
must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them
for the place.—Emma only might be as nature prompted,
and shew herself just as happy as she was. To her it was
real enjoyment to be with the Westons. Mr. Weston was a
great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world
to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife;
not any one, to whom she related with such conviction of
being listened to and understood, of being always
interesting and always intelligible, the little affairs,
arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and
herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs.
Weston had not a lively concern; and half an hour’s
uninterrupted communication of all those little matters on
which the daily happiness of private life depends, was one
of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day’s visit
might not afford, which certainly did not belong to the
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present half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her
smile, her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she
determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s
oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that
was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet’s cold had been pretty well
gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had
been safely seated long enough to give the history of it,
besides all the history of his own and Isabella’s coming,
and of Emma’s being to follow, and had indeed just got to
the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see
his daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston,
who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions
to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear
Emma.