Emma Jane Austen

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Emma
Jane Austen

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Volume I

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Chapter I
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a
comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite
some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived
nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to
distress or vex her.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most
affectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of
her sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very
early period. Her mother had died too long ago for her to
have more than an indistinct remembrance of her caresses;
and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman as
governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in
affection.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr.
Woodhouse’s family, less as a governess than a friend, very
fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma.
Between them it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office
of governess, the mildness of her temper had hardly
allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of
authority being now long passed away, they had been
living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,

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and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming
Miss Taylor’s judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the
power of having rather too much her own way, and a
disposition to think a little too well of herself; these were
the disadvantages which threatened alloy to her many
enjoyments. The danger, however, was at present so
unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as
misfortunes with her.
Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the
shape of any disagreeable consciousness.—Miss Taylor
married. It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief.
It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that
Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance.
The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of
a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed
himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then
only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her
friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable
character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners;
and there was some satisfaction in considering with what
self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished
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and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s
work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt
every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness—
the kindness, the affection of sixteen years—how she had
taught and how she had played with her from five years
old—how she had devoted all her powers to attach and
amuse her in health—and how nursed her through the
various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude
was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years,
the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon
followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each
other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had
been a friend and companion such as few possessed:
intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the
ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and
peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every
scheme of hers—one to whom she could speak every
thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her
as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change?—It was true that her
friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma
was aware that great must be the difference between a
Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss
Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural
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and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering
from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but
he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in
conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr.
Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by
his constitution and habits; for having been a
valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or
body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and
though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his
heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have
recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by
matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles
off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long
October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next
visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little
children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society
again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost
amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its
separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really
belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were
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first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had
many acquaintance in the place, for her father was
universally civil, but not one among them who could be
accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a
melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it,
and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and
made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required
support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of
every body that he was used to, and hating to part with
them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the
origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by
no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying,
nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though
it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was
now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his
habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to
suppose that other people could feel differently from
himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor
had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would
have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest
of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as
cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts;
but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say
exactly as he had said at dinner,
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‘Poor Miss Taylor!—I wish she were here again. What
a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!’
‘I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.
Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent
man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife;—and you
would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for ever, and
bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of
her own?’
‘A house of her own!—But where is the advantage of a
house of her own? This is three times as large.—And you
have never any odd humours, my dear.’
‘How often we shall be going to see them, and they
coming to see us!—We shall be always meeting! We must
begin; we must go and pay wedding visit very soon.’
‘My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a
distance. I could not walk half so far.’
‘No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must
go in the carriage, to be sure.’
‘The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses
to for such a little way;—and where are the poor horses to
be while we are paying our visit?’
‘They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa.
You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all
over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you
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may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls,
because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only
doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That
was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place.
Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her—
James is so obliged to you!’
‘I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for
I would not have had poor James think himself slighted
upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very
good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a
great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner;
and when you have had her here to do needlework, I
observe she always turns the lock of the door the right
way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent
servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see.
Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know,
she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how
we all are.’
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier
flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to
get her father tolerably through the evening, and be
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table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eightand-thirty, was not only a very old and intimate friend of
the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder
brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from
Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome,
and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming
directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had
returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and
now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in
Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and
animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley
had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and
his many inquiries after ‘poor Isabella’ and her children
were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over,
Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, ‘It is very kind of
you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call
upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.’
‘Not at all, sir. It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so
mild that I must draw back from your great fire.’
‘But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I
wish you may not catch cold.’
‘Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.’
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‘Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast
deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour
while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the
wedding.’
‘By the bye—I have not wished you joy. Being pretty
well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I
have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I
hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all
behave? Who cried most?’
‘Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.’
‘Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I
cannot possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great
regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the
question of dependence or independence!—At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two.’
‘Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful,
troublesome creature!’ said Emma playfully. ‘That is what
you have in your head, I know—and what you would
certainly say if my father were not by.’
‘I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse, with a sigh. ‘I am afraid I am sometimes very
fanciful and troublesome.’
‘My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you,
or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible
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idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to
find fault with me, you know— in a joke—it is all a joke.
We always say what we like to one another.’
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who
could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one
who ever told her of them: and though this was not
particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would
be so much less so to her father, that she would not have
him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being
thought perfect by every body.
‘Emma knows I never flatter her,’ said Mr. Knightley,
‘but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has
been used to have two persons to please; she will now
have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer.’
‘Well,’ said Emma, willing to let it pass—‘you want to
hear about the wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you,
for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual,
every body in their best looks: not a tear, and hardly a
long face to be seen. Oh no; we all felt that we were
going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of
meeting every day.’
‘Dear Emma bears every thing so well,’ said her father.
‘But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor

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Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she
thinks for.’
Emma turned away her head, divided between tears
and smiles. ‘It is impossible that Emma should not miss
such a companion,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘We should not
like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it; but
she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor’s
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at
Miss Taylor’s time of life, to be settled in a home of her
own, and how important to her to be secure of a
comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself
to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss
Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married.’
‘And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me,’ said
Emma, ‘and a very considerable one—that I made the
match myself. I made the match, you know, four years
ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right,
when so many people said Mr. Weston would never
marry again, may comfort me for any thing.’
Mr. Knightley shook his head at her. Her father fondly
replied, ‘Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make
matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always
comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.’

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‘I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I
must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest
amusement in the world! And after such success, you
know!—Every body said that Mr. Weston would never
marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a
widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly
comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either
in his business in town or among his friends here, always
acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful— Mr.
Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone
if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Weston certainly would
never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise
to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and the
uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was
talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.
‘Ever since the day—about four years ago—that Miss
Taylor and I met with him in Broadway Lane, when,
because it began to drizzle, he darted away with so much
gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer
Mitchell’s, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned
the match from that hour; and when such success has
blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think
that I shall leave off match-making.’

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‘I do not understand what you mean by ‘success,’’ said
Mr. Knightley. ‘Success supposes endeavour. Your time
has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been
endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this
marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind!
But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as
you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to
yourself one idle day, ‘I think it would be a very good
thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,’
and saying it again to yourself every now and then
afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your
merit? What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess;
and that is all that can be said.’
‘And have you never known the pleasure and triumph
of a lucky guess?— I pity you.—I thought you cleverer—
for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck.
There is always some talent in it. And as to my poor word
‘success,’ which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am
so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two
pretty pictures; but I think there may be a third—a
something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had
not promoted Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many
little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it

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might not have come to any thing after all. I think you
must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that.’
‘A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and
a rational, unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be
safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more
likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them,
by interference.’
‘Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to
others,’ rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in
part. ‘But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches;
they are silly things, and break up one’s family circle
grievously.’
‘Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr.
Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa,—I must look about for a
wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves
him—and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up
his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
him single any longer—and I thought when he was
joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if
he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I
think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I
have of doing him a service.’
‘Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a
very good young man, and I have a great regard for him.
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But if you want to shew him any attention, my dear, ask
him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a
much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
kind as to meet him.’
‘With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time,’ said Mr.
Knightley, laughing, ‘and I agree with you entirely, that it
will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma,
and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but
leave him to chuse his own wife. Depend upon it, a man
of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself.’

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Chapter II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a
respectable family, which for the last two or three
generations had been rising into gentility and property. He
had received a good education, but, on succeeding early in
life to a small independence, had become indisposed for
any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers
were engaged, and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind
and social temper by entering into the militia of his
county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the
chances of his military life had introduced him to Miss
Churchill, of a great Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill
fell in love with him, nobody was surprized, except her
brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who
were full of pride and importance, which the connexion
would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the
full command of her fortune—though her fortune bore no
proportion to the family-estate—was not to be dissuaded
from the marriage, and it took place, to the infinite
mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her

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off with due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion,
and did not produce much happiness. Mrs. Weston ought
to have found more in it, for she had a husband whose
warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing
due to her in return for the great goodness of being in
love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she
had not the best. She had resolution enough to pursue her
own will in spite of her brother, but not enough to refrain
from unreasonable regrets at that brother’s unreasonable
anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in
comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her
husband, but she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain
Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially
by the Churchills, as making such an amazing match, was
proved to have much the worst of the bargain; for when
his wife died, after a three years’ marriage, he was rather a
poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon
relieved. The boy had, with the additional softening claim
of a lingering illness of his mother’s, been the means of a
sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having
no children of their own, nor any other young creature of
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equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
of the little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples
and some reluctance the widower-father may be supposed
to have felt; but as they were overcome by other
considerations, the child was given up to the care and the
wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted
the militia and engaged in trade, having brothers already
established in a good way in London, which afforded him
a favourable opening. It was a concern which brought just
employment enough. He had still a small house in
Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and
between useful occupation and the pleasures of society,
the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed
cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy
competence—enough to secure the purchase of a little
estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed
for—enough to marry a woman as portionless even as
Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of his
own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to
influence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic
influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his
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determination of never settling till he could purchase
Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward
to; but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in
view, till they were accomplished. He had made his
fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was
beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed
through. He had never been an unhappy man; his own
temper had secured him from that, even in his first
marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful a
well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must
give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal
better to choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude
than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune
was his own; for as to Frank, it was more than being
tacitly brought up as his uncle’s heir, it had become so
avowed an adoption as to have him assume the name of
Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father’s assistance.
His father had no apprehension of it. The aunt was a
capricious woman, and governed her husband entirely; but
it was not in Mr. Weston’s nature to imagine that any
caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and,
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as he believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every
year in London, and was proud of him; and his fond
report of him as a very fine young man had made
Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked
on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits
and prospects a kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of
Highbury, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed,
though the compliment was so little returned that he had
never been there in his life. His coming to visit his father
had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father’s marriage, it was very generally
proposed, as a most proper attention, that the visit should
take place. There was not a dissentient voice on the
subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and
Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
visit. Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come
among them; and the hope strengthened when it was
understood that he had written to his new mother on the
occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury
included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs.
Weston had received. ‘I suppose you have heard of the
handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill has written to Mrs.
Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,
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indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome
letter in his life.’
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had,
of course, formed a very favourable idea of the young
man; and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof
of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to
every source and every expression of congratulation which
her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know
how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only
regret was for a partial separation from friends whose
friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill
bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could
not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single
pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of
her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most
girls would have been, and had sense, and energy, and
spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and
happily through its little difficulties and privations. And
then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of
Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary
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female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s disposition and
circumstances, which would make the approaching season
no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the
week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of
gratitude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret;
and her satisfaction—-her more than satisfaction—her
cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent, that
Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken
by surprize at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor,’
when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every
domestic comfort, or saw her go away in the evening
attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own.
But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse’s giving a
gentle sigh, and saying, ‘Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would
be very glad to stay.’
There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much
likelihood of ceasing to pity her; but a few weeks brought
some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse. The compliments of
his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the
wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was
all eat up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and
he could never believe other people to be different from
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himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to
dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and
when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent any
body’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting
Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry was
an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits
were one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse’s life; and
upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge
(though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination)
that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many—
perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With
such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr.
Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly
married pair; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no
rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little
Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston’s weddingcake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never
believe it.

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Chapter III
Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.
He liked very much to have his friends come and see him;
and from various united causes, from his long residence at
Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house,
and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own
little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not
much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his
horror of late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him
unfit for any acquaintance but such as would visit him on
his own terms. Fortunately for him, Highbury, including
Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the
parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended
many such. Not unfrequently, through Emma’s
persuasion, he had some of the chosen and the best to dine
with him: but evening parties were what he preferred;
and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in
which Emma could not make up a card-table for him.
Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and
Mr. Knightley; and by Mr. Elton, a young man living
alone without liking it, the privilege of exchanging any

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vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the elegancies
and society of Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the
smiles of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being
thrown away.
After these came a second set; among the most comeat-able of whom were Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs.
Goddard, three ladies almost always at the service of an
invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no
hardship for either James or the horses. Had it taken place
only once a year, it would have been a grievance.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury,
was a very old lady, almost past every thing but tea and
quadrille. She lived with her single daughter in a very
small way, and was considered with all the regard and
respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite. Her daughter enjoyed a most
uncommon degree of popularity for a woman neither
young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in
the very worst predicament in the world for having much
of the public favour; and she had no intellectual
superiority to make atonement to herself, or frighten those
who might hate her into outward respect. She had never
boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed
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without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to
the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a
small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy
woman, and a woman whom no one named without
good-will. It was her own universal good-will and
contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved
every body, was interested in every body’s happiness,
quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most
fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such
an excellent mother, and so many good neighbours and
friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The
simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented
and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body,
and a mine of felicity to herself. She was a great talker
upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse,
full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a
seminary, or an establishment, or any thing which
professed, in long sentences of refined nonsense, to
combine liberal acquirements with elegant morality, upon
new principles and new systems—and where young ladies
for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into
vanity—but a real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school,
where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold
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at a reasonable price, and where girls might be sent to be
out of the way, and scramble themselves into a little
education, without any danger of coming back prodigies.
Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute—and very
deservedly; for Highbury was reckoned a particularly
healthy spot: she had an ample house and garden, gave the
children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a
great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their
chilblains with her own hands. It was no wonder that a
train of twenty young couple now walked after her to
church. She was a plain, motherly kind of woman, who
had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself
entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having
formerly owed much to Mr. Woodhouse’s kindness, felt
his particular claim on her to leave her neat parlour, hung
round with fancy-work, whenever she could, and win or
lose a few sixpences by his fireside.
These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very
frequently able to collect; and happy was she, for her
father’s sake, in the power; though, as far as she was herself
concerned, it was no remedy for the absence of Mrs.
Weston. She was delighted to see her father look
comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for
contriving things so well; but the quiet prosings of three
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such women made her feel that every evening so spent
was indeed one of the long evenings she had fearfully
anticipated.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly
such a close of the present day, a note was brought from
Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most respectful terms, to be
allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most welcome
request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom
Emma knew very well by sight, and had long felt an
interest in, on account of her beauty. A very gracious
invitation was returned, and the evening no longer
dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs.
Goddard’s school, and somebody had lately raised her
from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder.
This was all that was generally known of her history. She
had no visible friends but what had been acquired at
Highbury, and was now just returned from a long visit in
the country to some young ladies who had been at school
there with her.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to
be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was
short, plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light
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hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness, and,
before the end of the evening, Emma was as much pleased
with her manners as her person, and quite determined to
continue the acquaintance.
She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in
Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether
very engaging—not inconveniently shy, not unwilling to
talk—and yet so far from pushing, shewing so proper and
becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly grateful for
being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what
she had been used to, that she must have good sense, and
deserve encouragement. Encouragement should be given.
Those soft blue eyes, and all those natural graces, should
not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury and its
connexions. The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her. The friends from whom she had
just parted, though very good sort of people, must be
doing her harm. They were a family of the name of
Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as renting a
large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of
Donwell—very creditably, she believed—she knew Mr.
Knightley thought highly of them—but they must be
coarse and unpolished, and very unfit to be the intimates
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of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge and
elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice her; she
would improve her; she would detach her from her bad
acquaintance, and introduce her into good society; she
would form her opinions and her manners. It would be an
interesting, and certainly a very kind undertaking; highly
becoming her own situation in life, her leisure, and
powers.
She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in
talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the
in-betweens, that the evening flew away at a very unusual
rate; and the supper-table, which always closed such
parties, and for which she had been used to sit and watch
the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved
forwards to the fire, before she was aware. With an alacrity
beyond the common impulse of a spirit which yet was
never indifferent to the credit of doing every thing well
and attentively, with the real good-will of a mind
delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the
honours of the meal, and help and recommend the minced
chicken and scalloped oysters, with an urgency which she
knew would be acceptable to the early hours and civil
scruples of their guests.

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Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings
were in sad warfare. He loved to have the cloth laid,
because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his
conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his
hospitality would have welcomed his visitors to every
thing, his care for their health made him grieve that they
would eat.
Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was
all that he could, with thorough self-approbation,
recommend; though he might constrain himself, while the
ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer things, to say:
‘Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of
these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.
Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I
would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else;
but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you see—
one of our small eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let
Emma help you to a little bit of tart—a very little bit.
Ours are all apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of
unwholesome preserves here. I do not advise the custard.
Mrs. Goddard, what say you to half a glass of wine? A
small half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do not think
it could disagree with you.’
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Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her
visitors in a much more satisfactory style, and on the
present evening had particular pleasure in sending them
away happy. The happiness of Miss Smith was quite equal
to her intentions. Miss Woodhouse was so great a
personage in Highbury, that the prospect of the
introduction had given as much panic as pleasure; but the
humble, grateful little girl went off with highly gratified
feelings, delighted with the affability with which Miss
Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually
shaken hands with her at last!

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Chapter IV
Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled
thing. Quick and decided in her ways, Emma lost no time
in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very
often; and as their acquaintance increased, so did their
satisfaction in each other. As a walking companion, Emma
had very early foreseen how useful she might find her. In
that respect Mrs. Weston’s loss had been important. Her
father never went beyond the shrubbery, where two
divisions of the ground sufficed him for his long walk, or
his short, as the year varied; and since Mrs. Weston’s
marriage her exercise had been too much confined. She
had ventured once alone to Randalls, but it was not
pleasant; and a Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she
could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable
addition to her privileges. But in every respect, as she saw
more of her, she approved her, and was confirmed in all
her kind designs.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet,
docile, grateful disposition, was totally free from conceit,
and only desiring to be guided by any one she looked up
to. Her early attachment to herself was very amiable; and

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her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that
there was no want of taste, though strength of
understanding must not be expected. Altogether she was
quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the
young friend she wanted—exactly the something which
her home required. Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out
of the question. Two such could never be granted. Two
such she did not want. It was quite a different sort of
thing, a sentiment distinct and independent. Mrs. Weston
was the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude
and esteem. Harriet would be loved as one to whom she
could be useful. For Mrs. Weston there was nothing to be
done; for Harriet every thing.
Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to
find out who were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.
She was ready to tell every thing in her power, but on this
subject questions were vain. Emma was obliged to fancy
what she liked—but she could never believe that in the
same situation she should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration. She had been satisfied to hear
and believe just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and
looked no farther.

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Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the
affairs of the school in general, formed naturally a great
part of the conversation—and but for her acquaintance
with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been
the whole. But the Martins occupied her thoughts a good
deal; she had spent two very happy months with them,
and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and
describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
Emma encouraged her talkativeness— amused by such a
picture of another set of beings, and enjoying the youthful
simplicity which could speak with so much exultation of
Mrs. Martin’s having ‘two parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs.
Goddard’s drawing-room; and of her having an upper
maid who had lived five-and-twenty years with her; and
of their having eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and
one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch cow
indeed; and of Mrs. Martin’s saying as she was so fond of
it, it should be called her cow; and of their having a very
handsome summer-house in their garden, where some day
next year they were all to drink tea:— a very handsome
summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen people.’
For some time she was amused, without thinking
beyond the immediate cause; but as she came to
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understand the family better, other feelings arose. She had
taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son’s wife, who all lived together; but
when it appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in
the narrative, and was always mentioned with approbation
for his great good-nature in doing something or other, was
a single man; that there was no young Mrs. Martin, no
wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she
were not taken care of, she might be required to sink
herself forever.
With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in
number and meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to
talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no
dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share
he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening
games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
good-humoured and obliging. He had gone three miles
round one day in order to bring her some walnuts,
because she had said how fond she was of them, and in
every thing else he was so very obliging. He had his
shepherd’s son into the parlour one night on purpose to
sing to her. She was very fond of singing. He could sing a
little himself. She believed he was very clever, and
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understood every thing. He had a very fine flock, and,
while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
wool than any body in the country. She believed every
body spoke well of him. His mother and sisters were very
fond of him. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and there
was a blush as she said it,) that it was impossible for any
body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
whenever he married, he would make a good husband.
Not that she wanted him to marry. She was in no hurry at
all.
‘Well done, Mrs. Martin!’ thought Emma. ‘You know
what you are about.’
‘And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so
very kind as to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose—the
finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard
had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss
Richardson, to sup with her.’
‘Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information
beyond the line of his own business? He does not read?’
‘Oh yes!—that is, no—I do not know—but I believe
he has read a good deal—but not what you would think
any thing of. He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some
other books that lay in one of the window seats—but he
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reads all them to himself. But sometimes of an evening,
before we went to cards, he would read something aloud
out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining. And I know
he has read the Vicar of Wakefield. He never read the
Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.
He had never heard of such books before I mentioned
them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as
ever he can.’
The next question was—
‘What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?’
‘Oh! not handsome—not at all handsome. I thought
him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain
now. One does not, you know, after a time. But did you
never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then,
and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
Kingston. He has passed you very often.’
‘That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but
without having any idea of his name. A young farmer,
whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of
person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry are precisely
the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing
to do. A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance
might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their
families in some way or other. But a farmer can need none
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of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above
my notice as in every other he is below it.’
‘To be sure. Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever
have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—
I mean by sight.’
‘I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young
man. I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him
well. What do you imagine his age to be?’
‘He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my
birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s
difference—which is very odd.’
‘Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His
mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem
very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any
pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six
years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young
woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it
might be very desirable.’
‘Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be
thirty years old!’
‘Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to
marry, who are not born to an independence. Mr. Martin,
I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—cannot be at
all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might
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come into when his father died, whatever his share of the
family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in
his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and
good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible
that he should have realised any thing yet.’
‘To be sure, so it is. But they live very comfortably.
They have no indoors man, else they do not want for any
thing; and Mrs. Martin talks of taking a boy another year.’
‘I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet,
whenever he does marry;—I mean, as to being acquainted
with his wife—for though his sisters, from a superior
education, are not to be altogether objected to, it does not
follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you to
notice. The misfortune of your birth ought to make you
particularly careful as to your associates. There can be no
doubt of your being a gentleman’s daughter, and you must
support your claim to that station by every thing within
your own power, or there will be plenty of people who
would take pleasure in degrading you.’
‘Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are. But while I visit at
Hartfield, and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I
am not afraid of what any body can do.’
‘You understand the force of influence pretty well,
Harriet; but I would have you so firmly established in
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good society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and
Miss Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well
connected, and to that end it will be advisable to have as
few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that
if you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin
marries, I wish you may not be drawn in by your intimacy
with the sisters, to be acquainted with the wife, who will
probably be some mere farmer’s daughter, without
education.’
‘To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would
ever marry any body but what had had some education—
and been very well brought up. However, I do not mean
to set up my opinion against your’s—and I am sure I shall
not wish for the acquaintance of his wife. I shall always
have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially
Elizabeth, and should be very sorry to give them up, for
they are quite as well educated as me. But if he marries a
very ignorant, vulgar woman, certainly I had better not
visit her, if I can help it.’
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this
speech, and saw no alarming symptoms of love. The
young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted
there was no other hold, and that there would be no

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serious difficulty, on Harriet’s side, to oppose any friendly
arrangement of her own.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were
walking on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after
looking very respectfully at her, looked with most
unfeigned satisfaction at her companion. Emma was not
sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a
few yards forward, while they talked together, soon made
her quick eye sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert
Martin. His appearance was very neat, and he looked like
a sensible young man, but his person had no other
advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with
gentlemen, she thought he must lose all the ground he had
gained in Harriet’s inclination. Harriet was not insensible
of manner; she had voluntarily noticed her father’s
gentleness with admiration as well as wonder. Mr. Martin
looked as if he did not know what manner was.
They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss
Woodhouse must not be kept waiting; and Harriet then
came running to her with a smiling face, and in a flutter of
spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to
compose.
‘Only think of our happening to meet him!—How
very odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not
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gone round by Randalls. He did not think we ever walked
this road. He thought we walked towards Randalls most
days. He has not been able to get the Romance of the
Forest yet. He was so busy the last time he was at
Kingston that he quite forgot it, but he goes again tomorrow. So very odd we should happen to meet! Well,
Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do
you think of him? Do you think him so very plain?’
‘He is very plain, undoubtedly—remarkably plain:—
but that is nothing compared with his entire want of
gentility. I had no right to expect much, and I did not
expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so very
clownish, so totally without air. I had imagined him, I
confess, a degree or two nearer gentility.’
‘To be sure,’ said Harriet, in a mortified voice, ‘he is
not so genteel as real gentlemen.’
‘I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you
have been repeatedly in the company of some such very
real gentlemen, that you must yourself be struck with the
difference in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very
good specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should
be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in
company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him
to be a very inferior creature—and rather wondering at
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yourself for having ever thought him at all agreeable
before. Do not you begin to feel that now? Were not you
struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his
awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of
a voice which I heard to be wholly unmodulated as I
stood here.’
‘Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley. He has not
such a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see
the difference plain enough. But Mr. Knightley is so very
fine a man!’
‘Mr. Knightley’s air is so remarkably good that it is not
fair to compare Mr. Martin with him. You might not see
one in a hundred with gentleman so plainly written as in
Mr. Knightley. But he is not the only gentleman you have
been lately used to. What say you to Mr. Weston and Mr.
Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of them.
Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking;
of speaking; of being silent. You must see the difference.’
‘Oh yes!—there is a great difference. But Mr. Weston
is almost an old man. Mr. Weston must be between forty
and fifty.’
‘Which makes his good manners the more valuable.
The older a person grows, Harriet, the more important it
is that their manners should not be bad; the more glaring
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and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness
becomes. What is passable in youth is detestable in later
age. Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he
be at Mr. Weston’s time of life?’
‘There is no saying, indeed,’ replied Harriet rather
solemnly.
‘But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a
completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to
appearances, and thinking of nothing but profit and loss.’
‘Will he, indeed? That will be very bad.’
‘How much his business engrosses him already is very
plain from the circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for
the book you recommended. He was a great deal too full
of the market to think of any thing else—which is just as it
should be, for a thriving man. What has he to do with
books? And I have no doubt that he will thrive, and be a
very rich man in time—and his being illiterate and coarse
need not disturb us.’
‘I wonder he did not remember the book’—was all
Harriet’s answer, and spoken with a degree of grave
displeasure which Emma thought might be safely left to
itself. She, therefore, said no more for some time. Her
next beginning was,

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‘In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are
superior to Mr. Knightley’s or Mr. Weston’s. They have
more gentleness. They might be more safely held up as a
pattern. There is an openness, a quickness, almost a
bluntness in Mr. Weston, which every body likes in him,
because there is so much good-humour with it—but that
would not do to be copied. Neither would Mr.
Knightley’s downright, decided, commanding sort of
manner, though it suits him very well; his figure, and
look, and situation in life seem to allow it; but if any
young man were to set about copying him, he would not
be sufferable. On the contrary, I think a young man might
be very safely recommended to take Mr. Elton as a model.
Mr. Elton is good-humoured, cheerful, obliging, and
gentle. He seems to me to be grown particularly gentle of
late. I do not know whether he has any design of
ingratiating himself with either of us, Harriet, by
additional softness, but it strikes me that his manners are
softer than they used to be. If he means any thing, it must
be to please you. Did not I tell you what he said of you
the other day?’
She then repeated some warm personal praise which
she had drawn from Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to;

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and Harriet blushed and smiled, and said she had always
thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.
Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for
driving the young farmer out of Harriet’s head. She
thought it would be an excellent match; and only too
palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her to have
much merit in planning it. She feared it was what every
body else must think of and predict. It was not likely,
however, that any body should have equalled her in the
date of the plan, as it had entered her brain during the
very first evening of Harriet’s coming to Hartfield. The
longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of its
expediency. Mr. Elton’s situation was most suitable, quite
the gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at
the same time, not of any family that could fairly object to
the doubtful birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home
for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for
though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was
known to have some independent property; and she
thought very highly of him as a good-humoured, wellmeaning, respectable young man, without any deficiency
of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.
She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet
a beautiful girl, which she trusted, with such frequent
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meetings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side;
and on Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the idea of
being preferred by him would have all the usual weight
and efficacy. And he was really a very pleasing young man,
a young man whom any woman not fastidious might like.
He was reckoned very handsome; his person much
admired in general, though not by her, there being a want
of elegance of feature which she could not dispense
with:—but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert
Martin’s riding about the country to get walnuts for her
might very well be conquered by Mr. Elton’s admiration.

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Chapter V
‘I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs.
Weston,’ said Mr. Knightley, ‘of this great intimacy
between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad
thing.’
‘A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?—
why so?’
‘I think they will neither of them do the other any
good.’
‘You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by
supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may
be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their
intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently
we feel!—Not think they will do each other any good!
This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels
about Emma, Mr. Knightley.’
‘Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel
with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must
still fight your own battle.’
‘Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he
were here, for he thinks exactly as I do on the subject. We
were speaking of it only yesterday, and agreeing how

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fortunate it was for Emma, that there should be such a girl
in Highbury for her to associate with. Mr. Knightley, I
shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are
so much used to live alone, that you do not know the
value of a companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good
judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one
of her own sex, after being used to it all her life. I can
imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the
superior young woman which Emma’s friend ought to be.
But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better
informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more
herself. They will read together. She means it, I know.’
‘Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she
was twelve years old. I have seen a great many lists of her
drawing-up at various times of books that she meant to
read regularly through—and very good lists they were—
very well chosen, and very neatly arranged—sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule. The list
she drew up when only fourteen—I remember thinking it
did her judgment so much credit, that I preserved it some
time; and I dare say she may have made out a very good
list now. But I have done with expecting any course of
steady reading from Emma. She will never submit to any
thing requiring industry and patience, and a subjection of
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the fancy to the understanding. Where Miss Taylor failed
to stimulate, I may safely affirm that Harriet Smith will do
nothing.— You never could persuade her to read half so
much as you wished.—You know you could not.’
‘I dare say,’ replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘that I
thought so then;—but since we have parted, I can never
remember Emma’s omitting to do any thing I wished.’
‘There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory
as that,’—said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment
or two he had done. ‘But I,’ he soon added, ‘who have
had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see,
hear, and remember. Emma is spoiled by being the
cleverest of her family. At ten years old, she had the
misfortune of being able to answer questions which
puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and
assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was
twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you
all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope
with her. She inherits her mother’s talents, and must have
been under subjection to her.’
‘I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be
dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr.
Woodhouse’s family and wanted another situation; I do
not think you would have spoken a good word for me to
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any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the
office I held.’
‘Yes,’ said he, smiling. ‘You are better placed here; very
fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were
preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you
were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a
complete education as your powers would seem to
promise; but you were receiving a very good education
from her, on the very material matrimonial point of
submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and
if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I
should certainly have named Miss Taylor.’
‘Thank you. There will be very little merit in making a
good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston.’
‘Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather
thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear,
there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair,
however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of
comfort, or his son may plague him.’
‘I hope not that.—It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley,
do not foretell vexation from that quarter.’
‘Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not
pretend to Emma’s genius for foretelling and guessing. I
hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston
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in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.—But Harriet
Smith—I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think
her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could
possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon
Emma as knowing every thing. She is a flatterer in all her
ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her
ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she
has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting
such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will
venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance.
Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the
other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined
enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom
birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much
mistaken if Emma’s doctrines give any strength of mind,
or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the
varieties of her situation in life.—They only give a little
polish.’
‘I either depend more upon Emma’s good sense than
you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I
cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last
night!’

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‘Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her
mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny
Emma’s being pretty.’
‘Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing
nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether— face and
figure?’
‘I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that
I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me
than hers. But I am a partial old friend.’
‘Such an eye!—the true hazle eye—and so brilliant!
regular features, open countenance, with a complexion!
oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height
and size; such a firm and upright figure! There is health,
not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her
glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‘the picture
of health;’ now, Emma always gives me the idea of being
the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness
itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?’
‘I have not a fault to find with her person,’ he replied.
‘I think her all you describe. I love to look at her; and I
will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain.
Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be
little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs.

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Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of Harriet
Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.’
‘And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my
confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear
Emma’s little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where
shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer
friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she
will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no
lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right
a hundred times.’
‘Very well; I will not plague you any more. Emma shall
be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself till
Christmas brings John and Isabella. John loves Emma with
a reasonable and therefore not a blind affection, and
Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not
quite frightened enough about the children. I am sure of
having their opinions with me.’
‘I know that you all love her really too well to be
unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take
the liberty (I consider myself, you know, as having
somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma’s mother
might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think
any possible good can arise from Harriet Smith’s intimacy
being made a matter of much discussion among you. Pray
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excuse me; but supposing any little inconvenience may be
apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be expected that
Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who
perfectly approves the acquaintance, should put an end to
it, so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself. It has been
so many years my province to give advice, that you cannot
be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this little remains of office.’
‘Not at all,’ cried he; ‘I am much obliged to you for it.
It is very good advice, and it shall have a better fate than
your advice has often found; for it shall be attended to.’
‘Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be
made unhappy about her sister.’
‘Be satisfied,’ said he, ‘I will not raise any outcry. I will
keep my ill-humour to myself. I have a very sincere
interest in Emma. Isabella does not seem more my sister;
has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so
great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for
Emma. I wonder what will become of her!’
‘So do I,’ said Mrs. Weston gently, ‘very much.’
‘She always declares she will never marry, which, of
course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that
she has yet ever seen a man she cared for. It would not be
a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper
object. I should like to see Emma in love, and in some
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doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is
nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom
from home.’
‘There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to
break her resolution at present,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘as can
well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot
wish her to be forming any attachment which would be
creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse’s
account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to
Emma, though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you.’
Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite
thoughts of her own and Mr. Weston’s on the subject, as
much as possible. There were wishes at Randalls
respecting Emma’s destiny, but it was not desirable to have
them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr.
Knightley soon afterwards made to ‘What does Weston
think of the weather; shall we have rain?’ convinced her
that he had nothing more to say or surmise about
Hartfield.

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Chapter VI
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s
fancy a proper direction and raised the gratitude of her
young vanity to a very good purpose, for she found her
decidedly more sensible than before of Mr. Elton’s being a
remarkably handsome man, with most agreeable manners;
and as she had no hesitation in following up the assurance
of his admiration by agreeable hints, she was soon pretty
confident of creating as much liking on Harriet’s side, as
there could be any occasion for. She was quite convinced
of Mr. Elton’s being in the fairest way of falling in love, if
not in love already. She had no scruple with regard to
him. He talked of Harriet, and praised her so warmly, that
she could not suppose any thing wanting which a little
time would not add. His perception of the striking
improvement of Harriet’s manner, since her introduction
at Hartfield, was not one of the least agreeable proofs of
his growing attachment.
‘You have given Miss Smith all that she required,’ said
he; ‘you have made her graceful and easy. She was a
beautiful creature when she came to you, but, in my

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opinion, the attractions you have added are infinitely
superior to what she received from nature.’
‘I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but
Harriet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few,
very few hints. She had all the natural grace of sweetness
of temper and artlessness in herself. I have done very little.’
‘If it were admissible to contradict a lady,’ said the
gallant Mr. Elton—
‘I have perhaps given her a little more decision of
character, have taught her to think on points which had
not fallen in her way before.’
‘Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me. So much
superadded decision of character! Skilful has been the
hand!’
‘Great has been the pleasure, I am sure. I never met
with a disposition more truly amiable.’
‘I have no doubt of it.’ And it was spoken with a sort of
sighing animation, which had a vast deal of the lover. She
was not less pleased another day with the manner in which
he seconded a sudden wish of hers, to have Harriet’s
picture.
‘Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?’ said
she: ‘did you ever sit for your picture?’

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Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only
stopt to say, with a very interesting naivete,
‘Oh! dear, no, never.’
No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,
‘What an exquisite possession a good picture of her
would be! I would give any money for it. I almost long to
attempt her likeness myself. You do not know it I dare
say, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for
taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
was thought to have a tolerable eye in general. But from
one cause or another, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I
could almost venture, if Harriet would sit to me. It would
be such a delight to have her picture!’
‘Let me entreat you,’ cried Mr. Elton; ‘it would indeed
be a delight! Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to
exercise so charming a talent in favour of your friend. I
know what your drawings are. How could you suppose
me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your
landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some
inimitable figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at
Randalls?’
Yes, good man!—thought Emma—but what has all
that to do with taking likenesses? You know nothing of
drawing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine.
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Keep your raptures for Harriet’s face. ‘Well, if you give
me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall
try what I can do. Harriet’s features are very delicate,
which makes a likeness difficult; and yet there is a
peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines about the
mouth which one ought to catch.’
‘Exactly so—The shape of the eye and the lines about
the mouth—I have not a doubt of your success. Pray, pray
attempt it. As you will do it, it will indeed, to use your
own words, be an exquisite possession.’
‘But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit.
She thinks so little of her own beauty. Did not you
observe her manner of answering me? How completely it
meant, ‘why should my picture be drawn?’’
‘Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you. It was not lost on
me. But still I cannot imagine she would not be
persuaded.’
Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost
immediately made; and she had no scruples which could
stand many minutes against the earnest pressing of both
the others. Emma wished to go to work directly, and
therefore produced the portfolio containing her various
attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been
finished, that they might decide together on the best size
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for Harriet. Her many beginnings were displayed.
Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths, pencil, crayon,
and water-colours had been all tried in turn. She had
always wanted to do every thing, and had made more
progress both in drawing and music than many might have
done with so little labour as she would ever submit to. She
played and sang;—and drew in almost every style; but
steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had
she approached the degree of excellence which she would
have been glad to command, and ought not to have failed
of. She was not much deceived as to her own skill either
as an artist or a musician, but she was not unwilling to
have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for
accomplishment often higher than it deserved.
There was merit in every drawing—in the least
finished, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but had
there been much less, or had there been ten times more,
the delight and admiration of her two companions would
have been the same. They were both in ecstasies. A
likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse’s
performances must be capital.
‘No great variety of faces for you,’ said Emma. ‘I had
only my own family to study from. There is my father—
another of my father—but the idea of sitting for his
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picture made him so nervous, that I could only take him
by stealth; neither of them very like therefore. Mrs.
Weston again, and again, and again, you see. Dear Mrs.
Weston! always my kindest friend on every occasion. She
would sit whenever I asked her. There is my sister; and
really quite her own little elegant figure!—and the face not
unlike. I should have made a good likeness of her, if she
would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have
me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.
Then, here come all my attempts at three of those four
children;—there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from
one end of the sheet to the other, and any one of them
might do for any one of the rest. She was so eager to have
them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no
making children of three or four years old stand still you
know; nor can it be very easy to take any likeness of them,
beyond the air and complexion, unless they are coarser
featured than any of mama’s children ever were. Here is
my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him as he
was sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his
cockade as you would wish to see. He had nestled down
his head most conveniently. That’s very like. I am rather
proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very
good. Then here is my last,’—unclosing a pretty sketch of
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a gentleman in small size, whole-length— ‘my last and my
best—my brother, Mr. John Knightley. —This did not
want much of being finished, when I put it away in a pet,
and vowed I would never take another likeness. I could
not help being provoked; for after all my pains, and when
I had really made a very good likeness of it—(Mrs.
Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it very like)—
only too handsome—too flattering—but that was a fault
on the right side— after all this, came poor dear Isabella’s
cold approbation of—‘Yes, it was a little like—but to be
sure it did not do him justice.’ We had had a great deal of
trouble in persuading him to sit at all. It was made a great
favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear;
and so I never would finish it, to have it apologised over
as an unfavourable likeness, to every morning visitor in
Brunswick Square;—and, as I said, I did then forswear
ever drawing any body again. But for Harriet’s sake, or
rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives
in the case at present, I will break my resolution now.’
Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted
by the idea, and was repeating, ‘No husbands and wives in
the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No
husbands and wives,’ with so interesting a consciousness,
that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
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leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be
drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It
was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John
Knightley’s, and was destined, if she could please herself,
to hold a very honourable station over the mantelpiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing,
and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance,
presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to
the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing any
thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching
every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself
where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but
was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to
place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ
him in reading.
‘If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be
a kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of
her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.’
Mr. Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and
Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still
frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly
have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the
smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the
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progress, and be charmed.—There was no being displeased
with such an encourager, for his admiration made him
discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could
not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were
unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was
quite enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to
go on. There was no want of likeness, she had been
fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a
little improvement to the figure, to give a little more
height, and considerably more elegance, she had great
confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at
last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them
both—a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill
of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many
other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton’s very promising
attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton,
just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending
and reading to them again.
‘By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you
as one of the party.’
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and
satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied
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the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and
happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton
was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
criticism.
‘Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty
she wanted,’—observed Mrs. Weston to him—not in the
least suspecting that she was addressing a lover.—‘The
expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has
not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face
that she has them not.’
‘Do you think so?’ replied he. ‘I cannot agree with
you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every
feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must
allow for the effect of shade, you know.’
‘You have made her too tall, Emma,’ said Mr.
Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and
Mr. Elton warmly added,
‘Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall.
Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a
different—which in short gives exactly the idea—and the
proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions,
fore-shortening.—Oh no! it gives one exactly the idea of
such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!’
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‘It is very pretty,’ said Mr. Woodhouse. ‘So prettily
done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not
know any body who draws so well as you do. The only
thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be
sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
shoulders—and it makes one think she must catch cold.’
‘But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a
warm day in summer. Look at the tree.’
‘But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.’
‘You, sir, may say any thing,’ cried Mr. Elton, ‘but I
must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the
placing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched
with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would
have been much less in character. The naivete of Miss
Smith’s manners—and altogether—Oh, it is most
admirable! I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw
such a likeness.’
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed;
and here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly;
it must be done in London; the order must go through the
hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be
depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all
commissions, must not be applied to, because it was
December, and Mr. Woodhouse could not bear the idea
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of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December.
But no sooner was the distress known to Mr. Elton, than
it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert.
‘Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite
pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride to
London at any time. It was impossible to say how much
he should be gratified by being employed on such an
errand.’
‘He was too good!—she could not endure the
thought!— she would not give him such a troublesome
office for the world,’—brought on the desired repetition
of entreaties and assurances,—and a very few minutes
settled the business.
Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse
the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she
could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much
incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not
being incommoded enough.
‘What a precious deposit!’ said he with a tender sigh, as
he received it.
‘This man is almost too gallant to be in love,’ thought
Emma. ‘I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a
hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent
young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an
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‘Exactly so,’ as he says himself; but he does sigh and
languish, and study for compliments rather more than I
could endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good
share as a second. But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s
account.’

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Chapter VII
The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced
a fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend.
Harriet had been at Hartfield, as usual, soon after breakfast;
and, after a time, had gone home to return again to
dinner: she returned, and sooner than had been talked of,
and with an agitated, hurried look, announcing something
extraordinary to have happened which she was longing to
tell. Half a minute brought it all out. She had heard, as
soon as she got back to Mrs. Goddard’s, that Mr. Martin
had been there an hour before, and finding she was not at
home, nor particularly expected, had left a little parcel for
her from one of his sisters, and gone away; and on
opening this parcel, she had actually found, besides the
two songs which she had lent Elizabeth to copy, a letter to
herself; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin,
and contained a direct proposal of marriage. ‘Who could
have thought it? She was so surprized she did not know
what to do. Yes, quite a proposal of marriage; and a very
good letter, at least she thought so. And he wrote as if he
really loved her very much—but she did not know—and
so, she was come as fast as she could to ask Miss

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Woodhouse what she should do.—’ Emma was halfashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so
doubtful.
‘Upon my word,’ she cried, ‘the young man is
determined not to lose any thing for want of asking. He
will connect himself well if he can.’
‘Will you read the letter?’ cried Harriet. ‘Pray do. I’d
rather you would.’
Emma was not sorry to be pressed. She read, and was
surprized. The style of the letter was much above her
expectation. There were not merely no grammatical
errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a
gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and
unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to
the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good
sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even
delicacy of feeling. She paused over it, while Harriet stood
anxiously watching for her opinion, with a ‘Well, well,’
and was at last forced to add, ‘Is it a good letter? or is it
too short?’
‘Yes, indeed, a very good letter,’ replied Emma rather
slowly—‘so good a letter, Harriet, that every thing
considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped
him. I can hardly imagine the young man whom I saw
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talking with you the other day could express himself so
well, if left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the
style of a woman; no, certainly, it is too strong and
concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. No doubt he is
a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural talent
for—thinks strongly and clearly—and when he takes a pen
in hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words. It is so
with some men. Yes, I understand the sort of mind.
Vigorous, decided, with sentiments to a certain point, not
coarse. A better written letter, Harriet (returning it,) than I
had expected.’
‘Well,’ said the still waiting Harriet;—’ well—and—
and what shall I do?’
‘What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean
with regard to this letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of
course—and speedily.’
‘Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do
advise me.’
‘Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your
own. You will express yourself very properly, I am sure.
There is no danger of your not being intelligible, which is
the first thing. Your meaning must be unequivocal; no
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doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety
requires, will present themselves unbidden to your mind, I
am persuaded. You need not be prompted to write with
the appearance of sorrow for his disappointment.’
‘You think I ought to refuse him then,’ said Harriet,
looking down.
‘Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you
mean? Are you in any doubt as to that? I thought—but I
beg your pardon, perhaps I have been under a mistake. I
certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you feel in
doubt as to the purport of your answer. I had imagined
you were consulting me only as to the wording of it.’
Harriet was silent. With a little reserve of manner,
Emma continued:
‘You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect.’
‘No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do?
What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss
Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do.’
‘I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have
nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must
settle with your feelings.’
‘I had no notion that he liked me so very much,’ said
Harriet, contemplating the letter. For a little while Emma
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persevered in her silence; but beginning to apprehend the
bewitching flattery of that letter might be too powerful,
she thought it best to say,
‘I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman
doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she
certainly ought to refuse him. If she can hesitate as to
‘Yes,’ she ought to say ‘No’ directly. It is not a state to be
safely entered into with doubtful feelings, with half a
heart. I thought it my duty as a friend, and older than
yourself, to say thus much to you. But do not imagine that
I want to influence you.’
‘Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to—
but if you would just advise me what I had best do—No,
no, I do not mean that—As you say, one’s mind ought to
be quite made up—One should not be hesitating—It is a
very serious thing.—It will be safer to say ‘No,’ perhaps.—
Do you think I had better say ‘No?’’
‘Not for the world,’ said Emma, smiling graciously,
‘would I advise you either way. You must be the best
judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to
every other person; if you think him the most agreeable
man you have ever been in company with, why should
you hesitate? You blush, Harriet.—Does any body else
occur to you at this moment under such a definition?
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Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run
away with by gratitude and compassion. At this moment
whom are you thinking of?’
The symptoms were favourable.—Instead of answering,
Harriet turned away confused, and stood thoughtfully by
the fire; and though the letter was still in her hand, it was
now mechanically twisted about without regard. Emma
waited the result with impatience, but not without strong
hopes. At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said—
‘Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your
opinion, I must do as well as I can by myself; and I have
now quite determined, and really almost made up my
mind—to refuse Mr. Martin. Do you think I am right?’
‘Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are
doing just what you ought. While you were at all in
suspense I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you
are so completely decided I have no hesitation in
approving. Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this. It would
have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must
have been the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin.
While you were in the smallest degree wavering, I said
nothing about it, because I would not influence; but it
would have been the loss of a friend to me. I could not

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have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm.
Now I am secure of you for ever.’
Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea
of it struck her forcibly.
‘You could not have visited me!’ she cried, looking
aghast. ‘No, to be sure you could not; but I never thought
of that before. That would have been too dreadful!—
What an escape!—Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would not
give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with
you for any thing in the world.’
‘Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to
lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown
yourself out of all good society. I must have given you
up.’
‘Dear me!—How should I ever have borne it! It would
have killed me never to come to Hartfield any more!’
‘Dear affectionate creature!—You banished to AbbeyMill Farm!—You confined to the society of the illiterate
and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man
could have the assurance to ask it. He must have a pretty
good opinion of himself.’
‘I do not think he is conceited either, in general,’ said
Harriet, her conscience opposing such censure; ‘at least, he
is very good natured, and I shall always feel much obliged
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to him, and have a great regard for— but that is quite a
different thing from—and you know, though he may like
me, it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must
confess that since my visiting here I have seen people—
and if one comes to compare them, person and manners,
there is no comparison at all, one is so very handsome and
agreeable. However, I do really think Mr. Martin a very
amiable young man, and have a great opinion of him; and
his being so much attached to me—and his writing such a
letter—but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do
upon any consideration.’
‘Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend. We
will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely
because she is asked, or because he is attached to her, and
can write a tolerable letter.’
‘Oh no;—and it is but a short letter too.’
Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass
with a ‘very true; and it would be a small consolation to
her, for the clownish manner which might be offending
her every hour of the day, to know that her husband
could write a good letter.’
‘Oh! yes, very. Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is,
to be always happy with pleasant companions. I am quite

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determined to refuse him. But how shall I do? That shall I
say?’
Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the
answer, and advised its being written directly, which was
agreed to, in the hope of her assistance; and though Emma
continued to protest against any assistance being wanted, it
was in fact given in the formation of every sentence. The
looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had such a
softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to
brace her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was
so very much concerned at the idea of making him
unhappy, and thought so much of what his mother and
sisters would think and say, and was so anxious that they
should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the
young man had come in her way at that moment, he
would have been accepted after all.
This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent.
The business was finished, and Harriet safe. She was rather
low all the evening, but Emma could allow for her
amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved them by speaking
of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward the
idea of Mr. Elton.
‘I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again,’ was said
in rather a sorrowful tone.
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‘Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you,
my Harriet. You are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield
to be spared to Abbey-Mill.’
‘And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I
am never happy but at Hartfield.’
Some time afterwards it was, ‘I think Mrs. Goddard
would be very much surprized if she knew what had
happened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash
thinks her own sister very well married, and it is only a
linen-draper.’
‘One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement
in the teacher of a school, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash
would envy you such an opportunity as this of being
married. Even this conquest would appear valuable in her
eyes. As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she is
quite in the dark. The attentions of a certain person can
hardly be among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet. Hitherto
I fancy you and I are the only people to whom his looks
and manners have explained themselves.’
Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about
wondering that people should like her so much. The idea
of Mr. Elton was certainly cheering; but still, after a time,
she was tender-hearted again towards the rejected Mr.
Martin.
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‘Now he has got my letter,’ said she softly. ‘I wonder
what they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he
is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope he will not
mind it so very much.’
‘Let us think of those among our absent friends who
are more cheerfully employed,’ cried Emma. ‘At this
moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing your picture to his
mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful is the
original, and after being asked for it five or six times,
allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name.’
‘My picture!—But he has left my picture in Bondstreet.’
‘Has he so!—Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton. No,
my dear little modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture
will not be in Bond-street till just before he mounts his
horse to-morrow. It is his companion all this evening, his
solace, his delight. It opens his designs to his family, it
introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party
those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and
warm prepossession. How cheerful, how animated, how
suspicious, how busy their imaginations all are!’
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.

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Chapter VIII
Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks
past she had been spending more than half her time there,
and gradually getting to have a bed-room appropriated to
herself; and Emma judged it best in every respect, safest
and kindest, to keep her with them as much as possible
just at present. She was obliged to go the next morning for
an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard’s, but it was then to be
settled that she should return to Hartfield, to make a
regular visit of some days.
While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat
some time with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr.
Woodhouse, who had previously made up his mind to
walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it,
and was induced by the entreaties of both, though against
the scruples of his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for
that purpose. Mr. Knightley, who had nothing of
ceremony about him, was offering by his short, decided
answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies
and civil hesitations of the other.
‘Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley,
if you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I

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shall take Emma’s advice and go out for a quarter of an
hour. As the sun is out, I believe I had better take my
three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr.
Knightley. We invalids think we are privileged people.’
‘My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me.’
‘I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter. Emma
will be happy to entertain you. And therefore I think I
will beg your excuse and take my three turns—my winter
walk.’
‘You cannot do better, sir.’
‘I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr.
Knightley, but I am a very slow walker, and my pace
would be tedious to you; and, besides, you have another
long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey.’
‘Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment
myself; and I think the sooner you go the better. I will
fetch your greatcoat and open the garden door for you.’
Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley,
instead of being immediately off likewise, sat down again,
seemingly inclined for more chat. He began speaking of
Harriet, and speaking of her with more voluntary praise
than Emma had ever heard before.
‘I cannot rate her beauty as you do,’ said he; ‘but she is
a pretty little creature, and I am inclined to think very well
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of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is
with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable
woman.’
‘I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope,
may not be wanting.’
‘Come,’ said he, ‘you are anxious for a compliment, so
I will tell you that you have improved her. You have
cured her of her school-girl’s giggle; she really does you
credit.’
‘Thank you. I should be mortified indeed if I did not
believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body
who will bestow praise where they may. You do not often
overpower me with it.’
‘You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?’
‘Almost every moment. She has been gone longer
already than she intended.’
‘Something has happened to delay her; some visitors
perhaps.’
‘Highbury gossips!—Tiresome wretches!’
‘Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you
would.’
Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and
therefore said nothing. He presently added, with a smile,

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‘I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must
tell you that I have good reason to believe your little
friend will soon hear of something to her advantage.’
‘Indeed! how so? of what sort?’
‘A very serious sort, I assure you;’ still smiling.
‘Very serious! I can think of but one thing—Who is in
love with her? Who makes you their confidant?’
Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton’s
having dropt a hint. Mr. Knightley was a sort of general
friend and adviser, and she knew Mr. Elton looked up to
him.
‘I have reason to think,’ he replied, ‘that Harriet Smith
will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most
unexceptionable quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her
visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his
business. He is desperately in love and means to marry
her.’
‘He is very obliging,’ said Emma; ‘but is he sure that
Harriet means to marry him?’
‘Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that
do? He came to the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose
to consult me about it. He knows I have a thorough
regard for him and all his family, and, I believe, considers
me as one of his best friends. He came to ask me whether
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I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early;
whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I
approved his choice altogether; having some apprehension
perhaps of her being considered (especially since your
making so much of her) as in a line of society above him. I
was very much pleased with all that he said. I never hear
better sense from any one than Robert Martin. He always
speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well
judging. He told me every thing; his circumstances and
plans, and what they all proposed doing in the event of his
marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as son and
brother. I had no hesitation in advising him to marry. He
proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the
case, I was convinced he could not do better. I praised the
fair lady too, and altogether sent him away very happy. If
he had never esteemed my opinion before, he would have
thought highly of me then; and, I dare say, left the house
thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever had.
This happened the night before last. Now, as we may
fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass
before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to
have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be
at Mrs. Goddard’s to-day; and she may be detained by a
visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch.’
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‘Pray, Mr. Knightley,’ said Emma, who had been
smiling to herself through a great part of this speech, ‘how
do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?’
‘Certainly,’ replied he, surprized, ‘I do not absolutely
know it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole
day with you?’
‘Come,’ said she, ‘I will tell you something, in return
for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that
is, he wrote, and was refused.’
This was obliged to be repeated before it could be
believed; and Mr. Knightley actually looked red with
surprize and displeasure, as he stood up, in tall indignation,
and said,
‘Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed
her. What is the foolish girl about?’
‘Oh! to be sure,’ cried Emma, ‘it is always
incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever
refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a
woman to be ready for any body who asks her.’
‘Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing. But
what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert
Martin? madness, if it is so; but I hope you are mistaken.’
‘I saw her answer!—nothing could be clearer.’

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‘You saw her answer!—you wrote her answer too.
Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse
him.’
‘And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing)
I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a
very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be
Harriet’s equal; and am rather surprized indeed that he
should have ventured to address her. By your account, he
does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they
were ever got over.’
‘Not Harriet’s equal!’ exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly
and warmly; and with calmer asperity, added, a few
moments afterwards, ‘No, he is not her equal indeed, for
he is as much her superior in sense as in situation. Emma,
your infatuation about that girl blinds you. What are
Harriet Smith’s claims, either of birth, nature or education,
to any connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the
natural daughter of nobody knows whom, with probably
no settled provision at all, and certainly no respectable
relations. She is known only as parlour-boarder at a
common school. She is not a sensible girl, nor a girl of any
information. She has been taught nothing useful, and is
too young and too simple to have acquired any thing
herself. At her age she can have no experience, and with
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her little wit, is not very likely ever to have any that can
avail her. She is pretty, and she is good tempered, and that
is all. My only scruple in advising the match was on his
account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion
for him. I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he
might do much better; and that as to a rational companion
or useful helpmate, he could not do worse. But I could
not reason so to a man in love, and was willing to trust to
there being no harm in her, to her having that sort of
disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily
led aright and turn out very well. The advantage of the
match I felt to be all on her side; and had not the smallest
doubt (nor have I now) that there would be a general cryout upon her extreme good luck. Even your satisfaction I
made sure of. It crossed my mind immediately that you
would not regret your friend’s leaving Highbury, for the
sake of her being settled so well. I remember saying to
myself, ‘Even Emma, with all her partiality for Harriet,
will think this a good match.’’
‘I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of
Emma as to say any such thing. What! think a farmer, (and
with all his sense and all his merit Mr. Martin is nothing
more,) a good match for my intimate friend! Not regret
her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man
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whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own!
I wonder you should think it possible for me to have such
feelings. I assure you mine are very different. I must think
your statement by no means fair. You are not just to
Harriet’s claims. They would be estimated very differently
by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest
of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in
society.—The sphere in which she moves is much above
his.—It would be a degradation.’
‘A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be
married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!’
‘As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal
sense she may be called Nobody, it will not hold in
common sense. She is not to pay for the offence of others,
by being held below the level of those with whom she is
brought up.—There can scarcely be a doubt that her
father is a gentleman—and a gentleman of fortune.—Her
allowance is very liberal; nothing has ever been grudged
for her improvement or comfort.—That she is a
gentleman’s daughter, is indubitable to me; that she
associates with gentlemen’s daughters, no one, I
apprehend, will deny.—She is superior to Mr. Robert
Martin.’

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‘Whoever might be her parents,’ said Mr. Knightley,
‘whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not
appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her
into what you would call good society. After receiving a
very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard’s
hands to shift as she can;—to move, in short, in Mrs.
Goddard’s line, to have Mrs. Goddard’s acquaintance. Her
friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it
was good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till
you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no
distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She
was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer.
She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now,
you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet
Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have
proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not
being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too
much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard
of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from
it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had
encouragement.’
It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct
reply to this assertion; she chose rather to take up her own
line of the subject again.
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‘You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I
said before, are unjust to Harriet. Harriet’s claims to marry
well are not so contemptible as you represent them. She is
not a clever girl, but she has better sense than you are
aware of, and does not deserve to have her understanding
spoken of so slightingly. Waiving that point, however, and
supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and
good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she
possesses them, they are not trivial recommendations to
the world in general, for she is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and
must be thought so by ninety-nine people out of an
hundred; and till it appears that men are much more
philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are
generally supposed; till they do fall in love with wellinformed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl, with
such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being admired
and sought after, of having the power of chusing from
among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her goodnature, too, is not so very slight a claim, comprehending,
as it does, real, thorough sweetness of temper and manner,
a very humble opinion of herself, and a great readiness to
be pleased with other people. I am very much mistaken if
your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such
temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.’
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‘Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the
reason you have, is almost enough to make me think so
too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.’
‘To be sure!’ cried she playfully. ‘I know that is the
feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is
exactly what every man delights in—what at once
bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet
may pick and chuse. Were you, yourself, ever to marry,
she is the very woman for you. And is she, at seventeen,
just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be
wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she
receives? No—pray let her have time to look about her.’
‘I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy,’ said
Mr. Knightley presently, ‘though I have kept my thoughts
to myself; but I now perceive that it will be a very
unfortunate one for Harriet. You will puff her up with
such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a claim
to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be
good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head,
produces every sort of mischief. Nothing so easy as for a
young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet
Smith may not find offers of marriage flow in so fast,
though she is a very pretty girl. Men of sense, whatever
you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives. Men of
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family would not be very fond of connecting themselves
with a girl of such obscurity— and most prudent men
would be afraid of the inconvenience and disgrace they
might be involved in, when the mystery of her parentage
came to be revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and
she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you
encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to
be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence
and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs.
Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet
Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till she
grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writingmaster’s son.’
‘We think so very differently on this point, Mr.
Knightley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We
shall only be making each other more angry. But as to my
letting her marry Robert Martin, it is impossible; she has
refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must prevent any
second application. She must abide by the evil of having
refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal
itself, I will not pretend to say that I might not influence
her a little; but I assure you there was very little for me or
for any body to do. His appearance is so much against
him, and his manner so bad, that if she ever were disposed
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to favour him, she is not now. I can imagine, that before
she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him.
He was the brother of her friends, and he took pains to
please her; and altogether, having seen nobody better (that
must have been his great assistant) she might not, while
she was at Abbey-Mill, find him disagreeable. But the case
is altered now. She knows now what gentlemen are; and
nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has any
chance with Harriet.’
‘Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!’ cried
Mr. Knightley.—‘Robert Martin’s manners have sense,
sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his
mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could
understand.’
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully
unconcerned, but was really feeling uncomfortable and
wanting him very much to be gone. She did not repent
what she had done; she still thought herself a better judge
of such a point of female right and refinement than he
could be; but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his
judgment in general, which made her dislike having it so
loudly against her; and to have him sitting just opposite to
her in angry state, was very disagreeable. Some minutes
passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt on
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Emma’s side to talk of the weather, but he made no
answer. He was thinking. The result of his thoughts
appeared at last in these words.
‘Robert Martin has no great loss—if he can but think
so; and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your
views for Harriet are best known to yourself; but as you
make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to
suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;—
and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the
man, I think it will be all labour in vain.’
Emma laughed and disclaimed. He continued,
‘Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very
good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of
Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent
match. He knows the value of a good income as well as
any body. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act
rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims, as
you can be with Harriet’s. He knows that he is a very
handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he
goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved
moments, when there are only men present, I am
convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I
have heard him speak with great animation of a large

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family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with,
who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece.’
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said Emma, laughing
again. ‘If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton’s marrying
Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes;
but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I
have done with match-making indeed. I could never hope
to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while
I am well.’
‘Good morning to you,’—said he, rising and walking
off abruptly. He was very much vexed. He felt the
disappointment of the young man, and was mortified to
have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he
had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma
had taken in the affair, was provoking him exceedingly.
Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there
was more indistinctness in the causes of her’s, than in his.
She did not always feel so absolutely satisfied with herself,
so entirely convinced that her opinions were right and her
adversary’s wrong, as Mr. Knightley. He walked off in
more complete self-approbation than he left for her. She
was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little
time and the return of Harriet were very adequate
restoratives. Harriet’s staying away so long was beginning
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to make her uneasy. The possibility of the young man’s
coming to Mrs. Goddard’s that morning, and meeting
with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming
ideas. The dread of such a failure after all became the
prominent uneasiness; and when Harriet appeared, and in
very good spirits, and without having any such reason to
give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which
settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let
Mr. Knightley think or say what he would, she had done
nothing which woman’s friendship and woman’s feelings
would not justify.
He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but
when she considered that Mr. Knightley could not have
observed him as she had done, neither with the interest,
nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite of Mr.
Knightley’s pretensions) with the skill of such an observer
on such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily
and in anger, she was able to believe, that he had rather
said what he wished resentfully to be true, than what he
knew any thing about. He certainly might have heard Mr.
Elton speak with more unreserve than she had ever done,
and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent,
inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might
naturally be rather attentive than otherwise to them; but
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then, Mr. Knightley did not make due allowance for the
influence of a strong passion at war with all interested
motives. Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of course
thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it
to feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a
reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more
than a reasonable, becoming degree of prudence, she was
very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.
Harriet’s cheerful look and manner established hers: she
came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr.
Elton. Miss Nash had been telling her something, which
she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry
had been to Mrs. Goddard’s to attend a sick child, and
Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that
as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he
had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that
Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not
meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the
whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss
before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it,
and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player,
to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to
put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr.
Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a
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very particular way indeed, that he was going on business
which he would not put off for any inducement in the
world; and something about a very enviable commission,
and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious.
Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was
very sure there must be a lady in the case, and he told him
so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling,
and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all
this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton;
and said, looking so very significantly at her, ‘that she did
not pretend to understand what his business might be, but
she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could
prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world;
for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for
beauty or agreeableness.’

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Chapter IX
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could
not quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that
it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again;
and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she
was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On
the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and
more justified and endeared to her by the general
appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand
soon after Mr. Elton’s return, and being hung over the
mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to
look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of admiration
just as he ought; and as for Harriet’s feelings, they were
visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an
attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma
was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin’s being no
otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast
with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend’s mind, by a
great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never
yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention

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of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to
study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and
work at Harriet’s fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge
her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the
only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the
only mental provision she was making for the evening of
life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of
every sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of
hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented
with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very
grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher
at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written out at least three hundred;
and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her,
hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many
more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and
taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely
to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as
quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the
business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect
something worth their putting in. ‘So many clever riddles
as there used to be when he was young— he wondered he
could not remember them! but he hoped he should in
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time.’ And it always ended in ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen
maid.’
His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on
the subject, did not at present recollect any thing of the
riddle kind; but he had desired Perry to be upon the
watch, and as he went about so much, something, he
thought, might come from that quarter.
It was by no means his daughter’s wish that the
intellects of Highbury in general should be put under
requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance
she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good
enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect;
and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at
work with his recollections; and at the same time, as she
could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing
ungallant, nothing that did not breathe a compliment to
the sex should pass his lips. They owed to him their two
or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with
which at last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited,
that well-known charade,
My first doth affliction denote,
Which my second is destin’d to feel
And my whole is the best antidote
That affliction to soften and heal.—
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made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had
transcribed it some pages ago already.
‘Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr.
Elton?’ said she; ‘that is the only security for its freshness;
and nothing could be easier to you.’
‘Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of
the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not
even Miss Woodhouse’—he stopt a moment— ‘or Miss
Smith could inspire him.’
The very next day however produced some proof of
inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a
piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a
charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young
lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his
manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his
own.
‘I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,’ said he.
‘Being my friend’s, I have no right to expose it in any
degree to the public eye, but perhaps you may not dislike
looking at it.’
The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which
Emma could understand. There was deep consciousness
about him, and he found it easier to meet her eye than her

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friend’s. He was gone the next moment:—after another
moment’s pause,
‘Take it,’ said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper
towards Harriet—‘it is for you. Take your own.’
But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it;
and Emma, never loth to be first, was obliged to examine
it herself.
To Miss—
CHARADE.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of
kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
Another view of man, my second brings,
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
But ah! united, what reverse we have!
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are
flown;
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

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Thy ready wit the word will soon
supply,
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning,
read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress
of the lines, and then passing it to Harriet, sat happily
smiling, and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling
over the paper in all the confusion of hope and dulness,
‘Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse
charades. Courtship—a very good hint. I give you credit
for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying very
plainly— ‘Pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my
addresses to you. Approve my charade and my intentions
in the same glance.’
May its approval beam in that soft eye!
Harriet exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye—of
all epithets, the justest that could be given.
Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.
Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A man
must be very much in love, indeed, to describe her so. Ah!
Mr. Knightley, I wish you had the benefit of this; I think
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this would convince you. For once in your life you would
be obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade
indeed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come
to a crisis soon now.’
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant
observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into
great length, by the eagerness of Harriet’s wondering
questions.
‘What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I
have not an idea—I cannot guess it in the least. What can
it possibly be? Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do
help me. I never saw any thing so hard. Is it kingdom? I
wonder who the friend was—and who could be the
young lady. Do you think it is a good one? Can it be
woman?
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.
Can it be Neptune?
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is
only one syllable. It must be very clever, or he would not

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have brought it. Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we
shall ever find it out?’
‘Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet,
what are you thinking of? Where would be the use of his
bringing us a charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or
a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss —————, read Miss Smith.
My first displays the wealth and pomp of
kings,
Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
That is court.
Another view of man, my second brings;
Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!
That is ship;—plain as it can be.—Now for the cream.
But ah! united, (courtship, you know,)
what reverse we have!
Man’s boasted power and freedom, all are
flown.
Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

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A very proper compliment!—and then follows the
application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot
find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in
comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being
written for you and to you.’
Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion.
She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter and
happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to
speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.
‘There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this
compliment,’ said she, ‘that I cannot have a doubt as to
Mr. Elton’s intentions. You are his object— and you will
soon receive the completest proof of it. I thought it must
be so. I thought I could not be so deceived; but now, it is
clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as my
wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.
Yes, Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very
circumstance to happen what has happened. I could never
tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton
were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its
eligibility have really so equalled each other! I am very
happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my
heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel
pride in creating. This is a connexion which offers nothing
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but good. It will give you every thing that you want—
consideration, independence, a proper home—it will fix
you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield
and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever. This,
Harriet, is an alliance which can never raise a blush in
either of us.’
‘Dear
Miss
Woodhouse!’—and
‘Dear
Miss
Woodhouse,’ was all that Harriet, with many tender
embraces could articulate at first; but when they did arrive
at something more like conversation, it was sufficiently
clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and
remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton’s superiority had
very ample acknowledgment.
‘Whatever you say is always right,’ cried Harriet, ‘and
therefore I suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so;
but otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much
beyond any thing I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry
any body! There cannot be two opinions about him. He is
so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses—‘To
Miss ————.’ Dear me, how clever!—Could it really
be meant for me?’
‘I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about
that. It is a certainty. Receive it on my judgment. It is a

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sort of prologue to the play, a motto to the chapter; and
will be soon followed by matter-of-fact prose.’
‘It is a sort of thing which nobody could have
expected. I am sure, a month ago, I had no more idea
myself!—The strangest things do take place!’
‘When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted—
they do indeed—and really it is strange; it is out of the
common course that what is so evidently, so palpably
desirable—what courts the pre-arrangement of other
people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper
form. You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together;
you belong to one another by every circumstance of your
respective homes. Your marrying will be equal to the
match at Randalls. There does seem to be a something in
the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
direction, and sends it into the very channel where it
ought to flow.
The course of true love never did run
smooth—
A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long
note on that passage.’
‘That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,—
me, of all people, who did not know him, to speak to
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him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very handsomest man
that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after,
that every body says he need not eat a single meal by
himself if he does not chuse it; that he has more invitations
than there are days in the week. And so excellent in the
Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has ever
preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me!
When I look back to the first time I saw him! How little
did I think!— The two Abbots and I ran into the front
room and peeped through the blind when we heard he
was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away,
and staid to look through herself; however, she called me
back presently, and let me look too, which was very
good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked!
He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole.’
‘This is an alliance which, whoever—whatever your
friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at
least they have common sense; and we are not to be
addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see
you happily married, here is a man whose amiable
character gives every assurance of it;—if they wish to have
you settled in the same country and circle which they
have chosen to place you in, here it will be accomplished;
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and if their only object is that you should, in the common
phrase, be well married, here is the comfortable fortune,
the respectable establishment, the rise in the world which
must satisfy them.’
‘Yes, very true. How nicely you talk; I love to hear
you. You understand every thing. You and Mr. Elton are
one as clever as the other. This charade!—If I had studied
a twelvemonth, I could never have made any thing like it.’
‘I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of
declining it yesterday.’
‘I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I
ever read.’
‘I never read one more to the purpose, certainly.’
‘It is as long again as almost all we have had before.’
‘I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.
Such things in general cannot be too short.’
Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most
satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind.
‘It is one thing,’ said she, presently—her cheeks in a
glow—‘to have very good sense in a common way, like
every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit
down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a
short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
this.’
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Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection
of Mr. Martin’s prose.
‘Such sweet lines!’ continued Harriet—‘these two
last!—But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or
say I have found it out?—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what can
we do about that?’
‘Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this
evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and
some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you
shall not be committed.—Your soft eyes shall chuse their
own time for beaming. Trust to me.’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not
write this beautiful charade into my book! I am sure I have
not got one half so good.’
‘Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason
why you should not write it into your book.’
‘Oh! but those two lines are’—
—‘The best of all. Granted;—for private enjoyment;
and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all
the less written you know, because you divide them. The
couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change.
But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very
pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection.
Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade
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slighted, much better than his passion. A poet in love must
be encouraged in both capacities, or neither. Give me the
book, I will write it down, and then there can be no
possible reflection on you.’
Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly
separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure that her friend
were not writing down a declaration of love. It seemed
too precious an offering for any degree of publicity.
‘I shall never let that book go out of my own hands,’
said she.
‘Very well,’ replied Emma; ‘a most natural feeling; and
the longer it lasts, the better I shall be pleased. But here is
my father coming: you will not object to my reading the
charade to him. It will be giving him so much pleasure!
He loves any thing of the sort, and especially any thing
that pays woman a compliment. He has the tenderest spirit
of gallantry towards us all!— You must let me read it to
him.’
Harriet looked grave.
‘My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon
this charade.—You will betray your feelings improperly, if
you are too conscious and too quick, and appear to affix
more meaning, or even quite all the meaning which may
be affixed to it. Do not be overpowered by such a little
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tribute of admiration. If he had been anxious for secrecy,
he would not have left the paper while I was by; but he
rather pushed it towards me than towards you. Do not let
us be too solemn on the business. He has encouragement
enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls
over this charade.’
‘Oh! no—I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it. Do
as you please.’
Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the
subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent
inquiry of ‘Well, my dears, how does your book go on?—
Have you got any thing fresh?’
‘Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something
quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this
morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)— containing a
very pretty charade, and we have just copied it in.’
She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing
read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over,
with explanations of every part as she proceeded— and he
was very much pleased, and, as she had foreseen, especially
struck with the complimentary conclusion.
‘Aye, that’s very just, indeed, that’s very properly said.
Very true. ‘Woman, lovely woman.’ It is such a pretty
charade, my dear, that I can easily guess what fairy brought
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it.— Nobody could have written so prettily, but you,
Emma.’
Emma only nodded, and smiled.—After a little
thinking, and a very tender sigh, he added,
‘Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your
dear mother was so clever at all those things! If I had but
her memory! But I can remember nothing;—not even that
particular riddle which you have heard me mention; I can
only recollect the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
The hood-wink’d boy I called to aid,
Though of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
And that is all that I can recollect of it—but it is very
clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said
you had got it.’
‘Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We
copied it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garrick’s, you
know.’
‘Aye, very true.—I wish I could recollect more of it.
Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.

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The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was
very near being christened Catherine after her grandmama.
I hope we shall have her here next week. Have you
thought, my dear, where you shall put her—and what
room there will be for the children?’
‘Oh! yes—she will have her own room, of course; the
room she always has;—and there is the nursery for the
children,—just as usual, you know. Why should there be
any change?’
‘I do not know, my dear—but it is so long since she
was here!—not since last Easter, and then only for a few
days.—Mr. John Knightley’s being a lawyer is very
inconvenient.—Poor Isabella!—she is sadly taken away
from us all!—and how sorry she will be when she comes,
not to see Miss Taylor here!’
‘She will not be surprized, papa, at least.’
‘I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much
surprized when I first heard she was going to be married.’
‘We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us,
while Isabella is here.’
‘Yes, my dear, if there is time.—But—(in a very
depressed tone)—she is coming for only one week. There
will not be time for any thing.’

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‘It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer—but it
seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightley must be in
town again on the 28th, and we ought to be thankful,
papa, that we are to have the whole of the time they can
give to the country, that two or three days are not to be
taken out for the Abbey. Mr. Knightley promises to give
up his claim this Christmas— though you know it is
longer since they were with him, than with us.’
‘It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor
Isabella were to be anywhere but at Hartfield.’
Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley’s
claims on his brother, or any body’s claims on Isabella,
except his own. He sat musing a little while, and then said,
‘But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged
to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall
try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the
children might stay very well.’
‘Ah! papa—that is what you never have been able to
accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella
cannot bear to stay behind her husband.’
This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it
was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh;
and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his

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daughter’s attachment to her husband, she immediately led
to such a branch of the subject as must raise them.
‘Harriet must give us as much of her company as she
can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she
will be pleased with the children. We are very proud of
the children, are not we, papa? I wonder which she will
think the handsomest, Henry or John?’
‘Aye, I wonder which she will. Poor little dears, how
glad they will be to come. They are very fond of being at
Hartfield, Harriet.’
‘I dare say they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is
not.’
‘Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama.
Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not after his
father. John, the second, is named after his father. Some
people are surprized, I believe, that the eldest was not, but
Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought
very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed.
They are all remarkably clever; and they have so many
pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair, and
say, ‘Grandpapa, can you give me a bit of string?’ and once
Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were
only made for grandpapas. I think their father is too rough
with them very often.’
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‘He appears rough to you,’ said Emma, ‘because you
are so very gentle yourself; but if you could compare him
with other papas, you would not think him rough. He
wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if they
misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but
he is an affectionate father—certainly Mr. John Knightley
is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him.’
‘And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to
the ceiling in a very frightful way!’
‘But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so
much. It is such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did
not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever
began would never give way to the other.’
‘Well, I cannot understand it.’
‘That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the
world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.’
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to
separate in preparation for the regular four o’clock dinner,
the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again.
Harriet turned away; but Emma could receive him with
the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his
the consciousness of having made a push—of having
thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it
might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask
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whether Mr. Woodhouse’s party could be made up in the
evening without him, or whether he should be in the
smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, every
thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole
had been saying so much about his dining with him—had
made such a point of it, that he had promised him
conditionally to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his
disappointing his friend on their account; her father was
sure of his rubber. He re-urged —she re-declined; and he
seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
paper from the table, she returned it—
‘Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to
leave with us; thank you for the sight of it. We admired it
so much, that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith’s
collection. Your friend will not take it amiss I hope. Of
course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines.’
Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to
say. He looked rather doubtingly—rather confused; said
something about ‘honour,’—glanced at Emma and at
Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table, took
it up, and examined it very attentively. With the view of
passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

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‘You must make my apologies to your friend; but so
good a charade must not be confined to one or two. He
may be sure of every woman’s approbation while he
writes with such gallantry.’
‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ replied Mr. Elton,
though hesitating a good deal while he spoke; ‘I have no
hesitation in saying—at least if my friend feels at all as I
do—I have not the smallest doubt that, could he see his
little effusion honoured as I see it, (looking at the book
again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it
as the proudest moment of his life.’
After this speech he was gone as soon as possible.
Emma could not think it too soon; for with all his good
and agreeable qualities, there was a sort of parade in his
speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She
ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and
the sublime of pleasure to Harriet’s share.

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Chapter X
Though now the middle of December, there had yet
been no weather to prevent the young ladies from
tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had
a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a
little way out of Highbury.
Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage
Lane, a lane leading at right angles from the broad, though
irregular, main street of the place; and, as may be inferred,
containing the blessed abode of Mr. Elton. A few inferior
dwellings were first to be passed, and then, about a quarter
of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and not
very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be.
It had no advantage of situation; but had been very much
smartened up by the present proprietor; and, such as it
was, there could be no possibility of the two friends
passing it without a slackened pace and observing eyes.—
Emma’s remark was—
‘There it is. There go you and your riddle-book one of
these days.’— Harriet’s was—

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‘Oh, what a sweet house!—How very beautiful!—
There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so
much.’
‘I do not often walk this way now,’ said Emma, as they
proceeded, ‘but then there will be an inducement, and I
shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the
hedges, gates, pools and pollards of this part of Highbury.’
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within
side the Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so
extreme, that, considering exteriors and probabilities,
Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.
Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.
‘I wish we could contrive it,’ said she; ‘but I cannot
think of any tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant
that I want to inquire about of his housekeeper—no
message from my father.’
She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a
mutual silence of some minutes, Harriet thus began
again—
‘I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not
be married, or going to be married! so charming as you
are!’—
Emma laughed, and replied,

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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.
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 self-

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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,
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if they had understanding, should convince them that it
was to be only a formal acquaintance. She meant to take
her in the carriage, leave her at the Abbey Mill, while she
drove a little farther, and call for her again so soon, as to
allow no time for insidious applications or dangerous
recurrences to the past, and give the most decided proof of
what degree of intimacy was chosen for the future.
She could think of nothing better: and though there
was something in it which her own heart could not
approve—something of ingratitude, merely glossed over—
it must be done, or what would become of Harriet?

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Chapter V
Small heart had Harriet for visiting. Only half an hour
before her friend called for her at Mrs. Goddard’s, her evil
stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a
trunk, directed to The Rev. Philip Elton, White-Hart,
Bath, was to be seen under the operation of being lifted
into the butcher’s cart, which was to convey it to where
the coaches past; and every thing in this world, excepting
that trunk and the direction, was consequently a blank.
She went, however; and when they reached the farm,
and she was to be put down, at the end of the broad, neat
gravel walk, which led between espalier apple-trees to the
front door, the sight of every thing which had given her
so much pleasure the autumn before, was beginning to
revive a little local agitation; and when they parted, Emma
observed her to be looking around with a sort of fearful
curiosity, which determined her not to allow the visit to
exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She went on
herself, to give that portion of time to an old servant who
was married, and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her punctually to the
white gate again; and Miss Smith receiving her summons,

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was with her without delay, and unattended by any
alarming young man. She came solitarily down the gravel
walk—a Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and
parting with her seemingly with ceremonious civility.
Harriet could not very soon give an intelligible
account. She was feeling too much; but at last Emma
collected from her enough to understand the sort of
meeting, and the sort of pain it was creating. She had seen
only Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received her
doubtingly, if not coolly; and nothing beyond the merest
commonplace had been talked almost all the time— till
just at last, when Mrs. Martin’s saying, all of a sudden, that
she thought Miss Smith was grown, had brought on a
more interesting subject, and a warmer manner. In that
very room she had been measured last September, with
her two friends. There were the pencilled marks and
memorandums on the wainscot by the window. He had
done it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour,
the party, the occasion—to feel the same consciousness,
the same regrets—to be ready to return to the same good
understanding; and they were just growing again like
themselves, (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as
the best of them to be cordial and happy,) when the
carriage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit,
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and the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive.
Fourteen minutes to be given to those with whom she had
thankfully passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma
could not but picture it all, and feel how justly they might
resent, how naturally Harriet must suffer. It was a bad
business. She would have given a great deal, or endured a
great deal, to have had the Martins in a higher rank of life.
They were so deserving, that a little higher should have
been enough: but as it was, how could she have done
otherwise?—Impossible!—She could not repent. They
must be separated; but there was a great deal of pain in the
process— so much to herself at this time, that she soon felt
the necessity of a little consolation, and resolved on going
home by way of Randalls to procure it. Her mind was
quite sick of Mr. Elton and the Martins. The refreshment
of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good scheme; but on driving to the door they
heard that neither ‘master nor mistress was at home;’ they
had both been out some time; the man believed they were
gone to Hartfield.
‘This is too bad,’ cried Emma, as they turned away.
‘And now we shall just miss them; too provoking!—I do
not know when I have been so disappointed.’ And she
leaned back in the corner, to indulge her murmurs, or to
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reason them away; probably a little of both— such being
the commonest process of a not ill-disposed mind.
Presently the carriage stopt; she looked up; it was stopt by
Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who were standing to speak to her.
There was instant pleasure in the sight of them, and still
greater pleasure was conveyed in sound—for Mr. Weston
immediately accosted her with,
‘How d’ye do?—how d’ye do?—We have been sitting
with your father— glad to see him so well. Frank comes
to-morrow—I had a letter this morning—we see him tomorrow by dinner-time to a certainty— he is at Oxford
to-day, and he comes for a whole fortnight; I knew it
would be so. If he had come at Christmas he could not
have staid three days; I was always glad he did not come at
Christmas; now we are going to have just the right
weather for him, fine, dry, settled weather. We shall enjoy
him completely; every thing has turned out exactly as we
could wish.’
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of
avoiding the influence of such a happy face as Mr.
Weston’s, confirmed as it all was by the words and the
countenance of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to
the purpose. To know that she thought his coming certain
was enough to make Emma consider it so, and sincerely
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did she rejoice in their joy. It was a most delightful
reanimation of exhausted spirits. The worn-out past was
sunk in the freshness of what was coming; and in the
rapidity of half a moment’s thought, she hoped Mr. Elton
would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at
Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an
entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and
the method of his journey; and she listened, and smiled,
and congratulated.
‘I shall soon bring him over to Hartfield,’ said he, at the
conclusion.
Emma could imagine she saw a touch of the arm at this
speech, from his wife.
‘We had better move on, Mr. Weston,’ said she, ‘we
are detaining the girls.’
‘Well, well, I am ready;’—and turning again to Emma,
‘but you must not be expecting such a very fine young
man; you have only had my account you know; I dare say
he is really nothing extraordinary:’— though his own
sparkling eyes at the moment were speaking a very
different conviction.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent,
and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
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‘Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four
o’clock,’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting injunction; spoken
with some anxiety, and meant only for her.
‘Four o’clock!—depend upon it he will be here by
three,’ was Mr. Weston’s quick amendment; and so ended
a most satisfactory meeting. Emma’s spirits were mounted
quite up to happiness; every thing wore a different air;
James and his horses seemed not half so sluggish as before.
When she looked at the hedges, she thought the elder at
least must soon be coming out; and when she turned
round to Harriet, she saw something like a look of spring,
a tender smile even there.
‘Will Mr. Frank Churchill pass through Bath as well as
Oxford?’— was a question, however, which did not augur
much.
But neither geography nor tranquillity could come all
at once, and Emma was now in a humour to resolve that
they should both come in time.
The morning of the interesting day arrived, and Mrs.
Weston’s faithful pupil did not forget either at ten, or
eleven, or twelve o’clock, that she was to think of her at
four.
‘My dear, dear anxious friend,’—said she, in mental
soliloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room,
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‘always overcareful for every body’s comfort but your
own; I see you now in all your little fidgets, going again
and again into his room, to be sure that all is right.’ The
clock struck twelve as she passed through the hall. ‘‘Tis
twelve; I shall not forget to think of you four hours hence;
and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I
may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I
am sure they will bring him soon.’
She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen
sitting with her father—Mr. Weston and his son. They
had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had
scarcely finished his explanation of Frank’s being a day
before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his
very civil welcome and congratulations, when she
appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and
pleasure.
The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in
interest, was actually before her—he was presented to her,
and she did not think too much had been said in his
praise; he was a very good looking young man; height, air,
address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance
had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father’s;
he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she
should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner,
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and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came
intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted
they soon must be.
He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was
pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him
alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he
might gain half a day.
‘I told you yesterday,’ cried Mr. Weston with
exultation, ‘I told you all that he would be here before the
time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One
cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on
faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in
upon one’s friends before the look-out begins, is worth a
great deal more than any little exertion it needs.’
‘It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it,’ said
the young man, ‘though there are not many houses that I
should presume on so far; but in coming home I felt I
might do any thing.’
The word home made his father look on him with
fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew
how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was
strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased
with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged
house, would hardly allow it even to be very small,
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admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury
itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have
always felt the sort of interest in the country which none
but one’s own country gives, and the greatest curiosity to
visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so
amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through
Emma’s brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a
pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no
air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak
as if in a state of no common enjoyment.
Their subjects in general were such as belong to an
opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,—
‘Was she a horsewoman?—Pleasant rides?— Pleasant
walks?—Had they a large neighbourhood?—Highbury,
perhaps, afforded society enough?—There were several
very pretty houses in and about it.—Balls—had they
balls?—Was it a musical society?’
But when satisfied on all these points, and their
acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to
find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged
with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and
speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much
warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she
secured to his father, and her very kind reception of
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himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to
please— and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try
to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond
what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs.
Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of
the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he
could be sure of little else. ‘His father’s marriage,’ he said,
‘had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in
it; and the family from whom he had received such a
blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the
highest obligation on him.’
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss
Taylor’s merits, without seeming quite to forget that in
the common course of things it was to be rather supposed
that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse’s character,
than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor’s. And at last, as if
resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling
round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment
at the youth and beauty of her person.
‘Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,’ said
he; ‘but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not
expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman
of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty
young woman in Mrs. Weston.’
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‘You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston
for my feelings,’ said Emma; ‘were you to guess her to be
eighteen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be
ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let
her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young
woman.’
‘I hope I should know better,’ he replied; ‘no, depend
upon it, (with a gallant bow,) that in addressing Mrs.
Weston I should understand whom I might praise without
any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms.’
Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what
might be expected from their knowing each other, which
had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed
his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as
marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see
more of him to understand his ways; at present she only
felt they were agreeable.
She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often
thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again
glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even,
when he might have determined not to look, she was
confident that he was often listening.
Her own father’s perfect exemption from any thought
of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of
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penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable
circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving
matrimony than from foreseeing it.— Though always
objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never
suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it
seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons’
understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it
were proved against them. She blessed the favouring
blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a
single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any
possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural
kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank
Churchill’s accommodation on his journey, through the
sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express
very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had
certainly escaped catching cold—which, however, he
could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till
after another night.
A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.—
‘He must be going. He had business at the Crown about
his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at
Ford’s, but he need not hurry any body else.’ His son, too
well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying,

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‘As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the
opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some
day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I
have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of
yours, (turning to Emma,) a lady residing in or near
Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no
difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax,
I believe, is not the proper name—I should rather say
Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?’
‘To be sure we do,’ cried his father; ‘Mrs. Bates—we
passed her house— I saw Miss Bates at the window. True,
true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember
you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call
upon her, by all means.’
‘There is no necessity for my calling this morning,’ said
the young man; ‘another day would do as well; but there
was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which—‘
‘Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is
right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I
must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her
here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the
Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she
mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother,

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who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early
it will be a slight.’
The son looked convinced.
‘I have heard her speak of the acquaintance,’ said
Emma; ‘she is a very elegant young woman.’
He agreed to it, but with so quiet a ‘Yes,’ as inclined
her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there
must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable
world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily
gifted with it.
‘If you were never particularly struck by her manners
before,’ said she, ‘I think you will to-day. You will see her
to advantage; see her and hear her—no, I am afraid you
will not hear her at all, for she has an aunt who never
holds her tongue.’
‘You are acquainted with Miss Jane Fairfax, sir, are
you?’ said Mr. Woodhouse, always the last to make his
way in conversation; ‘then give me leave to assure you
that you will find her a very agreeable young lady. She is
staying here on a visit to her grandmama and aunt, very
worthy people; I have known them all my life. They will
be extremely glad to see you, I am sure; and one of my
servants shall go with you to shew you the way.’

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‘My dear sir, upon no account in the world; my father
can direct me.’
‘But your father is not going so far; he is only going to
the Crown, quite on the other side of the street, and there
are a great many houses; you might be very much at a loss,
and it is a very dirty walk, unless you keep on the
footpath; but my coachman can tell you where you had
best cross the street.’
Mr. Frank Churchill still declined it, looking as serious
as he could, and his father gave his hearty support by
calling out, ‘My good friend, this is quite unnecessary;
Frank knows a puddle of water when he sees it, and as to
Mrs. Bates’s, he may get there from the Crown in a hop,
step, and jump.’
They were permitted to go alone; and with a cordial
nod from one, and a graceful bow from the other, the two
gentlemen took leave. Emma remained very well pleased
with this beginning of the acquaintance, and could now
engage to think of them all at Randalls any hour of the
day, with full confidence in their comfort.

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Chapter VI
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Churchill again.
He came with Mrs. Weston, to whom and to Highbury
he seemed to take very cordially. He had been sitting with
her, it appeared, most companionably at home, till her
usual hour of exercise; and on being desired to chuse their
walk, immediately fixed on Highbury.—‘He did not
doubt there being very pleasant walks in every direction,
but if left to him, he should always chuse the same.
Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury,
would be his constant attraction.’— Highbury, with Mrs.
Weston, stood for Hartfield; and she trusted to its bearing
the same construction with him. They walked thither
directly.
Emma had hardly expected them: for Mr. Weston,
who had called in for half a minute, in order to hear that
his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans;
and it was an agreeable surprize to her, therefore, to
perceive them walking up to the house together, arm in
arm. She was wanting to see him again, and especially to
see him in company with Mrs. Weston, upon his
behaviour to whom her opinion of him was to depend. If

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he were deficient there, nothing should make amends for
it. But on seeing them together, she became perfectly
satisfied. It was not merely in fine words or hyperbolical
compliment that he paid his duty; nothing could be more
proper or pleasing than his whole manner to her—nothing
could more agreeably denote his wish of considering her
as a friend and securing her affection. And there was time
enough for Emma to form a reasonable judgment, as their
visit included all the rest of the morning. They were all
three walking about together for an hour or two— first
round the shrubberies of Hartfield, and afterwards in
Highbury. He was delighted with every thing; admired
Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Woodhouse’s ear; and when
their going farther was resolved on, confessed his wish to
be made acquainted with the whole village, and found
matter of commendation and interest much oftener than
Emma could have supposed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity spoke very amiable
feelings. He begged to be shewn the house which his
father had lived in so long, and which had been the home
of his father’s father; and on recollecting that an old
woman who had nursed him was still living, walked in
quest of her cottage from one end of the street to the
other; and though in some points of pursuit or observation
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there was no positive merit, they shewed, altogether, a
good-will towards Highbury in general, which must be
very like a merit to those he was with.
Emma watched and decided, that with such feelings as
were now shewn, it could not be fairly supposed that he
had been ever voluntarily absenting himself; that he had
not been acting a part, or making a parade of insincere
professions; and that Mr. Knightley certainly had not done
him justice.
Their first pause was at the Crown Inn, an
inconsiderable house, though the principal one of the sort,
where a couple of pair of post-horses were kept, more for
the convenience of the neighbourhood than from any run
on the road; and his companions had not expected to be
detained by any interest excited there; but in passing it
they gave the history of the large room visibly added; it
had been built many years ago for a ball-room, and while
the neighbourhood had been in a particularly populous,
dancing state, had been occasionally used as such;—but
such brilliant days had long passed away, and now the
highest purpose for which it was ever wanted was to
accommodate a whist club established among the
gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was
immediately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught
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him; and instead of passing on, he stopt for several minutes
at the two superior sashed windows which were open, to
look in and contemplate its capabilities, and lament that its
original purpose should have ceased. He saw no fault in
the room, he would acknowledge none which they
suggested. No, it was long enough, broad enough,
handsome enough. It would hold the very number for
comfort. They ought to have balls there at least every
fortnight through the winter. Why had not Miss
Woodhouse revived the former good old days of the
room?—She who could do any thing in Highbury! The
want of proper families in the place, and the conviction
that none beyond the place and its immediate environs
could be tempted to attend, were mentioned; but he was
not satisfied. He could not be persuaded that so many
good-looking houses as he saw around him, could not
furnish numbers enough for such a meeting; and even
when particulars were given and families described, he was
still unwilling to admit that the inconvenience of such a
mixture would be any thing, or that there would be the
smallest difficulty in every body’s returning into their
proper place the next morning. He argued like a young
man very much bent on dancing; and Emma was rather
surprized to see the constitution of the Weston prevail so
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decidedly against the habits of the Churchills. He seemed
to have all the life and spirit, cheerful feelings, and social
inclinations of his father, and nothing of the pride or
reserve of Enscombe. Of pride, indeed, there was,
perhaps, scarcely enough; his indifference to a confusion of
rank, bordered too much on inelegance of mind. He
could be no judge, however, of the evil he was holding
cheap. It was but an effusion of lively spirits.
At last he was persuaded to move on from the front of
the Crown; and being now almost facing the house where
the Bateses lodged, Emma recollected his intended visit
the day before, and asked him if he had paid it.
‘Yes, oh! yes’—he replied; ‘I was just going to mention
it. A very successful visit:—I saw all the three ladies; and
felt very much obliged to you for your preparatory hint. If
the talking aunt had taken me quite by surprize, it must
have been the death of me. As it was, I was only betrayed
into paying a most unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would
have been all that was necessary, perhaps all that was
proper; and I had told my father I should certainly be at
home before him—but there was no getting away, no
pause; and, to my utter astonishment, I found, when he
(finding me nowhere else) joined me there at last, that I
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quarters of an hour. The good lady had not given me the
possibility of escape before.’
‘And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?’
‘Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be
allowed to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible,
Mrs. Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And,
seriously, Miss Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always
to give the appearance of ill health.— A most deplorable
want of complexion.’
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm
defence of Miss Fairfax’s complexion. ‘It was certainly
never brilliant, but she would not allow it to have a sickly
hue in general; and there was a softness and delicacy in her
skin which gave peculiar elegance to the character of her
face.’ He listened with all due deference; acknowledged
that he had heard many people say the same—but yet he
must confess, that to him nothing could make amends for
the want of the fine glow of health. Where features were
indifferent, a fine complexion gave beauty to them all; and
where they were good, the effect was—fortunately he
need not attempt to describe what the effect was.
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘there is no disputing about taste.—
At least you admire her except her complexion.’

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He shook his head and laughed.—‘I cannot separate
Miss Fairfax and her complexion.’
‘Did you see her often at Weymouth? Were you often
in the same society?’
At this moment they were approaching Ford’s, and he
hastily exclaimed, ‘Ha! this must be the very shop that
every body attends every day of their lives, as my father
informs me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, six
days out of the seven, and has always business at Ford’s. If
it be not inconvenient to you, pray let us go in, that I may
prove myself to belong to the place, to be a true citizen of
Highbury. I must buy something at Ford’s. It will be
taking out my freedom.— I dare say they sell gloves.’
‘Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your
patriotism. You will be adored in Highbury. You were
very popular before you came, because you were Mr.
Weston’s son—but lay out half a guinea at Ford’s, and
your popularity will stand upon your own virtues.’
They went in; and while the sleek, well-tied parcels of
‘Men’s Beavers’ and ‘York Tan’ were bringing down and
displaying on the counter, he said—‘But I beg your
pardon, Miss Woodhouse, you were speaking to me, you
were saying something at the very moment of this burst of
my amor patriae. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the
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utmost stretch of public fame would not make me amends
for the loss of any happiness in private life.’
‘I merely asked, whether you had known much of Miss
Fairfax and her party at Weymouth.’
‘And now that I understand your question, I must
pronounce it to be a very unfair one. It is always the lady’s
right to decide on the degree of acquaintance. Miss Fairfax
must already have given her account.— I shall not commit
myself by claiming more than she may chuse to allow.’
‘Upon my word! you answer as discreetly as she could
do herself. But her account of every thing leaves so much
to be guessed, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to
give the least information about any body, that I really
think you may say what you like of your acquaintance
with her.’
‘May I, indeed?—Then I will speak the truth, and
nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently at
Weymouth. I had known the Campbells a little in town;
and at Weymouth we were very much in the same set.
Colonel Campbell is a very agreeable man, and Mrs.
Campbell a friendly, warm-hearted woman. I like them
all.’
‘You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude;
what she is destined to be?’
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‘Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.’
‘You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,’ said Mrs.
Weston smiling; ‘remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank
Churchill hardly knows what to say when you speak of
Miss Fairfax’s situation in life. I will move a little farther
off.’
‘I certainly do forget to think of her,’ said Emma, ‘as
having ever been any thing but my friend and my dearest
friend.’
He looked as if he fully understood and honoured such
a sentiment.
When the gloves were bought, and they had quitted
the shop again, ‘Did you ever hear the young lady we
were speaking of, play?’ said Frank Churchill.
‘Ever hear her!’ repeated Emma. ‘You forget how
much she belongs to Highbury. I have heard her every
year of our lives since we both began. She plays
charmingly.’
‘You think so, do you?—I wanted the opinion of some
one who could really judge. She appeared to me to play
well, that is, with considerable taste, but I know nothing
of the matter myself.— I am excessively fond of music,
but without the smallest skill or right of judging of any
body’s performance.—I have been used to hear her’s
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admired; and I remember one proof of her being thought
to play well:—a man, a very musical man, and in love
with another woman—engaged to her—on the point of
marriage— would yet never ask that other woman to sit
down to the instrument, if the lady in question could sit
down instead—never seemed to like to hear one if he
could hear the other. That, I thought, in a man of known
musical talent, was some proof.’
‘Proof indeed!’ said Emma, highly amused.—‘Mr.
Dixon is very musical, is he? We shall know more about
them all, in half an hour, from you, than Miss Fairfax
would have vouchsafed in half a year.’
‘Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the persons;
and I thought it a very strong proof.’
‘Certainly—very strong it was; to own the truth, a
great deal stronger than, if I had been Miss Campbell,
would have been at all agreeable to me. I could not excuse
a man’s having more music than love—more ear than
eye—a more acute sensibility to fine sounds than to my
feelings. How did Miss Campbell appear to like it?’
‘It was her very particular friend, you know.’
‘Poor comfort!’ said Emma, laughing. ‘One would
rather have a stranger preferred than one’s very particular
friend—with a stranger it might not recur again—but the
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misery of having a very particular friend always at hand, to
do every thing better than one does oneself!— Poor Mrs.
Dixon! Well, I am glad she is gone to settle in Ireland.’
‘You are right. It was not very flattering to Miss
Campbell; but she really did not seem to feel it.’
‘So much the better—or so much the worse:—I do not
know which. But be it sweetness or be it stupidity in
her—quickness of friendship, or dulness of feeling—there
was one person, I think, who must have felt it: Miss
Fairfax herself. She must have felt the improper and
dangerous distinction.’
‘As to that—I do not—‘
‘Oh! do not imagine that I expect an account of Miss
Fairfax’s sensations from you, or from any body else. They
are known to no human being, I guess, but herself. But if
she continued to play whenever she was asked by Mr.
Dixon, one may guess what one chuses.’
‘There appeared such a perfectly good understanding
among them all—’ he began rather quickly, but checking
himself, added, ‘however, it is impossible for me to say on
what terms they really were— how it might all be behind
the scenes. I can only say that there was smoothness
outwardly. But you, who have known Miss Fairfax from a
child, must be a better judge of her character, and of how
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she is likely to conduct herself in critical situations, than I
can be.’
‘I have known her from a child, undoubtedly; we have
been children and women together; and it is natural to
suppose that we should be intimate,—that we should have
taken to each other whenever she visited her friends. But
we never did. I hardly know how it has happened; a little,
perhaps, from that wickedness on my side which was
prone to take disgust towards a girl so idolized and so cried
up as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother, and all
their set. And then, her reserve—I never could attach
myself to any one so completely reserved.’
‘It is a most repulsive quality, indeed,’ said he.
‘Oftentimes very convenient, no doubt, but never
pleasing. There is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One
cannot love a reserved person.’
‘Not till the reserve ceases towards oneself; and then
the attraction may be the greater. But I must be more in
want of a friend, or an agreeable companion, than I have
yet been, to take the trouble of conquering any body’s
reserve to procure one. Intimacy between Miss Fairfax and
me is quite out of the question. I have no reason to think
ill of her—not the least—except that such extreme and
perpetual cautiousness of word and manner, such a dread
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of giving a distinct idea about any body, is apt to suggest
suspicions of there being something to conceal.’
He perfectly agreed with her: and after walking
together so long, and thinking so much alike, Emma felt
herself so well acquainted with him, that she could hardly
believe it to be only their second meeting. He was not
exactly what she had expected; less of the man of the
world in some of his notions, less of the spoiled child of
fortune, therefore better than she had expected. His ideas
seemed more moderate— his feelings warmer. She was
particularly struck by his manner of considering Mr.
Elton’s house, which, as well as the church, he would go
and look at, and would not join them in finding much
fault with. No, he could not believe it a bad house; not
such a house as a man was to be pitied for having. If it
were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not
think any man to be pitied for having that house. There
must be ample room in it for every real comfort. The man
must be a blockhead who wanted more.
Mrs. Weston laughed, and said he did not know what
he was talking about. Used only to a large house himself,
and without ever thinking how many advantages and
accommodations were attached to its size, he could be no
judge of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one.
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But Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did
know what he was talking about, and that he shewed a
very amiable inclination to settle early in life, and to
marry, from worthy motives. He might not be aware of
the inroads on domestic peace to be occasioned by no
housekeeper’s room, or a bad butler’s pantry, but no
doubt he did perfectly feel that Enscombe could not make
him happy, and that whenever he were attached, he
would willingly give up much of wealth to be allowed an
early establishment.

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Chapter VII
Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a
little shaken the following day, by hearing that he was
gone off to London, merely to have his hair cut. A sudden
freak seemed to have seized him at breakfast, and he had
sent for a chaise and set off, intending to return to dinner,
but with no more important view that appeared than
having his hair cut. There was certainly no harm in his
travelling sixteen miles twice over on such an errand; but
there was an air of foppery and nonsense in it which she
could not approve. It did not accord with the rationality
of plan, the moderation in expense, or even the unselfish
warmth of heart, which she had believed herself to discern
in him yesterday. Vanity, extravagance, love of change,
restlessness of temper, which must be doing something,
good or bad; heedlessness as to the pleasure of his father
and Mrs. Weston, indifferent as to how his conduct might
appear in general; he became liable to all these charges.
His father only called him a coxcomb, and thought it a
very good story; but that Mrs. Weston did not like it, was
clear enough, by her passing it over as quickly as possible,

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and making no other comment than that ‘all young people
would have their little whims.’
With the exception of this little blot, Emma found that
his visit hitherto had given her friend only good ideas of
him. Mrs. Weston was very ready to say how attentive and
pleasant a companion he made himself—how much she
saw to like in his disposition altogether. He appeared to
have a very open temper—certainly a very cheerful and
lively one; she could observe nothing wrong in his
notions, a great deal decidedly right; he spoke of his uncle
with warm regard, was fond of talking of him—said he
would be the best man in the world if he were left to
himself; and though there was no being attached to the
aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude, and
seemed to mean always to speak of her with respect. This
was all very promising; and, but for such an unfortunate
fancy for having his hair cut, there was nothing to denote
him unworthy of the distinguished honour which her
imagination had given him; the honour, if not of being
really in love with her, of being at least very near it, and
saved only by her own indifference— (for still her
resolution held of never marrying)—the honour, in short,
of being marked out for her by all their joint acquaintance.

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Mr. Weston, on his side, added a virtue to the account
which must have some weight. He gave her to understand
that Frank admired her extremely—thought her very
beautiful and very charming; and with so much to be said
for him altogether, she found she must not judge him
harshly. As Mrs. Weston observed, ‘all young people
would have their little whims.’
There was one person among his new acquaintance in
Surry, not so leniently disposed. In general he was judged,
throughout the parishes of Donwell and Highbury, with
great candour; liberal allowances were made for the little
excesses of such a handsome young man— one who
smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was one
spirit among them not to be softened, from its power of
censure, by bows or smiles—Mr. Knightley. The
circumstance was told him at Hartfield; for the moment,
he was silent; but Emma heard him almost immediately
afterwards say to himself, over a newspaper he held in his
hand, ‘Hum! just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.’
She had half a mind to resent; but an instant’s observation
convinced her that it was really said only to relieve his
own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
let it pass.

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Although in one instance the bearers of not good
tidings, Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in
another respect particularly opportune. Something
occurred while they were at Hartfield, to make Emma
want their advice; and, which was still more lucky, she
wanted exactly the advice they gave.
This was the occurrence:—The Coles had been settled
some years in Highbury, and were very good sort of
people—friendly, liberal, and unpretending; but, on the
other hand, they were of low origin, in trade, and only
moderately genteel. On their first coming into the
country, they had lived in proportion to their income,
quietly, keeping little company, and that little
unexpensively; but the last year or two had brought them
a considerable increase of means— the house in town had
yielded greater profits, and fortune in general had smiled
on them. With their wealth, their views increased; their
want of a larger house, their inclination for more
company. They added to their house, to their number of
servants, to their expenses of every sort; and by this time
were, in fortune and style of living, second only to the
family at Hartfield. Their love of society, and their new
dining-room, prepared every body for their keeping
dinner-company; and a few parties, chiefly among the
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single men, had already taken place. The regular and best
families Emma could hardly suppose they would presume
to invite— neither Donwell, nor Hartfield, nor Randalls.
Nothing should tempt her to go, if they did; and she
regretted that her father’s known habits would be giving
her refusal less meaning than she could wish. The Coles
were very respectable in their way, but they ought to be
taught that it was not for them to arrange the terms on
which the superior families would visit them. This lesson,
she very much feared, they would receive only from
herself; she had little hope of Mr. Knightley, none of Mr.
Weston.
But she had made up her mind how to meet this
presumption so many weeks before it appeared, that when
the insult came at last, it found her very differently
affected. Donwell and Randalls had received their
invitation, and none had come for her father and herself;
and Mrs. Weston’s accounting for it with ‘I suppose they
will not take the liberty with you; they know you do not
dine out,’ was not quite sufficient. She felt that she should
like to have had the power of refusal; and afterwards, as
the idea of the party to be assembled there, consisting
precisely of those whose society was dearest to her,
occurred again and again, she did not know that she might
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not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be there
in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speaking
of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and
Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
Might not the evening end in a dance? had been a
question of his. The bare possibility of it acted as a farther
irritation on her spirits; and her being left in solitary
grandeur, even supposing the omission to be intended as a
compliment, was but poor comfort.
It was the arrival of this very invitation while the
Westons were at Hartfield, which made their presence so
acceptable; for though her first remark, on reading it, was
that ‘of course it must be declined,’ she so very soon
proceeded to ask them what they advised her to do, that
their advice for her going was most prompt and successful.
She owned that, considering every thing, she was not
absolutely without inclination for the party. The Coles
expressed themselves so properly—there was so much real
attention in the manner of it— so much consideration for
her father. ‘They would have solicited the honour earlier,
but had been waiting the arrival of a folding-screen from
London, which they hoped might keep Mr. Woodhouse
from any draught of air, and therefore induce him the
more readily to give them the honour of his company.
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‘Upon the whole, she was very persuadable; and it being
briefly settled among themselves how it might be done
without neglecting his comfort—how certainly Mrs.
Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, might be depended on for
bearing him company— Mr. Woodhouse was to be talked
into an acquiescence of his daughter’s going out to dinner
on a day now near at hand, and spending the whole
evening away from him. As for his going, Emma did not
wish him to think it possible, the hours would be too late,
and the party too numerous. He was soon pretty well
resigned.
‘I am not fond of dinner-visiting,’ said he—‘I never
was. No more is Emma. Late hours do not agree with us. I
am sorry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it
would be much better if they would come in one
afternoon next summer, and take their tea with us—take
us in their afternoon walk; which they might do, as our
hours are so reasonable, and yet get home without being
out in the damp of the evening. The dews of a summer
evening are what I would not expose any body to.
However, as they are so very desirous to have dear Emma
dine with them, and as you will both be there, and Mr.
Knightley too, to take care of her, I cannot wish to
prevent it, provided the weather be what it ought, neither
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damp, nor cold, nor windy.’ Then turning to Mrs.
Weston, with a look of gentle reproach—‘Ah! Miss
Taylor, if you had not married, you would have staid at
home with me.’
‘Well, sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘as I took Miss Taylor
away, it is incumbent on me to supply her place, if I can;
and I will step to Mrs. Goddard in a moment, if you wish
it.’
But the idea of any thing to be done in a moment, was
increasing, not lessening, Mr. Woodhouse’s agitation. The
ladies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be
quiet, and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon
composed enough for talking as usual. ‘He should be
happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had a great regard for Mrs.
Goddard; and Emma should write a line, and invite her.
James could take the note. But first of all, there must be an
answer written to Mrs. Cole.’
‘You will make my excuses, my dear, as civilly as
possible. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no
where, and therefore must decline their obliging
invitation; beginning with my compliments, of course.
But you will do every thing right. I need not tell you what
is to be done. We must remember to let James know that
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the carriage will be wanted on Tuesday. I shall have no
fears for you with him. We have never been there above
once since the new approach was made; but still I have no
doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you
get there, you must tell him at what time you would have
him come for you again; and you had better name an early
hour. You will not like staying late. You will get very
tired when tea is over.’
‘But you would not wish me to come away before I am
tired, papa?’
‘Oh! no, my love; but you will soon be tired. There
will be a great many people talking at once. You will not
like the noise.’
‘But, my dear sir,’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘if Emma comes
away early, it will be breaking up the party.’
‘And no great harm if it does,’ said Mr. Woodhouse.
‘The sooner every party breaks up, the better.’
‘But you do not consider how it may appear to the
Coles. Emma’s going away directly after tea might be
giving offence. They are good-natured people, and think
little of their own claims; but still they must feel that any
body’s hurrying away is no great compliment; and Miss
Woodhouse’s doing it would be more thought of than any
other person’s in the room. You would not wish to
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disappoint and mortify the Coles, I am sure, sir; friendly,
good sort of people as ever lived, and who have been your
neighbours these ten years.’
‘No, upon no account in the world, Mr. Weston; I am
much obliged to you for reminding me. I should be
extremely sorry to be giving them any pain. I know what
worthy people they are. Perry tells me that Mr. Cole
never touches malt liquor. You would not think it to look
at him, but he is bilious—Mr. Cole is very bilious. No, I
would not be the means of giving them any pain. My dear
Emma, we must consider this. I am sure, rather than run
the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a
little longer than you might wish. You will not regard
being tired. You will be perfectly safe, you know, among
your friends.’
‘Oh yes, papa. I have no fears at all for myself; and I
should have no scruples of staying as late as Mrs. Weston,
but on your account. I am only afraid of your sitting up
for me. I am not afraid of your not being exceedingly
comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves piquet, you
know; but when she is gone home, I am afraid you will be
sitting up by yourself, instead of going to bed at your usual
time—and the idea of that would entirely destroy my
comfort. You must promise me not to sit up.’
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He did, on the condition of some promises on her side:
such as that, if she came home cold, she would be sure to
warm herself thoroughly; if hungry, that she would take
something to eat; that her own maid should sit up for her;
and that Serle and the butler should see that every thing
were safe in the house, as usual.

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Chapter VIII
Frank Churchill came back again; and if he kept his
father’s dinner waiting, it was not known at Hartfield; for
Mrs. Weston was too anxious for his being a favourite
with Mr. Woodhouse, to betray any imperfection which
could be concealed.
He came back, had had his hair cut, and laughed at
himself with a very good grace, but without seeming really
at all ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to
wish his hair longer, to conceal any confusion of face; no
reason to wish the money unspent, to improve his spirits.
He was quite as undaunted and as lively as ever; and, after
seeing him, Emma thus moralised to herself:—
‘I do not know whether it ought to be so, but certainly
silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible
people in an impudent way. Wickedness is always
wickedness, but folly is not always folly.—It depends upon
the character of those who handle it. Mr. Knightley, he is
not a trifling, silly young man. If he were, he would have
done this differently. He would either have gloried in the
achievement, or been ashamed of it. There would have
been either the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions

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of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities.—No, I am
perfectly sure that he is not trifling or silly.’
With Tuesday came the agreeable prospect of seeing
him again, and for a longer time than hitherto; of judging
of his general manners, and by inference, of the meaning
of his manners towards herself; of guessing how soon it
might be necessary for her to throw coldness into her air;
and of fancying what the observations of all those might
be, who were now seeing them together for the first time.
She meant to be very happy, in spite of the scene being
laid at Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that
among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his
favour, none had disturbed her more than his propensity
to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father’s comfort was amply secured, Mrs. Bates as
well as Mrs. Goddard being able to come; and her last
pleasing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her
respects to them as they sat together after dinner; and
while her father was fondly noticing the beauty of her
dress, to make the two ladies all the amends in her power,
by helping them to large slices of cake and full glasses of
wine, for whatever unwilling self-denial his care of their
constitution might have obliged them to practise during
the meal.—She had provided a plentiful dinner for them;
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she wished she could know that they had been allowed to
eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole’s door; and
was pleased to see that it was Mr. Knightley’s; for Mr.
Knightley keeping no horses, having little spare money
and a great deal of health, activity, and independence, was
too apt, in Emma’s opinion, to get about as he could, and
not use his carriage so often as became the owner of
Donwell Abbey. She had an opportunity now of speaking
her approbation while warm from her heart, for he
stopped to hand her out.
‘This is coming as you should do,’ said she; ‘like a
gentleman.— I am quite glad to see you.’
He thanked her, observing, ‘How lucky that we should
arrive at the same moment! for, if we had met first in the
drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have
discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual.—
You might not have distinguished how I came, by my
look or manner.’
‘Yes I should, I am sure I should. There is always a
look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a
way which they know to be beneath them. You think you
carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of
bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it
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whenever I meet you under those circumstances. Now
you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being
supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than
any body else. Now I shall really be very happy to walk
into the same room with you.’
‘Nonsensical girl!’ was his reply, but not at all in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be satisfied with the rest
of the party as with Mr. Knightley. She was received with
a cordial respect which could not but please, and given all
the consequence she could wish for. When the Westons
arrived, the kindest looks of love, the strongest of
admiration were for her, from both husband and wife; the
son approached her with a cheerful eagerness which
marked her as his peculiar object, and at dinner she found
him seated by her—and, as she firmly believed, not
without some dexterity on his side.
The party was rather large, as it included one other
family, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom
the Coles had the advantage of naming among their
acquaintance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the
lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy females were to
come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and
Miss Smith; but already, at dinner, they were too
numerous for any subject of conversation to be general;
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and, while politics and Mr. Elton were talked over, Emma
could fairly surrender all her attention to the pleasantness
of her neighbour. The first remote sound to which she felt
herself obliged to attend, was the name of Jane Fairfax.
Mrs. Cole seemed to be relating something of her that was
expected to be very interesting. She listened, and found it
well worth listening to. That very dear part of Emma, her
fancy, received an amusing supply. Mrs. Cole was telling
that she had been calling on Miss Bates, and as soon as she
entered the room had been struck by the sight of a
pianoforte—a very elegant looking instrument—not a
grand, but a large-sized square pianoforte; and the
substance of the story, the end of all the dialogue which
ensued of surprize, and inquiry, and congratulations on her
side, and explanations on Miss Bates’s, was, that this
pianoforte had arrived from Broadwood’s the day before,
to the great astonishment of both aunt and niece—entirely
unexpected; that at first, by Miss Bates’s account, Jane
herself was quite at a loss, quite bewildered to think who
could possibly have ordered it— but now, they were both
perfectly satisfied that it could be from only one quarter;—
of course it must be from Colonel Campbell.
‘One can suppose nothing else,’ added Mrs. Cole, ‘and
I was only surprized that there could ever have been a
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doubt. But Jane, it seems, had a letter from them very
lately, and not a word was said about it. She knows their
ways best; but I should not consider their silence as any
reason for their not meaning to make the present. They
might chuse to surprize her.’
Mrs. Cole had many to agree with her; every body
who spoke on the subject was equally convinced that it
must come from Colonel Campbell, and equally rejoiced
that such a present had been made; and there were enough
ready to speak to allow Emma to think her own way, and
still listen to Mrs. Cole.
‘I declare, I do not know when I have heard any thing
that has given me more satisfaction!—It always has quite
hurt me that Jane Fairfax, who plays so delightfully, should
not have an instrument. It seemed quite a shame,
especially considering how many houses there are where
fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like
giving ourselves a slap, to be sure! and it was but yesterday
I was telling Mr. Cole, I really was ashamed to look at our
new grand pianoforte in the drawing-room, while I do
not know one note from another, and our little girls, who
are but just beginning, perhaps may never make any thing
of it; and there is poor Jane Fairfax, who is mistress of
music, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument,
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not even the pitifullest old spinet in the world, to amuse
herself with.—I was saying this to Mr. Cole but yesterday,
and he quite agreed with me; only he is so particularly
fond of music that he could not help indulging himself in
the purchase, hoping that some of our good neighbours
might be so obliging occasionally to put it to a better use
than we can; and that really is the reason why the
instrument was bought— or else I am sure we ought to be
ashamed of it.—We are in great hopes that Miss
Woodhouse may be prevailed with to try it this evening.’
Miss Woodhouse made the proper acquiescence; and
finding that nothing more was to be entrapped from any
communication of Mrs. Cole’s, turned to Frank Churchill.
‘Why do you smile?’ said she.
‘Nay, why do you?’
‘Me!—I suppose I smile for pleasure at Colonel
Campbell’s being so rich and so liberal.—It is a handsome
present.’
‘Very.’
‘I rather wonder that it was never made before.’
‘Perhaps Miss Fairfax has never been staying here so
long before.’

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‘Or that he did not give her the use of their own
instrument— which must now be shut up in London,
untouched by any body.’
‘That is a grand pianoforte, and he might think it too
large for Mrs. Bates’s house.’
‘You may say what you chuse—but your countenance
testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very much
like mine.’
‘I do not know. I rather believe you are giving me
more credit for acuteness than I deserve. I smile because
you smile, and shall probably suspect whatever I find you
suspect; but at present I do not see what there is to
question. If Colonel Campbell is not the person, who can
be?’
‘What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?’
‘Mrs. Dixon! very true indeed. I had not thought of
Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father, how
acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the mode
of it, the mystery, the surprize, is more like a young
woman’s scheme than an elderly man’s. It is Mrs. Dixon, I
dare say. I told you that your suspicions would guide
mine.’
‘If so, you must extend your suspicions and
comprehend Mr. Dixon in them.’
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‘Mr. Dixon.—Very well. Yes, I immediately perceive
that it must be the joint present of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.
We were speaking the other day, you know, of his being
so warm an admirer of her performance.’
‘Yes, and what you told me on that head, confirmed an
idea which I had entertained before.—I do not mean to
reflect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or
Miss Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after
making his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune
to fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a
little attachment on her side. One might guess twenty
things without guessing exactly the right; but I am sure
there must be a particular cause for her chusing to come to
Highbury instead of going with the Campbells to Ireland.
Here, she must be leading a life of privation and penance;
there it would have been all enjoyment. As to the
pretence of trying her native air, I look upon that as a
mere excuse.—In the summer it might have passed; but
what can any body’s native air do for them in the months
of January, February, and March? Good fires and carriages
would be much more to the purpose in most cases of
delicate health, and I dare say in her’s. I do not require
you to adopt all my suspicions, though you make so noble

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a profession of doing it, but I honestly tell you what they
are.’
‘And, upon my word, they have an air of great
probability. Mr. Dixon’s preference of her music to her
friend’s, I can answer for being very decided.’
‘And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of
that?— A water party; and by some accident she was
falling overboard. He caught her.’
‘He did. I was there—one of the party.’
‘Were you really?—Well!—But you observed nothing
of course, for it seems to be a new idea to you.—If I had
been there, I think I should have made some discoveries.’
‘I dare say you would; but I, simple I, saw nothing but
the fact, that Miss Fairfax was nearly dashed from the
vessel and that Mr. Dixon caught her.—It was the work of
a moment. And though the consequent shock and alarm
was very great and much more durable—indeed I believe
it was half an hour before any of us were comfortable
again— yet that was too general a sensation for any thing
of peculiar anxiety to be observable. I do not mean to say,
however, that you might not have made discoveries.’
The conversation was here interrupted. They were
called on to share in the awkwardness of a rather long
interval between the courses, and obliged to be as formal
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and as orderly as the others; but when the table was again
safely covered, when every corner dish was placed exactly
right, and occupation and ease were generally restored,
Emma said,
‘The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I
wanted to know a little more, and this tells me quite
enough. Depend upon it, we shall soon hear that it is a
present from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.’
‘And if the Dixons should absolutely deny all
knowledge of it we must conclude it to come from the
Campbells.’
‘No, I am sure it is not from the Campbells. Miss
Fairfax knows it is not from the Campbells, or they would
have been guessed at first. She would not have been
puzzled, had she dared fix on them. I may not have
convinced you perhaps, but I am perfectly convinced
myself that Mr. Dixon is a principal in the business.’
‘Indeed you injure me if you suppose me unconvinced.
Your reasonings carry my judgment along with them
entirely. At first, while I supposed you satisfied that
Colonel Campbell was the giver, I saw it only as paternal
kindness, and thought it the most natural thing in the
world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how
much more probable that it should be the tribute of warm
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female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light
than as an offering of love.’
There was no occasion to press the matter farther. The
conviction seemed real; he looked as if he felt it. She said
no more, other subjects took their turn; and the rest of the
dinner passed away; the dessert succeeded, the children
came in, and were talked to and admired amid the usual
rate of conversation; a few clever things said, a few
downright silly, but by much the larger proportion neither
the one nor the other—nothing worse than everyday
remarks, dull repetitions, old news, and heavy jokes.
The ladies had not been long in the drawing-room,
before the other ladies, in their different divisions, arrived.
Emma watched the entree of her own particular little
friend; and if she could not exult in her dignity and grace,
she could not only love the blooming sweetness and the
artless manner, but could most heartily rejoice in that
light, cheerful, unsentimental disposition which allowed
her so many alleviations of pleasure, in the midst of the
pangs of disappointed affection. There she sat—and who
would have guessed how many tears she had been lately
shedding? To be in company, nicely dressed herself and
seeing others nicely dressed, to sit and smile and look
pretty, and say nothing, was enough for the happiness of
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the present hour. Jane Fairfax did look and move superior;
but Emma suspected she might have been glad to change
feelings with Harriet, very glad to have purchased the
mortification of having loved—yes, of having loved even
Mr. Elton in vain—by the surrender of all the dangerous
pleasure of knowing herself beloved by the husband of her
friend.
In so large a party it was not necessary that Emma
should approach her. She did not wish to speak of the
pianoforte, she felt too much in the secret herself, to think
the appearance of curiosity or interest fair, and therefore
purposely kept at a distance; but by the others, the subject
was almost immediately introduced, and she saw the blush
of consciousness with which congratulations were
received, the blush of guilt which accompanied the name
of ‘my excellent friend Colonel Campbell.’
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was
particularly interested by the circumstance, and Emma
could not help being amused at her perseverance in
dwelling on the subject; and having so much to ask and to
say as to tone, touch, and pedal, totally unsuspicious of
that wish of saying as little about it as possible, which she
plainly read in the fair heroine’s countenance.

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They were soon joined by some of the gentlemen; and
the very first of the early was Frank Churchill. In he
walked, the first and the handsomest; and after paying his
compliments en passant to Miss Bates and her niece, made
his way directly to the opposite side of the circle, where
sat Miss Woodhouse; and till he could find a seat by her,
would not sit at all. Emma divined what every body
present must be thinking. She was his object, and every
body must perceive it. She introduced him to her friend,
Miss Smith, and, at convenient moments afterwards, heard
what each thought of the other. ‘He had never seen so
lovely a face, and was delighted with her naivete.’ And
she, ‘Only to be sure it was paying him too great a
compliment, but she did think there were some looks a
little like Mr. Elton.’ Emma restrained her indignation,
and only turned from her in silence.
Smiles of intelligence passed between her and the
gentleman on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it
was most prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had
been impatient to leave the dining-room— hated sitting
long—was always the first to move when he could— that
his father, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Cole, were
left very busy over parish business—that as long as he had
staid, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he had
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found them in general a set of gentlemanlike, sensible
men; and spoke so handsomely of Highbury altogether—
thought it so abundant in agreeable families— that Emma
began to feel she had been used to despise the place rather
too much. She questioned him as to the society in
Yorkshire— the extent of the neighbourhood about
Enscombe, and the sort; and could make out from his
answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was
very little going on, that their visitings were among a
range of great families, none very near; and that even
when days were fixed, and invitations accepted, it was an
even chance that Mrs. Churchill were not in health and
spirits for going; that they made a point of visiting no fresh
person; and that, though he had his separate engagements,
it was not without difficulty, without considerable address
at times, that he could get away, or introduce an
acquaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that
Highbury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a
young man who had more retirement at home than he
liked. His importance at Enscombe was very evident. He
did not boast, but it naturally betrayed itself, that he had
persuaded his aunt where his uncle could do nothing, and
on her laughing and noticing it, he owned that he
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believed (excepting one or two points) he could with time
persuade her to any thing. One of those points on which
his influence failed, he then mentioned. He had wanted
very much to go abroad—had been very eager indeed to
be allowed to travel—but she would not hear of it. This
had happened the year before. Now, he said, he was
beginning to have no longer the same wish.
The unpersuadable point, which he did not mention,
Emma guessed to be good behaviour to his father.
‘I have made a most wretched discovery,’ said he, after
a short pause.— ‘I have been here a week to-morrow—
half my time. I never knew days fly so fast. A week tomorrow!—And I have hardly begun to enjoy myself. But
just got acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and others!— I
hate the recollection.’
‘Perhaps you may now begin to regret that you spent
one whole day, out of so few, in having your hair cut.’
‘No,’ said he, smiling, ‘that is no subject of regret at all.
I have no pleasure in seeing my friends, unless I can
believe myself fit to be seen.’
The rest of the gentlemen being now in the room,
Emma found herself obliged to turn from him for a few
minutes, and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole had
moved away, and her attention could be restored as
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before, she saw Frank Churchill looking intently across the
room at Miss Fairfax, who was sitting exactly opposite.
‘What is the matter?’ said she.
He started. ‘Thank you for rousing me,’ he replied. ‘I
believe I have been very rude; but really Miss Fairfax has
done her hair in so odd a way—so very odd a way—that I
cannot keep my eyes from her. I never saw any thing so
outree!—Those curls!—This must be a fancy of her own. I
see nobody else looking like her!— I must go and ask her
whether it is an Irish fashion. Shall I?— Yes, I will—I
declare I will—and you shall see how she takes it;—
whether she colours.’
He was gone immediately; and Emma soon saw him
standing before Miss Fairfax, and talking to her; but as to
its effect on the young lady, as he had improvidently
placed himself exactly between them, exactly in front of
Miss Fairfax, she could absolutely distinguish nothing.
Before he could return to his chair, it was taken by
Mrs. Weston.
‘This is the luxury of a large party,’ said she:—‘one can
get near every body, and say every thing. My dear Emma,
I am longing to talk to you. I have been making
discoveries and forming plans, just like yourself, and I must

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tell them while the idea is fresh. Do you know how Miss
Bates and her niece came here?’
‘How?—They were invited, were not they?’
‘Oh! yes—but how they were conveyed hither?—the
manner of their coming?’
‘They walked, I conclude. How else could they come?’
‘Very true.—Well, a little while ago it occurred to me
how very sad it would be to have Jane Fairfax walking
home again, late at night, and cold as the nights are now.
And as I looked at her, though I never saw her appear to
more advantage, it struck me that she was heated, and
would therefore be particularly liable to take cold. Poor
girl! I could not bear the idea of it; so, as soon as Mr.
Weston came into the room, and I could get at him, I
spoke to him about the carriage. You may guess how
readily he came into my wishes; and having his
approbation, I made my way directly to Miss Bates, to
assure her that the carriage would be at her service before
it took us home; for I thought it would be making her
comfortable at once. Good soul! she was as grateful as
possible, you may be sure. ‘Nobody was ever so fortunate
as herself!’—but with many, many thanks—‘there was no
occasion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had
brought, and was to take them home again.’ I was quite
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surprized;—very glad, I am sure; but really quite surprized.
Such a very kind attention—and so thoughtful an
attention!— the sort of thing that so few men would think
of. And, in short, from knowing his usual ways, I am very
much inclined to think that it was for their
accommodation the carriage was used at all. I do suspect
he would not have had a pair of horses for himself, and
that it was only as an excuse for assisting them.’
‘Very likely,’ said Emma—‘nothing more likely. I
know no man more likely than Mr. Knightley to do the
sort of thing—to do any thing really good-natured, useful,
considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he
is a very humane one; and this, considering Jane Fairfax’s
ill-health, would appear a case of humanity to him;—and
for an act of unostentatious kindness, there is nobody
whom I would fix on more than on Mr. Knightley. I
know he had horses to-day—for we arrived together; and
I laughed at him about it, but he said not a word that
could betray.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, smiling, ‘you give him credit
for more simple, disinterested benevolence in this instance
than I do; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion
darted into my head, and I have never been able to get it
out again. The more I think of it, the more probable it
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appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr.
Knightley and Jane Fairfax. See the consequence of
keeping you company!—What do you say to it?’
‘Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘Dear Mrs. Weston, how could you think of such a
thing?—Mr. Knightley!—Mr. Knightley must not
marry!—You would not have little Henry cut out from
Donwell?— Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I
cannot at all consent to Mr. Knightley’s marrying; and I
am sure it is not at all likely. I am amazed that you should
think of such a thing.’
‘My dear Emma, I have told you what led me to think
of it. I do not want the match—I do not want to injure
dear little Henry— but the idea has been given me by
circumstances; and if Mr. Knightley really wished to
marry, you would not have him refrain on Henry’s
account, a boy of six years old, who knows nothing of the
matter?’
‘Yes, I would. I could not bear to have Henry
supplanted.— Mr. Knightley marry!—No, I have never
had such an idea, and I cannot adopt it now. And Jane
Fairfax, too, of all women!’
‘Nay, she has always been a first favourite with him, as
you very well know.’
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‘But the imprudence of such a match!’
‘I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its
probability.’
‘I see no probability in it, unless you have any better
foundation than what you mention. His good-nature, his
humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to account
for the horses. He has a great regard for the Bateses, you
know, independent of Jane Fairfax— and is always glad to
shew them attention. My dear Mrs. Weston, do not take
to match-making. You do it very ill. Jane Fairfax mistress
of the Abbey!—Oh! no, no;—every feeling revolts. For
his own sake, I would not have him do so mad a thing.’
‘Imprudent, if you please—but not mad. Excepting
inequality of fortune, and perhaps a little disparity of age, I
can see nothing unsuitable.’
‘But Mr. Knightley does not want to marry. I am sure
he has not the least idea of it. Do not put it into his head.
Why should he marry?— He is as happy as possible by
himself; with his farm, and his sheep, and his library, and
all the parish to manage; and he is extremely fond of his
brother’s children. He has no occasion to marry, either to
fill up his time or his heart.’
‘My dear Emma, as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if
he really loves Jane Fairfax—‘
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‘Nonsense! He does not care about Jane Fairfax. In the
way of love, I am sure he does not. He would do any
good to her, or her family; but—‘
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Weston, laughing, ‘perhaps the
greatest good he could do them, would be to give Jane
such a respectable home.’
‘If it would be good to her, I am sure it would be evil
to himself; a very shameful and degrading connexion.
How would he bear to have Miss Bates belonging to
him?—To have her haunting the Abbey, and thanking
him all day long for his great kindness in marrying Jane?—
‘So very kind and obliging!—But he always had been such
a very kind neighbour!’ And then fly off, through half a
sentence, to her mother’s old petticoat. ‘Not that it was
such a very old petticoat either—for still it would last a
great while—and, indeed, she must thankfully say that
their petticoats were all very strong.’’
‘For shame, Emma! Do not mimic her. You divert me
against my conscience. And, upon my word, I do not
think Mr. Knightley would be much disturbed by Miss
Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She might talk on;
and if he wanted to say any thing himself, he would only
talk louder, and drown her voice. But the question is not,
whether it would be a bad connexion for him, but
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whether he wishes it; and I think he does. I have heard
him speak, and so must you, so very highly of Jane Fairfax!
The interest he takes in her— his anxiety about her
health—his concern that she should have no happier
prospect! I have heard him express himself so warmly on
those points!—Such an admirer of her performance on the
pianoforte, and of her voice! I have heard him say that he
could listen to her for ever. Oh! and I had almost
forgotten one idea that occurred to me—this pianoforte
that has been sent here by somebody— though we have
all been so well satisfied to consider it a present from the
Campbells, may it not be from Mr. Knightley? I cannot
help suspecting him. I think he is just the person to do it,
even without being in love.’
‘Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in
love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to
do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously.’
‘I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument
repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a
circumstance would, in the common course of things,
occur to him.’
‘Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he
would have told her so.’

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‘There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I
have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am
sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it
at dinner.’
‘You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with
it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I
see no sign of attachment— I believe nothing of the
pianoforte—and proof only shall convince me that Mr.
Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax.’
They combated the point some time longer in the same
way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her
friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to
yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea
was over, and the instrument in preparation;— and at the
same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss
Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank
Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation
with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except
that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr.
Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every
respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very
proper compliance.
She knew the limitations of her own powers too well
to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she
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wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are
generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice
well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably
by surprize—a second, slightly but correctly taken by
Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close
of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was
accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect
knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that
he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all,
roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and
Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose
performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could
attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to
her own.
With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little
distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen.
Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once
or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr.
Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half
Emma’s mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the
subject of Mrs. Weston’s suspicions, to which the sweet
sounds of the united voices gave only momentary
interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley’s marrying
did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil
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in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John
Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the
children—a most mortifying change, and material loss to
them all;—a very great deduction from her father’s daily
comfort—and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the
idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley
for them all to give way to!—No—Mr. Knightley must
never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of
Donwell.
Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat
down by her. They talked at first only of the performance.
His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought,
but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a
sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his
kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his
answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she
believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on
any kindness of his own.
‘I often feel concern,’ said she, ‘that I dare not make
our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I
am without the wish; but you know how impossible my
father would deem it that James should put-to for such a
purpose.’

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‘Quite out of the question, quite out of the question,’
he replied;— ‘but you must often wish it, I am sure.’ And
he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction,
that she must proceed another step.
‘This present from the Campbells,’ said she—‘this
pianoforte is very kindly given.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, and without the smallest apparent
embarrassment.— ‘But they would have done better had
they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things.
The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is
often considerable. I should have expected better
judgment in Colonel Campbell.’
From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath
that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the
instrument. But whether he were entirely free from
peculiar attachment—whether there were no actual
preference—remained a little longer doubtful. Towards
the end of Jane’s second song, her voice grew thick.
‘That will do,’ said he, when it was finished, thinking
aloud— ‘you have sung quite enough for one evening—
now be quiet.’
Another song, however, was soon begged for. ‘One
more;—they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any
account, and would only ask for one more.’ And Frank
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Churchill was heard to say, ‘I think you could manage this
without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength
of the song falls on the second.’
Mr. Knightley grew angry.
‘That fellow,’ said he, indignantly, ‘thinks of nothing
but shewing off his own voice. This must not be.’ And
touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near—
‘Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself
hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no
mercy on her.’
Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly
stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put
an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part
of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax
were the only young lady performers; but soon (within
five minutes) the proposal of dancing— originating
nobody exactly knew where—was so effectually promoted
by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly
clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital
in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an
irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with
most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand,
and led her up to the top.

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While waiting till the other young people could pair
themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the
compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste,
to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley.
This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he
were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it
might augur something. There was no immediate
appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole— he was
looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody
else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest
was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit
and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be
mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it
very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a
partner. They were a couple worth looking at.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be
allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became
anxious to get home, on her mother’s account. After some
attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they
were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and
have done.
‘Perhaps it is as well,’ said Frank Churchill, as he
attended Emma to her carriage. ‘I must have asked Miss
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Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed
with me, after your’s.’

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Chapter IX
Emma did not repent her condescension in going to
the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant
recollections the next day; and all that she might be
supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion,
must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She
must have delighted the Coles—worthy people, who
deserved to be made happy!—And left a name behind her
that would not soon die away.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common;
and there were two points on which she was not quite
easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the
duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of
Jane Fairfax’s feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly
right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would
escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a
compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for
her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her
tongue.
The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane
Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly
and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own

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playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the
idleness of her childhood—and sat down and practised
vigorously an hour and a half.
She was then interrupted by Harriet’s coming in; and if
Harriet’s praise could have satisfied her, she might soon
have been comforted.
‘Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!’
‘Don’t class us together, Harriet. My playing is no
more like her’s, than a lamp is like sunshine.’
‘Oh! dear—I think you play the best of the two. I think
you play quite as well as she does. I am sure I had much
rather hear you. Every body last night said how well you
played.’
‘Those who knew any thing about it, must have felt
the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my playing is just
good enough to be praised, but Jane Fairfax’s is much
beyond it.’
‘Well, I always shall think that you play quite as well as
she does, or that if there is any difference nobody would
ever find it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had;
and Mr. Frank Churchill talked a great deal about your
taste, and that he valued taste much more than execution.’
‘Ah! but Jane Fairfax has them both, Harriet.’

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‘Are you sure? I saw she had execution, but I did not
know she had any taste. Nobody talked about it. And I
hate Italian singing.— There is no understanding a word
of it. Besides, if she does play so very well, you know, it is
no more than she is obliged to do, because she will have
to teach. The Coxes were wondering last night whether
she would get into any great family. How did you think
the Coxes looked?’
‘Just as they always do—very vulgar.’
‘They told me something,’ said Harriet rather
hesitatingly;’ but it is nothing of any consequence.’
Emma was obliged to ask what they had told her,
though fearful of its producing Mr. Elton.
‘They told me—-that Mr. Martin dined with them last
Saturday.’
‘Oh!’
‘He came to their father upon some business, and he
asked him to stay to dinner.’
‘Oh!’
‘They talked a great deal about him, especially Anne
Cox. I do not know what she meant, but she asked me if I
thought I should go and stay there again next summer.’
‘She meant to be impertinently curious, just as such an
Anne Cox should be.’
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‘She said he was very agreeable the day he dined there.
He sat by her at dinner. Miss Nash thinks either of the
Coxes would be very glad to marry him.’
‘Very likely.—I think they are, without exception, the
most vulgar girls in Highbury.’
Harriet had business at Ford’s.—Emma thought it most
prudent to go with her. Another accidental meeting with
the Martins was possible, and in her present state, would
be dangerous.
Harriet, tempted by every thing and swayed by half a
word, was always very long at a purchase; and while she
was still hanging over muslins and changing her mind,
Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could
not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of
Highbury;— Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William
Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s
carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letterboy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she
could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on
the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling
homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs
quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling
children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the
gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and
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was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the
door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing
nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.
She looked down the Randalls road. The scene
enlarged; two persons appeared; Mrs. Weston and her sonin-law; they were walking into Highbury;—to Hartfield of
course. They were stopping, however, in the first place at
Mrs. Bates’s; whose house was a little nearer Randalls than
Ford’s; and had all but knocked, when Emma caught their
eye.—Immediately they crossed the road and came
forward to her; and the agreeableness of yesterday’s
engagement seemed to give fresh pleasure to the present
meeting. Mrs. Weston informed her that she was going to
call on the Bateses, in order to hear the new instrument.
‘For my companion tells me,’ said she, ‘that I absolutely
promised Miss Bates last night, that I would come this
morning. I was not aware of it myself. I did not know that
I had fixed a day, but as he says I did, I am going now.’
‘And while Mrs. Weston pays her visit, I may be
allowed, I hope,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘to join your party
and wait for her at Hartfield— if you are going home.’
Mrs. Weston was disappointed.
‘I thought you meant to go with me. They would be
very much pleased.’
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‘Me! I should be quite in the way. But, perhaps—I may
be equally in the way here. Miss Woodhouse looks as if
she did not want me. My aunt always sends me off when
she is shopping. She says I fidget her to death; and Miss
Woodhouse looks as if she could almost say the same.
What am I to do?’
‘I am here on no business of my own,’ said Emma; ‘I
am only waiting for my friend. She will probably have
soon done, and then we shall go home. But you had
better go with Mrs. Weston and hear the instrument.’
‘Well—if you advise it.—But (with a smile) if Colonel
Campbell should have employed a careless friend, and if it
should prove to have an indifferent tone—what shall I say?
I shall be no support to Mrs. Weston. She might do very
well by herself. A disagreeable truth would be palatable
through her lips, but I am the wretchedest being in the
world at a civil falsehood.’
‘I do not believe any such thing,’ replied Emma.—‘I
am persuaded that you can be as insincere as your
neighbours, when it is necessary; but there is no reason to
suppose the instrument is indifferent. Quite otherwise
indeed, if I understood Miss Fairfax’s opinion last night.’
‘Do come with me,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if it be not
very disagreeable to you. It need not detain us long. We
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will go to Hartfield afterwards. We will follow them to
Hartfield. I really wish you to call with me. It will be felt
so great an attention! and I always thought you meant it.’
He could say no more; and with the hope of Hartfield
to reward him, returned with Mrs. Weston to Mrs. Bates’s
door. Emma watched them in, and then joined Harriet at
the interesting counter,—trying, with all the force of her
own mind, to convince her that if she wanted plain muslin
it was of no use to look at figured; and that a blue ribbon,
be it ever so beautiful, would still never match her yellow
pattern. At last it was all settled, even to the destination of
the parcel.
‘Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard’s, ma’am?’ asked
Mrs. Ford.— ‘Yes—no—yes, to Mrs. Goddard’s. Only my
pattern gown is at Hartfield. No, you shall send it to
Hartfield, if you please. But then, Mrs. Goddard will want
to see it.—And I could take the pattern gown home any
day. But I shall want the ribbon directly— so it had better
go to Hartfield—at least the ribbon. You could make it
into two parcels, Mrs. Ford, could not you?’
‘It is not worth while, Harriet, to give Mrs. Ford the
trouble of two parcels.’
‘No more it is.’

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‘No trouble in the world, ma’am,’ said the obliging
Mrs. Ford.
‘Oh! but indeed I would much rather have it only in
one. Then, if you please, you shall send it all to Mrs.
Goddard’s— I do not know—No, I think, Miss
Woodhouse, I may just as well have it sent to Hartfield,
and take it home with me at night. What do you advise?’
‘That you do not give another half-second to the
subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford.’
‘Aye, that will be much best,’ said Harriet, quite
satisfied, ‘I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs.
Goddard’s.’
Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and
two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the
door.
‘My dear Miss Woodhouse,’ said the latter, ‘I am just
run across to entreat the favour of you to come and sit
down with us a little while, and give us your opinion of
our new instrument; you and Miss Smith. How do you
do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged
Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of
succeeding.’
‘I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—‘

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‘Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is
delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How
is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good
account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.— Oh!
then, said I, I must run across, I am sure Miss Woodhouse
will allow me just to run across and entreat her to come
in; my mother will be so very happy to see her—and now
we are such a nice party, she cannot refuse.—‘Aye, pray
do,’ said Mr. Frank Churchill, ‘Miss Woodhouse’s opinion
of the instrument will be worth having.’— But, said I, I
shall be more sure of succeeding if one of you will go with
me.—‘Oh,’ said he, ‘wait half a minute, till I have finished
my job;’—For, would you believe it, Miss Woodhouse,
there he is, in the most obliging manner in the world,
fastening in the rivet of my mother’s spectacles.—The
rivet came out, you know, this morning.— So very
obliging!—For my mother had no use of her spectacles—
could not put them on. And, by the bye, every body
ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed.
Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders
the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me
all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no
saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she
thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said
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I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is
the rivet of your mistress’s spectacles out. Then the baked
apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they
are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises,
always—I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can
be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never
known any thing but the greatest attention from them.
And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for
what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three
of us.— besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats
nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be
quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother
know how little she eats—so I say one thing and then I
say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the
day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well
as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome,
for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr.
Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I
had any doubt before— I have so often heard Mr.
Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the
only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly
wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very
often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well,

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Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies
will oblige us.’
Emma would be ‘very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates,
&c.,’ and they did at last move out of the shop, with no
farther delay from Miss Bates than,
‘How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did
not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection
of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted
yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little
too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in.’
‘What was I talking of?’ said she, beginning again when
they were all in the street.
Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would
fix.
‘I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—
Oh! my mother’s spectacles. So very obliging of Mr.
Frank Churchill! ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I do think I can fasten the
rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively.’—Which you
know shewed him to be so very…. Indeed I must say that,
much as I had heard of him before and much as I had
expected, he very far exceeds any thing…. I do
congratulate you, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems
every thing the fondest parent could…. ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I
can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.’ I
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never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the
baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would
be so very obliging as to take some, ‘Oh!’ said he directly,
‘there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these
are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my
life.’ That, you know, was so very…. And I am sure, by
his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed they are very
delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—
only we do not have them baked more than twice, and
Mr. Woodhouse made us promise to have them done
three times— but Miss Woodhouse will be so good as not
to mention it. The apples themselves are the very finest
sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some
of Mr. Knightley’s most liberal supply. He sends us a sack
every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping
apple anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two
of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous
in her younger days. But I was really quite shocked the
other day— for Mr. Knightley called one morning, and
Jane was eating these apples, and we talked about them
and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked
whether we were not got to the end of our stock. ‘I am
sure you must be,’ said he, ‘and I will send you another
supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use.
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William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual
this year. I will send you some more, before they get good
for nothing.’ So I begged he would not—for really as to
ours being gone, I could not absolutely say that we had a
great many left—it was but half a dozen indeed; but they
should be all kept for Jane; and I could not at all bear that
he should be sending us more, so liberal as he had been
already; and Jane said the same. And when he was gone,
she almost quarrelled with me—No, I should not say
quarrelled, for we never had a quarrel in our lives; but she
was quite distressed that I had owned the apples were so
nearly gone; she wished I had made him believe we had a
great many left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I
could. However, the very same evening William Larkins
came over with a large basket of apples, the same sort of
apples, a bushel at least, and I was very much obliged, and
went down and spoke to William Larkins and said every
thing, as you may suppose. William Larkins is such an old
acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. But, however, I
found afterwards from Patty, that William said it was all
the apples of that sort his master had; he had brought them
all—and now his master had not one left to bake or boil.
William did not seem to mind it himself, he was so pleased
to think his master had sold so many; for William, you
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know, thinks more of his master’s profit than any thing;
but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased at their
being all sent away. She could not bear that her master
should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring.
He told Patty this, but bid her not mind it, and be sure
not to say any thing to us about it, for Mrs. Hodges would
be cross sometimes, and as long as so many sacks were
sold, it did not signify who ate the remainder. And so
Patty told me, and I was excessively shocked indeed! I
would not have Mr. Knightley know any thing about it
for the world! He would be so very…. I wanted to keep it
from Jane’s knowledge; but, unluckily, I had mentioned it
before I was aware.’
Miss Bates had just done as Patty opened the door; and
her visitors walked upstairs without having any regular
narration to attend to, pursued only by the sounds of her
desultory good-will.
‘Pray take care, Mrs. Weston, there is a step at the
turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a
dark staircase— rather darker and narrower than one could
wish. Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am
quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith,
the step at the turning.’

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Chapter X
The appearance of the little sitting-room as they
entered, was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her
usual employment, slumbering on one side of the fire,
Frank Churchill, at a table near her, most deedily occupied
about her spectacles, and Jane Fairfax, standing with her
back to them, intent on her pianoforte.
Busy as he was, however, the young man was yet able
to shew a most happy countenance on seeing Emma again.
‘This is a pleasure,’ said he, in rather a low voice,
‘coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated.
You find me trying to be useful; tell me if you think I
shall succeed.’
‘What!’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘have not you finished it
yet? you would not earn a very good livelihood as a
working silversmith at this rate.’
‘I have not been working uninterruptedly,’ he replied,
‘I have been assisting Miss Fairfax in trying to make her
instrument stand steadily, it was not quite firm; an
unevenness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been
wedging one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to

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be persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would be
hurrying home.’
He contrived that she should be seated by him; and was
sufficiently employed in looking out the best baked apple
for her, and trying to make her help or advise him in his
work, till Jane Fairfax was quite ready to sit down to the
pianoforte again. That she was not immediately ready,
Emma did suspect to arise from the state of her nerves; she
had not yet possessed the instrument long enough to
touch it without emotion; she must reason herself into the
power of performance; and Emma could not but pity such
feelings, whatever their origin, and could not but resolve
never to expose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were feebly
given, the powers of the instrument were gradually done
full justice to. Mrs. Weston had been delighted before, and
was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and
the pianoforte, with every proper discrimination, was
pronounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
‘Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,’ said
Frank Churchill, with a smile at Emma, ‘the person has
not chosen ill. I heard a good deal of Colonel Campbell’s
taste at Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I
am sure is exactly what he and all that party would
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particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that he either
gave his friend very minute directions, or wrote to
Broadwood himself. Do not you think so?’
Jane did not look round. She was not obliged to hear.
Mrs. Weston had been speaking to her at the same
moment.
‘It is not fair,’ said Emma, in a whisper; ‘mine was a
random guess. Do not distress her.’
He shook his head with a smile, and looked as if he had
very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon afterwards he
began again,
‘How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying
your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. I dare say
they often think of you, and wonder which will be the
day, the precise day of the instrument’s coming to hand.
Do you imagine Colonel Campbell knows the business to
be going forward just at this time?—Do you imagine it to
be the consequence of an immediate commission from
him, or that he may have sent only a general direction, an
order indefinite as to time, to depend upon contingencies
and conveniences?’
He paused. She could not but hear; she could not avoid
answering,

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‘Till I have a letter from Colonel Campbell,’ said she,
in a voice of forced calmness, ‘I can imagine nothing with
any confidence. It must be all conjecture.’
‘Conjecture—aye, sometimes one conjectures right,
and sometimes one conjectures wrong. I wish I could
conjecture how soon I shall make this rivet quite firm.
What nonsense one talks, Miss Woodhouse, when hard at
work, if one talks at all;—your real workmen, I suppose,
hold their tongues; but we gentlemen labourers if we get
hold of a word—Miss Fairfax said something about
conjecturing. There, it is done. I have the pleasure,
madam, (to Mrs. Bates,) of restoring your spectacles,
healed for the present.’
He was very warmly thanked both by mother and
daughter; to escape a little from the latter, he went to the
pianoforte, and begged Miss Fairfax, who was still sitting
at it, to play something more.
‘If you are very kind,’ said he, ‘it will be one of the
waltzes we danced last night;—let me live them over
again. You did not enjoy them as I did; you appeared tired
the whole time. I believe you were glad we danced no
longer; but I would have given worlds— all the worlds
one ever has to give—for another half-hour.’
She played.
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‘What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made
one happy!— If I mistake not that was danced at
Weymouth.’
She looked up at him for a moment, coloured deeply,
and played something else. He took some music from a
chair near the pianoforte, and turning to Emma, said,
‘Here is something quite new to me. Do you know
it?—Cramer.— And here are a new set of Irish melodies.
That, from such a quarter, one might expect. This was all
sent with the instrument. Very thoughtful of Colonel
Campbell, was not it?—He knew Miss Fairfax could have
no music here. I honour that part of the attention
particularly; it shews it to have been so thoroughly from
the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. True
affection only could have prompted it.’
Emma wished he would be less pointed, yet could not
help being amused; and when on glancing her eye towards
Jane Fairfax she caught the remains of a smile, when she
saw that with all the deep blush of consciousness, there
had been a smile of secret delight, she had less scruple in
the amusement, and much less compunction with respect
to her.—This amiable, upright, perfect Jane Fairfax was
apparently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.

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He brought all the music to her, and they looked it
over together.— Emma took the opportunity of
whispering,
‘You speak too plain. She must understand you.’
‘I hope she does. I would have her understand me. I
am not in the least ashamed of my meaning.’
‘But really, I am half ashamed, and wish I had never
taken up the idea.’
‘I am very glad you did, and that you communicated it
to me. I have now a key to all her odd looks and ways.
Leave shame to her. If she does wrong, she ought to feel
it.’
‘She is not entirely without it, I think.’
‘I do not see much sign of it. She is playing Robin
Adair at this moment—his favourite.’
Shortly afterwards Miss Bates, passing near the window,
descried Mr. Knightley on horse-back not far off.
‘Mr. Knightley I declare!—I must speak to him if
possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window
here; it would give you all cold; but I can go into my
mother’s room you know. I dare say he will come in
when he knows who is here. Quite delightful to have you
all meet so!—Our little room so honoured!’

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She was in the adjoining chamber while she still spoke,
and opening the casement there, immediately called Mr.
Knightley’s attention, and every syllable of their
conversation was as distinctly heard by the others, as if it
had passed within the same apartment.
‘How d’ ye do?—how d’ye do?—Very well, I thank
you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night. We
were just in time; my mother just ready for us. Pray come
in; do come in. You will find some friends here.’
So began Miss Bates; and Mr. Knightley seemed
determined to be heard in his turn, for most resolutely and
commandingly did he say,
‘How is your niece, Miss Bates?—I want to inquire
after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss
Fairfax?—I hope she caught no cold last night. How is she
to-day? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.’
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer
before he would hear her in any thing else. The listeners
were amused; and Mrs. Weston gave Emma a look of
particular meaning. But Emma still shook her head in
steady scepticism.
‘So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for
the carriage,’ resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with,
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‘I am going to Kingston. Can I do anything for you?’
‘Oh! dear, Kingston—are you?—Mrs. Cole was saying
the other day she wanted something from Kingston.’
‘Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for
you?’
‘No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think
is here?— Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith; so kind as to
call to hear the new pianoforte. Do put up your horse at
the Crown, and come in.’
‘Well,’ said he, in a deliberating manner, ‘for five
minutes, perhaps.’
‘And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill
too!—Quite delightful; so many friends!’
‘No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two
minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.’
‘Oh! do come in. They will be so very happy to see
you.’
‘No, no; your room is full enough. I will call another
day, and hear the pianoforte.’
‘Well, I am so sorry!—Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a
delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did
you ever see such dancing?— Was not it delightful?—Miss
Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any
thing equal to it.’
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‘Oh! very delightful indeed; I can say nothing less, for I
suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are
hearing every thing that passes. And (raising his voice still
more) I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be
mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and
Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player,
without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have
any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about
you and me in return; but I cannot stay to hear it.’
‘Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more; something of
consequence— so shocked!—Jane and I are both so
shocked about the apples!’
‘What is the matter now?’
‘To think of your sending us all your store apples. You
said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.
We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry.
William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have
done it, indeed you should not. Ah! he is off. He never
can bear to be thanked. But I thought he would have staid
now, and it would have been a pity not to have
mentioned…. Well, (returning to the room,) I have not
been able to succeed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is
going to Kingston. He asked me if he could do any
thing….’
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‘Yes,’ said Jane, ‘we heard his kind offers, we heard
every thing.’
‘Oh! yes, my dear, I dare say you might, because you
know, the door was open, and the window was open, and
Mr. Knightley spoke loud. You must have heard every
thing to be sure. ‘Can I do any thing for you at Kingston?’
said he; so I just mentioned…. Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
must you be going?—You seem but just come—so very
obliging of you.’
Emma found it really time to be at home; the visit had
already lasted long; and on examining watches, so much of
the morning was perceived to be gone, that Mrs. Weston
and her companion taking leave also, could allow
themselves only to walk with the two young ladies to
Hartfield gates, before they set off for Randalls.

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Chapter XI
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely.
Instances have been known of young people passing
many, many months successively, without being at any
ball of any description, and no material injury accrue
either to body or mind;—but when a beginning is made—
when the felicities of rapid motion have once been,
though slightly, felt—it must be a very heavy set that does
not ask for more.
Frank Churchill had danced once at Highbury, and
longed to dance again; and the last half-hour of an evening
which Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to spend with his
daughter at Randalls, was passed by the two young people
in schemes on the subject. Frank’s was the first idea; and
his the greatest zeal in pursuing it; for the lady was the best
judge of the difficulties, and the most solicitous for
accommodation and appearance. But still she had
inclination enough for shewing people again how
delightfully Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
danced—for doing that in which she need not blush to
compare herself with Jane Fairfax—and even for simple
dancing itself, without any of the wicked aids of vanity—

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to assist him first in pacing out the room they were in to
see what it could be made to hold—and then in taking the
dimensions of the other parlour, in the hope of
discovering, in spite of all that Mr. Weston could say of
their exactly equal size, that it was a little the largest.
His first proposition and request, that the dance begun
at Mr. Cole’s should be finished there—that the same
party should be collected, and the same musician engaged,
met with the readiest acquiescence. Mr. Weston entered
into the idea with thorough enjoyment, and Mrs. Weston
most willingly undertook to play as long as they could
wish to dance; and the interesting employment had
followed, of reckoning up exactly who there would be,
and portioning out the indispensable division of space to
every couple.
‘You and Miss Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three,
and the two Miss Coxes five,’ had been repeated many
times over. ‘And there will be the two Gilberts, young
Cox, my father, and myself, besides Mr. Knightley. Yes,
that will be quite enough for pleasure. You and Miss
Smith, and Miss Fairfax, will be three, and the two Miss
Coxes five; and for five couple there will be plenty of
room.’
But soon it came to be on one side,
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‘But will there be good room for five couple?—I really
do not think there will.’
On another,
‘And after all, five couple are not enough to make it
worth while to stand up. Five couple are nothing, when
one thinks seriously about it. It will not do to invite five
couple. It can be allowable only as the thought of the
moment.’
Somebody said that Miss Gilbert was expected at her
brother’s, and must be invited with the rest. Somebody
else believed Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other
evening, if she had been asked. A word was put in for a
second young Cox; and at last, Mr. Weston naming one
family of cousins who must be included, and another of
very old acquaintance who could not be left out, it
became a certainty that the five couple would be at least
ten, and a very interesting speculation in what possible
manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each
other. ‘Might not they use both rooms, and dance across
the passage?’ It seemed the best scheme; and yet it was not
so good but that many of them wanted a better. Emma
said it would be awkward; Mrs. Weston was in distress
about the supper; and Mr. Woodhouse opposed it
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earnestly, on the score of health. It made him so very
unhappy, indeed, that it could not be persevered in.
‘Oh! no,’ said he; ‘it would be the extreme of
imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not
strong. She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor
little Harriet. So you would all. Mrs. Weston, you would
be quite laid up; do not let them talk of such a wild thing.
Pray do not let them talk of it. That young man (speaking
lower) is very thoughtless. Do not tell his father, but that
young man is not quite the thing. He has been opening
the doors very often this evening, and keeping them open
very inconsiderately. He does not think of the draught. I
do not mean to set you against him, but indeed he is not
quite the thing!’
Mrs. Weston was sorry for such a charge. She knew the
importance of it, and said every thing in her power to do
it away. Every door was now closed, the passage plan
given up, and the first scheme of dancing only in the room
they were in resorted to again; and with such good-will
on Frank Churchill’s part, that the space which a quarter
of an hour before had been deemed barely sufficient for
five couple, was now endeavoured to be made out quite
enough for ten.

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‘We were too magnificent,’ said he. ‘We allowed
unnecessary room. Ten couple may stand here very well.’
Emma demurred. ‘It would be a crowd—a sad crowd;
and what could be worse than dancing without space to
turn in?’
‘Very true,’ he gravely replied; ‘it was very bad.’ But
still he went on measuring, and still he ended with,
‘I think there will be very tolerable room for ten
couple.’
‘No, no,’ said she, ‘you are quite unreasonable. It
would be dreadful to be standing so close! Nothing can be
farther from pleasure than to be dancing in a crowd—and
a crowd in a little room!’
‘There is no denying it,’ he replied. ‘I agree with you
exactly. A crowd in a little room—Miss Woodhouse, you
have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite,
quite exquisite!—Still, however, having proceeded so far,
one is unwilling to give the matter up. It would be a
disappointment to my father—and altogether—I do not
know that—I am rather of opinion that ten couple might
stand here very well.’
Emma perceived that the nature of his gallantry was a
little self-willed, and that he would rather oppose than lose
the pleasure of dancing with her; but she took the
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compliment, and forgave the rest. Had she intended ever
to marry him, it might have been worth while to pause
and consider, and try to understand the value of his
preference, and the character of his temper; but for all the
purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite amiable
enough.
Before the middle of the next day, he was at Hartfield;
and he entered the room with such an agreeable smile as
certified the continuance of the scheme. It soon appeared
that he came to announce an improvement.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ he almost immediately
began, ‘your inclination for dancing has not been quite
frightened away, I hope, by the terrors of my father’s little
rooms. I bring a new proposal on the subject:—a thought
of my father’s, which waits only your approbation to be
acted upon. May I hope for the honour of your hand for
the two first dances of this little projected ball, to be given,
not at Randalls, but at the Crown Inn?’
‘The Crown!’
‘Yes; if you and Mr. Woodhouse see no objection, and
I trust you cannot, my father hopes his friends will be so
kind as to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can
promise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at
Randalls. It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no
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objection to it, provided you are satisfied. This is what we
all feel. Oh! you were perfectly right! Ten couple, in
either of the Randalls rooms, would have been
insufferable!—Dreadful!—I felt how right you were the
whole time, but was too anxious for securing any thing to
like to yield. Is not it a good exchange?—You consent— I
hope you consent?’
‘It appears to me a plan that nobody can object to, if
Mr. and Mrs. Weston do not. I think it admirable; and, as
far as I can answer for myself, shall be most happy—It
seems the only improvement that could be. Papa, do you
not think it an excellent improvement?’
She was obliged to repeat and explain it, before it was
fully comprehended; and then, being quite new, farther
representations were necessary to make it acceptable.
‘No; he thought it very far from an improvement—a
very bad plan— much worse than the other. A room at an
inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly aired,
or fit to be inhabited. If they must dance, they had better
dance at Randalls. He had never been in the room at the
Crown in his life—did not know the people who kept it
by sight.—Oh! no—a very bad plan. They would catch
worse colds at the Crown than anywhere.’

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‘I was going to observe, sir,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘that
one of the great recommendations of this change would
be the very little danger of any body’s catching cold— so
much less danger at the Crown than at Randalls! Mr.
Perry might have reason to regret the alteration, but
nobody else could.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Woodhouse, rather warmly, ‘you are
very much mistaken if you suppose Mr. Perry to be that
sort of character. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when
any of us are ill. But I do not understand how the room at
the Crown can be safer for you than your father’s house.’
‘From the very circumstance of its being larger, sir. We
shall have no occasion to open the windows at all—not
once the whole evening; and it is that dreadful habit of
opening the windows, letting in cold air upon heated
bodies, which (as you well know, sir) does the mischief.’
‘Open the windows!—but surely, Mr. Churchill,
nobody would think of opening the windows at Randalls.
Nobody could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a
thing. Dancing with open windows!—I am sure, neither
your father nor Mrs. Weston (poor Miss Taylor that was)
would suffer it.’
‘Ah! sir—but a thoughtless young person will
sometimes step behind a window-curtain, and throw up a
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sash, without its being suspected. I have often known it
done myself.’
‘Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have
supposed it. But I live out of the world, and am often
astonished at what I hear. However, this does make a
difference; and, perhaps, when we come to talk it over—
but these sort of things require a good deal of
consideration. One cannot resolve upon them in a hurry.
If Mr. and Mrs. Weston will be so obliging as to call here
one morning, we may talk it over, and see what can be
done.’
‘But, unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited—‘
‘Oh!’ interrupted Emma, ‘there will be plenty of time
for talking every thing over. There is no hurry at all. If it
can be contrived to be at the Crown, papa, it will be very
convenient for the horses. They will be so near their own
stable.’
‘So they will, my dear. That is a great thing. Not that
James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses
when we can. If I could be sure of the rooms being
thoroughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I
doubt it. I do not know her, even by sight.’

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‘I can answer for every thing of that nature, sir, because
it will be under Mrs. Weston’s care. Mrs. Weston
undertakes to direct the whole.’
‘There, papa!—Now you must be satisfied—Our own
dear Mrs. Weston, who is carefulness itself. Do not you
remember what Mr. Perry said, so many years ago, when I
had the measles? ‘If Miss Taylor undertakes to wrap Miss
Emma up, you need not have any fears, sir.’ How often
have I heard you speak of it as such a compliment to her!’
‘Aye, very true. Mr. Perry did say so. I shall never
forget it. Poor little Emma! You were very bad with the
measles; that is, you would have been very bad, but for
Perry’s great attention. He came four times a day for a
week. He said, from the first, it was a very good sort—
which was our great comfort; but the measles are a
dreadful complaint. I hope whenever poor Isabella’s little
ones have the measles, she will send for Perry.’
‘My father and Mrs. Weston are at the Crown at this
moment,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘examining the capabilities
of the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield,
impatient for your opinion, and hoping you might be
persuaded to join them and give your advice on the spot. I
was desired to say so from both. It would be the greatest

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pleasure to them, if you could allow me to attend you
there. They can do nothing satisfactorily without you.’
Emma was most happy to be called to such a council;
and her father, engaging to think it all over while she was
gone, the two young people set off together without delay
for the Crown. There were Mr. and Mrs. Weston;
delighted to see her and receive her approbation, very
busy and very happy in their different way; she, in some
little distress; and he, finding every thing perfect.
‘Emma,’ said she, ‘this paper is worse than I expected.
Look! in places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the
wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than any thing I
could have imagined.’
‘My dear, you are too particular,’ said her husband.
‘What does all that signify? You will see nothing of it by
candlelight. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight.
We never see any thing of it on our club-nights.’
The ladies here probably exchanged looks which
meant, ‘Men never know when things are dirty or not;’
and the gentlemen perhaps thought each to himself,
‘Women will have their little nonsenses and needless
cares.’
One perplexity, however, arose, which the gentlemen
did not disdain. It regarded a supper-room. At the time of
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the ballroom’s being built, suppers had not been in
question; and a small card-room adjoining, was the only
addition. What was to be done? This card-room would be
wanted as a card-room now; or, if cards were
conveniently voted unnecessary by their four selves, still
was it not too small for any comfortable supper? Another
room of much better size might be secured for the
purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and a
long awkward passage must be gone through to get at it.
This made a difficulty. Mrs. Weston was afraid of draughts
for the young people in that passage; and neither Emma
nor the gentlemen could tolerate the prospect of being
miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper;
merely sandwiches, &c., set out in the little room; but that
was scouted as a wretched suggestion. A private dance,
without sitting down to supper, was pronounced an
infamous fraud upon the rights of men and women; and
Mrs. Weston must not speak of it again. She then took
another line of expediency, and looking into the doubtful
room, observed,
‘I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be
many, you know.’

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And Mr. Weston at the same time, walking briskly
with long steps through the passage, was calling out,
‘You talk a great deal of the length of this passage, my
dear. It is a mere nothing after all; and not the least
draught from the stairs.’
‘I wish,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘one could know which
arrangement our guests in general would like best. To do
what would be most generally pleasing must be our
object—if one could but tell what that would be.’
‘Yes, very true,’ cried Frank, ‘very true. You want your
neighbours’ opinions. I do not wonder at you. If one
could ascertain what the chief of them—the Coles, for
instance. They are not far off. Shall I call upon them? Or
Miss Bates? She is still nearer.— And I do not know
whether Miss Bates is not as likely to understand the
inclinations of the rest of the people as any body. I think
we do want a larger council. Suppose I go and invite Miss
Bates to join us?’
‘Well—if you please,’ said Mrs. Weston rather
hesitating, ‘if you think she will be of any use.’
‘You will get nothing to the purpose from Miss Bates,’
said Emma. ‘She will be all delight and gratitude, but she
will tell you nothing. She will not even listen to your
questions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.’
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‘But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very
fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the
whole family, you know.’
Here Mr. Weston joined them, and on hearing what
was proposed, gave it his decided approbation.
‘Aye, do, Frank.—Go and fetch Miss Bates, and let us
end the matter at once. She will enjoy the scheme, I am
sure; and I do not know a properer person for shewing us
how to do away difficulties. Fetch Miss Bates. We are
growing a little too nice. She is a standing lesson of how
to be happy. But fetch them both. Invite them both.’
‘Both sir! Can the old lady?’ …
‘The old lady! No, the young lady, to be sure. I shall
think you a great blockhead, Frank, if you bring the aunt
without the niece.’
‘Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I did not immediately
recollect. Undoubtedly if you wish it, I will endeavour to
persuade them both.’ And away he ran.
Long before he reappeared, attending the short, neat,
brisk-moving aunt, and her elegant niece,—Mrs. Weston,
like a sweet-tempered woman and a good wife, had
examined the passage again, and found the evils of it much
less than she had supposed before— indeed very trifling;
and here ended the difficulties of decision. All the rest, in
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speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the minor
arrangements of table and chair, lights and music, tea and
supper, made themselves; or were left as mere trifles to be
settled at any time between Mrs. Weston and Mrs.
Stokes.— Every body invited, was certainly to come;
Frank had already written to Enscombe to propose staying
a few days beyond his fortnight, which could not possibly
be refused. And a delightful dance it was to be.
Most cordially, when Miss Bates arrived, did she agree
that it must. As a counsellor she was not wanted; but as an
approver, (a much safer character,) she was truly welcome.
Her approbation, at once general and minute, warm and
incessant, could not but please; and for another half-hour
they were all walking to and fro, between the different
rooms, some suggesting, some attending, and all in happy
enjoyment of the future. The party did not break up
without Emma’s being positively secured for the two first
dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her
overhearing Mr. Weston whisper to his wife, ‘He has
asked her, my dear. That’s right. I knew he would!’

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Chapter XII
One thing only was wanting to make the prospect of
the ball completely satisfactory to Emma—its being fixed
for a day within the granted term of Frank Churchill’s stay
in Surry; for, in spite of Mr. Weston’s confidence, she
could not think it so very impossible that the Churchills
might not allow their nephew to remain a day beyond his
fortnight. But this was not judged feasible. The
preparations must take their time, nothing could be
properly ready till the third week were entered on, and for
a few days they must be planning, proceeding and hoping
in uncertainty—at the risk— in her opinion, the great risk,
of its being all in vain.
Enscombe however was gracious, gracious in fact, if
not in word. His wish of staying longer evidently did not
please; but it was not opposed. All was safe and
prosperous; and as the removal of one solicitude generally
makes way for another, Emma, being now certain of her
ball, began to adopt as the next vexation Mr. Knightley’s
provoking indifference about it. Either because he did not
dance himself, or because the plan had been formed
without his being consulted, he seemed resolved that it

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should not interest him, determined against its exciting
any present curiosity, or affording him any future
amusement. To her voluntary communications Emma
could get no more approving reply, than,
‘Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at
all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I
have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not chuse
pleasures for me.— Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not
refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I
would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins’s
week’s account; much rather, I confess.— Pleasure in
seeing dancing!—not I, indeed—I never look at it— I do
not know who does.—Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue,
must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are
usually thinking of something very different.’
This Emma felt was aimed at her; and it made her quite
angry. It was not in compliment to Jane Fairfax however
that he was so indifferent, or so indignant; he was not
guided by her feelings in reprobating the ball, for she
enjoyed the thought of it to an extraordinary degree. It
made her animated—open hearted— she voluntarily
said;—

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‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, I hope nothing may happen to
prevent the ball. What a disappointment it would be! I do
look forward to it, I own, with very great pleasure.’
It was not to oblige Jane Fairfax therefore that he
would have preferred the society of William Larkins.
No!—she was more and more convinced that Mrs.
Weston was quite mistaken in that surmise. There was a
great deal of friendly and of compassionate attachment on
his side—but no love.
Alas! there was soon no leisure for quarrelling with Mr.
Knightley. Two days of joyful security were immediately
followed by the over-throw of every thing. A letter
arrived from Mr. Churchill to urge his nephew’s instant
return. Mrs. Churchill was unwell— far too unwell to do
without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said
her husband) when writing to her nephew two days
before, though from her usual unwillingness to give pain,
and constant habit of never thinking of herself, she had not
mentioned it; but now she was too ill to trifle, and must
entreat him to set off for Enscombe without delay.
The substance of this letter was forwarded to Emma, in
a note from Mrs. Weston, instantly. As to his going, it was
inevitable. He must be gone within a few hours, though
without feeling any real alarm for his aunt, to lessen his
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repugnance. He knew her illnesses; they never occurred
but for her own convenience.
Mrs. Weston added, ‘that he could only allow himself
time to hurry to Highbury, after breakfast, and take leave
of the few friends there whom he could suppose to feel
any interest in him; and that he might be expected at
Hartfield very soon.’
This wretched note was the finale of Emma’s breakfast.
When once it had been read, there was no doing any
thing, but lament and exclaim. The loss of the ball—the
loss of the young man— and all that the young man might
be feeling!—It was too wretched!— Such a delightful
evening as it would have been!—Every body so happy!
and she and her partner the happiest!—‘I said it would be
so,’ was the only consolation.
Her father’s feelings were quite distinct. He thought
principally of Mrs. Churchill’s illness, and wanted to know
how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to
have dear Emma disappointed; but they would all be safer
at home.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before he
appeared; but if this reflected at all upon his impatience,
his sorrowful look and total want of spirits when he did
come might redeem him. He felt the going away almost
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too much to speak of it. His dejection was most evident.
He sat really lost in thought for the first few minutes; and
when rousing himself, it was only to say,
‘Of all horrid things, leave-taking is the worst.’
‘But you will come again,’ said Emma. ‘This will not
be your only visit to Randalls.’
‘Ah!—(shaking his head)—the uncertainty of when I
may be able to return!—I shall try for it with a zeal!—It
will be the object of all my thoughts and cares!—and if my
uncle and aunt go to town this spring—but I am afraid—
they did not stir last spring— I am afraid it is a custom
gone for ever.’
‘Our poor ball must be quite given up.’
‘Ah! that ball!—why did we wait for any thing?—why
not seize the pleasure at once?—How often is happiness
destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation!—You told
us it would be so.—Oh! Miss Woodhouse, why are you
always so right?’
‘Indeed, I am very sorry to be right in this instance. I
would much rather have been merry than wise.’
‘If I can come again, we are still to have our ball. My
father depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.’
Emma looked graciously.

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‘Such a fortnight as it has been!’ he continued; ‘every
day more precious and more delightful than the day
before!—every day making me less fit to bear any other
place. Happy those, who can remain at Highbury!’
‘As you do us such ample justice now,’ said Emma,
laughing, ‘I will venture to ask, whether you did not come
a little doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your
expectations? I am sure we do. I am sure you did not
much expect to like us. You would not have been so long
in coming, if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury.’
He laughed rather consciously; and though denying the
sentiment, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
‘And you must be off this very morning?’
‘Yes; my father is to join me here: we shall walk back
together, and I must be off immediately. I am almost afraid
that every moment will bring him.’
‘Not five minutes to spare even for your friends Miss
Fairfax and Miss Bates? How unlucky! Miss Bates’s
powerful, argumentative mind might have strengthened
yours.’
‘Yes—I have called there; passing the door, I thought it
better. It was a right thing to do. I went in for three
minutes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent.
She was out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she
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came in. She is a woman that one may, that one must
laugh at; but that one would not wish to slight. It was
better to pay my visit, then’—
He hesitated, got up, walked to a window.
‘In short,’ said he, ‘perhaps, Miss Woodhouse—I think
you can hardly be quite without suspicion’—
He looked at her, as if wanting to read her thoughts.
She hardly knew what to say. It seemed like the
forerunner of something absolutely serious, which she did
not wish. Forcing herself to speak, therefore, in the hope
of putting it by, she calmly said,
‘You are quite in the right; it was most natural to pay
your visit, then’—
He was silent. She believed he was looking at her;
probably reflecting on what she had said, and trying to
understand the manner. She heard him sigh. It was natural
for him to feel that he had cause to sigh. He could not
believe her to be encouraging him. A few awkward
moments passed, and he sat down again; and in a more
determined manner said,
‘It was something to feel that all the rest of my time
might be given to Hartfield. My regard for Hartfield is
most warm’—

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He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite
embarrassed.— He was more in love with her than Emma
had supposed; and who can say how it might have ended,
if his father had not made his appearance? Mr. Woodhouse
soon followed; and the necessity of exertion made him
composed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the
present trial. Mr. Weston, always alert when business was
to be done, and as incapable of procrastinating any evil
that was inevitable, as of foreseeing any that was doubtful,
said, ‘It was time to go;’ and the young man, though he
might and did sigh, could not but agree, to take leave.
‘I shall hear about you all,’ said he; that is my chief
consolation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on
among you. I have engaged Mrs. Weston to correspond
with me. She has been so kind as to promise it. Oh! the
blessing of a female correspondent, when one is really
interested in the absent!—she will tell me every thing. In
her letters I shall be at dear Highbury again.’
A very friendly shake of the hand, a very earnest
‘Good-bye,’ closed the speech, and the door had soon shut
out Frank Churchill. Short had been the notice—short
their meeting; he was gone; and Emma felt so sorry to
part, and foresaw so great a loss to their little society from
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his absence as to begin to be afraid of being too sorry, and
feeling it too much.
It was a sad change. They had been meeting almost
every day since his arrival. Certainly his being at Randalls
had given great spirit to the last two weeks—indescribable
spirit; the idea, the expectation of seeing him which every
morning had brought, the assurance of his attentions, his
liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fortnight,
and forlorn must be the sinking from it into the common
course of Hartfield days. To complete every other
recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved
her. What strength, or what constancy of affection he
might be subject to, was another point; but at present she
could not doubt his having a decidedly warm admiration,
a conscious preference of herself; and this persuasion,
joined to all the rest, made her think that she must be a
little in love with him, in spite of every previous
determination against it.
‘I certainly must,’ said she. ‘This sensation of listlessness,
weariness, stupidity, this disinclination to sit down and
employ myself, this feeling of every thing’s being dull and
insipid about the house!— I must be in love; I should be
the oddest creature in the world if I were not—for a few
weeks at least. Well! evil to some is always good to others.
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I shall have many fellow-mourners for the ball, if not for
Frank Churchill; but Mr. Knightley will be happy. He
may spend the evening with his dear William Larkins now
if he likes.’
Mr. Knightley, however, shewed no triumphant
happiness. He could not say that he was sorry on his own
account; his very cheerful look would have contradicted
him if he had; but he said, and very steadily, that he was
sorry for the disappointment of the others, and with
considerable kindness added,
‘You, Emma, who have so few opportunities of
dancing, you are really out of luck; you are very much out
of luck!’
It was some days before she saw Jane Fairfax, to judge
of her honest regret in this woeful change; but when they
did meet, her composure was odious. She had been
particularly unwell, however, suffering from headache to a
degree, which made her aunt declare, that had the ball
taken place, she did not think Jane could have attended it;
and it was charity to impute some of her unbecoming
indifference to the languor of ill-health.

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Chapter XIII
Emma continued to entertain no doubt of her being in
love. Her ideas only varied as to the how much. At first,
she thought it was a good deal; and afterwards, but little.
She had great pleasure in hearing Frank Churchill talked
of; and, for his sake, greater pleasure than ever in seeing
Mr. and Mrs. Weston; she was very often thinking of him,
and quite impatient for a letter, that she might know how
he was, how were his spirits, how was his aunt, and what
was the chance of his coming to Randalls again this spring.
But, on the other hand, she could not admit herself to be
unhappy, nor, after the first morning, to be less disposed
for employment than usual; she was still busy and cheerful;
and, pleasing as he was, she could yet imagine him to have
faults; and farther, though thinking of him so much, and,
as she sat drawing or working, forming a thousand
amusing schemes for the progress and close of their
attachment, fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing
elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary
declaration on his side was that she refused him. Their
affection was always to subside into friendship. Every thing
tender and charming was to mark their parting; but still

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they were to part. When she became sensible of this, it
struck her that she could not be very much in love; for in
spite of her previous and fixed determination never to quit
her father, never to marry, a strong attachment certainly
must produce more of a struggle than she could foresee in
her own feelings.
‘I do not find myself making any use of the word
sacrifice,’ said she.— ‘In not one of all my clever replies,
my delicate negatives, is there any allusion to making a
sacrifice. I do suspect that he is not really necessary to my
happiness. So much the better. I certainly will not
persuade myself to feel more than I do. I am quite enough
in love. I should be sorry to be more.’
Upon the whole, she was equally contented with her
view of his feelings.
‘He is undoubtedly very much in love—every thing
denotes it—very much in love indeed!—and when he
comes again, if his affection continue, I must be on my
guard not to encourage it.—It would be most inexcusable
to do otherwise, as my own mind is quite made up. Not
that I imagine he can think I have been encouraging him
hitherto. No, if he had believed me at all to share his
feelings, he would not have been so wretched. Could he
have thought himself encouraged, his looks and language
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at parting would have been different.— Still, however, I
must be on my guard. This is in the supposition of his
attachment continuing what it now is; but I do not know
that I expect it will; I do not look upon him to be quite
the sort of man— I do not altogether build upon his
steadiness or constancy.— His feelings are warm, but I can
imagine them rather changeable.— Every consideration of
the subject, in short, makes me thankful that my happiness
is not more deeply involved.—I shall do very well again
after a little while—and then, it will be a good thing over;
for they say every body is in love once in their lives, and I
shall have been let off easily.’
When his letter to Mrs. Weston arrived, Emma had the
perusal of it; and she read it with a degree of pleasure and
admiration which made her at first shake her head over
her own sensations, and think she had undervalued their
strength. It was a long, well-written letter, giving the
particulars of his journey and of his feelings, expressing all
the affection, gratitude, and respect which was natural and
honourable, and describing every thing exterior and local
that could be supposed attractive, with spirit and precision.
No suspicious flourishes now of apology or concern; it
was the language of real feeling towards Mrs. Weston; and
the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast
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between the places in some of the first blessings of social
life was just enough touched on to shew how keenly it
was felt, and how much more might have been said but
for the restraints of propriety.—The charm of her own
name was not wanting. Miss Woodhouse appeared more
than once, and never without a something of pleasing
connexion, either a compliment to her taste, or a
remembrance of what she had said; and in the very last
time of its meeting her eye, unadorned as it was by any
such broad wreath of gallantry, she yet could discern the
effect of her influence and acknowledge the greatest
compliment perhaps of all conveyed. Compressed into the
very lowest vacant corner were these words—‘I had not a
spare moment on Tuesday, as you know, for Miss
Woodhouse’s beautiful little friend. Pray make my excuses
and adieus to her.’ This, Emma could not doubt, was all
for herself. Harriet was remembered only from being her
friend. His information and prospects as to Enscombe
were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated;
Mrs. Churchill was recovering, and he dared not yet, even
in his own imagination, fix a time for coming to Randalls
again.
Gratifying, however, and stimulative as was the letter in
the material part, its sentiments, she yet found, when it
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was folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had
not added any lasting warmth, that she could still do
without the writer, and that he must learn to do without
her. Her intentions were unchanged. Her resolution of
refusal only grew more interesting by the addition of a
scheme for his subsequent consolation and happiness. His
recollection of Harriet, and the words which clothed it,
the ‘beautiful little friend,’ suggested to her the idea of
Harriet’s succeeding her in his affections. Was it
impossible?—No.—Harriet undoubtedly was greatly his
inferior in understanding; but he had been very much
struck with the loveliness of her face and the warm
simplicity of her manner; and all the probabilities of
circumstance and connexion were in her favour.—For
Harriet, it would be advantageous and delightful indeed.
‘I must not dwell upon it,’ said she.—‘I must not think
of it. I know the danger of indulging such speculations.
But stranger things have happened; and when we cease to
care for each other as we do now, it will be the means of
confirming us in that sort of true disinterested friendship
which I can already look forward to with pleasure.’
It was well to have a comfort in store on Harriet’s
behalf, though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it
seldom; for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank
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Churchill’s arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement
in the conversation of Highbury, as the latest interest had
entirely borne down the first, so now upon Frank
Churchill’s disappearance, Mr. Elton’s concerns were
assuming the most irresistible form.—His wedding-day
was named. He would soon be among them again; Mr.
Elton and his bride. There was hardly time to talk over the
first letter from Enscombe before ‘Mr. Elton and his bride’
was in every body’s mouth, and Frank Churchill was
forgotten. Emma grew sick at the sound. She had had
three weeks of happy exemption from Mr. Elton; and
Harriet’s mind, she had been willing to hope, had been
lately gaining strength. With Mr. Weston’s ball in view at
least, there had been a great deal of insensibility to other
things; but it was now too evident that she had not
attained such a state of composure as could stand against
the actual approach—new carriage, bell-ringing, and all.
Poor Harriet was in a flutter of spirits which required
all the reasonings and soothings and attentions of every
kind that Emma could give. Emma felt that she could not
do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her
ingenuity and all her patience; but it was heavy work to be
for ever convincing without producing any effect, for ever
agreed to, without being able to make their opinions the
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same. Harriet listened submissively, and said ‘it was very
true— it was just as Miss Woodhouse described—it was
not worth while to think about them—and she would not
think about them any longer’ but no change of subject
could avail, and the next half-hour saw her as anxious and
restless about the Eltons as before. At last Emma attacked
her on another ground.
‘Your allowing yourself to be so occupied and so
unhappy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the
strongest reproach you can make me. You could not give
me a greater reproof for the mistake I fell into. It was all
my doing, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you.—
Deceived myself, I did very miserably deceive you— and
it will be a painful reflection to me for ever. Do not
imagine me in danger of forgetting it.’
Harriet felt this too much to utter more than a few
words of eager exclamation. Emma continued,
‘I have not said, exert yourself Harriet for my sake;
think less, talk less of Mr. Elton for my sake; because for
your own sake rather, I would wish it to be done, for the
sake of what is more important than my comfort, a habit
of self-command in you, a consideration of what is your
duty, an attention to propriety, an endeavour to avoid the
suspicions of others, to save your health and credit, and
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restore your tranquillity. These are the motives which I
have been pressing on you. They are very important—and
sorry I am that you cannot feel them sufficiently to act
upon them. My being saved from pain is a very secondary
consideration. I want you to save yourself from greater
pain. Perhaps I may sometimes have felt that Harriet
would not forget what was due—or rather what would be
kind by me.’
This appeal to her affections did more than all the rest.
The idea of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss
Woodhouse, whom she really loved extremely, made her
wretched for a while, and when the violence of grief was
comforted away, still remained powerful enough to
prompt to what was right and support her in it very
tolerably.
‘You, who have been the best friend I ever had in my
life— Want gratitude to you!—Nobody is equal to you!—
I care for nobody as I do for you!—Oh! Miss Woodhouse,
how ungrateful I have been!’
Such expressions, assisted as they were by every thing
that look and manner could do, made Emma feel that she
had never loved Harriet so well, nor valued her affection
so highly before.

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‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart,’ said
she afterwards to herself. ‘There is nothing to be compared
to it. Warmth and tenderness of heart, with an
affectionate, open manner, will beat all the clearness of
head in the world, for attraction, I am sure it will. It is
tenderness of heart which makes my dear father so
generally beloved—which gives Isabella all her
popularity.— I have it not—but I know how to prize and
respect it.—Harriet is my superior in all the charm and all
the felicity it gives. Dear Harriet!—I would not change
you for the clearest-headed, longest-sighted, best-judging
female breathing. Oh! the coldness of a Jane Fairfax!—
Harriet is worth a hundred such—And for a wife— a
sensible man’s wife—it is invaluable. I mention no names;
but happy the man who changes Emma for Harriet!’

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Chapter XIV
Mrs. Elton was first seen at church: but though
devotion might be interrupted, curiosity could not be
satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it must be left for the
visits in form which were then to be paid, to settle
whether she were very pretty indeed, or only rather
pretty, or not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less of curiosity than of pride or
propriety, to make her resolve on not being the last to pay
her respects; and she made a point of Harriet’s going with
her, that the worst of the business might be gone through
as soon as possible.
She could not enter the house again, could not be in
the same room to which she had with such vain artifice
retreated three months ago, to lace up her boot, without
recollecting. A thousand vexatious thoughts would recur.
Compliments, charades, and horrible blunders; and it was
not to be supposed that poor Harriet should not be
recollecting too; but she behaved very well, and was only
rather pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and
there was so much embarrassment and occupation of mind
to shorten it, that Emma would not allow herself entirely

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to form an opinion of the lady, and on no account to give
one, beyond the nothing-meaning terms of being
‘elegantly dressed, and very pleasing.’
She did not really like her. She would not be in a hurry
to find fault, but she suspected that there was no
elegance;—ease, but not elegance.— She was almost sure
that for a young woman, a stranger, a bride, there was too
much ease. Her person was rather good; her face not
unpretty; but neither feature, nor air, nor voice, nor
manner, were elegant. Emma thought at least it would
turn out so.
As for Mr. Elton, his manners did not appear—but no,
she would not permit a hasty or a witty word from herself
about his manners. It was an awkward ceremony at any
time to be receiving wedding visits, and a man had need
be all grace to acquit himself well through it. The woman
was better off; she might have the assistance of fine
clothes, and the privilege of bashfulness, but the man had
only his own good sense to depend on; and when she
considered how peculiarly unlucky poor Mr. Elton was in
being in the same room at once with the woman he had
just married, the woman he had wanted to marry, and the
woman whom he had been expected to marry, she must

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allow him to have the right to look as little wise, and to be
as much affectedly, and as little really easy as could be.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse,’ said Harriet, when they had
quitted the house, and after waiting in vain for her friend
to begin; ‘Well, Miss Woodhouse, (with a gentle sigh,)
what do you think of her?— Is not she very charming?’
There was a little hesitation in Emma’s answer.
‘Oh! yes—very—a very pleasing young woman.’
‘I think her beautiful, quite beautiful.’
‘Very nicely dressed, indeed; a remarkably elegant
gown.’
‘I am not at all surprized that he should have fallen in
love.’
‘Oh! no—there is nothing to surprize one at all.—A
pretty fortune; and she came in his way.’
‘I dare say,’ returned Harriet, sighing again, ‘I dare say
she was very much attached to him.’
‘Perhaps she might; but it is not every man’s fate to
marry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins
perhaps wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she
was likely to have.’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet earnestly, ‘and well she might,
nobody could ever have a better. Well, I wish them happy
with all my heart. And now, Miss Woodhouse, I do not
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think I shall mind seeing them again. He is just as superior
as ever;—but being married, you know, it is quite a
different thing. No, indeed, Miss Woodhouse, you need
not be afraid; I can sit and admire him now without any
great misery. To know that he has not thrown himself
away, is such a comfort!— She does seem a charming
young woman, just what he deserves. Happy creature! He
called her ‘Augusta.’ How delightful!’
When the visit was returned, Emma made up her
mind. She could then see more and judge better. From
Harriet’s happening not to be at Hartfield, and her father’s
being present to engage Mr. Elton, she had a quarter of an
hour of the lady’s conversation to herself, and could
composedly attend to her; and the quarter of an hour quite
convinced her that Mrs. Elton was a vain woman,
extremely well satisfied with herself, and thinking much of
her own importance; that she meant to shine and be very
superior, but with manners which had been formed in a
bad school, pert and familiar; that all her notions were
drawn from one set of people, and one style of living; that
if not foolish she was ignorant, and that her society would
certainly do Mr. Elton no good.
Harriet would have been a better match. If not wise or
refined herself, she would have connected him with those
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who were; but Miss Hawkins, it might be fairly supposed
from her easy conceit, had been the best of her own set.
The rich brother-in-law near Bristol was the pride of the
alliance, and his place and his carriages were the pride of
him.
The very first subject after being seated was Maple
Grove, ‘My brother Mr. Suckling’s seat;’—a comparison
of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield
were small, but neat and pretty; and the house was
modern and well-built. Mrs. Elton seemed most
favourably impressed by the size of the room, the
entrance, and all that she could see or imagine. ‘Very like
Maple Grove indeed!—She was quite struck by the
likeness!—That room was the very shape and size of the
morning-room at Maple Grove; her sister’s favourite
room.’— Mr. Elton was appealed to.—‘Was not it
astonishingly like?— She could really almost fancy herself
at Maple Grove.’
‘And the staircase—You know, as I came in, I observed
how very like the staircase was; placed exactly in the same
part of the house. I really could not help exclaiming! I
assure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me,
to be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as
Maple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there!
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(with a little sigh of sentiment). A charming place,
undoubtedly. Every body who sees it is struck by its
beauty; but to me, it has been quite a home. Whenever
you are transplanted, like me, Miss Woodhouse, you will
understand how very delightful it is to meet with any
thing at all like what one has left behind. I always say this
is quite one of the evils of matrimony.’
Emma made as slight a reply as she could; but it was
fully sufficient for Mrs. Elton, who only wanted to be
talking herself.
‘So extremely like Maple Grove! And it is not merely
the house— the grounds, I assure you, as far as I could
observe, are strikingly like. The laurels at Maple Grove are
in the same profusion as here, and stand very much in the
same way—just across the lawn; and I had a glimpse of a
fine large tree, with a bench round it, which put me so
exactly in mind! My brother and sister will be enchanted
with this place. People who have extensive grounds
themselves are always pleased with any thing in the same
style.’
Emma doubted the truth of this sentiment. She had a
great idea that people who had extensive grounds
themselves cared very little for the extensive grounds of

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any body else; but it was not worth while to attack an
error so double-dyed, and therefore only said in reply,
‘When you have seen more of this country, I am afraid
you will think you have overrated Hartfield. Surry is full
of beauties.’
‘Oh! yes, I am quite aware of that. It is the garden of
England, you know. Surry is the garden of England.’
‘Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that
distinction. Many counties, I believe, are called the garden
of England, as well as Surry.’
‘No, I fancy not,’ replied Mrs. Elton, with a most
satisfied smile.’ I never heard any county but Surry called
so.’
Emma was silenced.
‘My brother and sister have promised us a visit in the
spring, or summer at farthest,’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘and
that will be our time for exploring. While they are with
us, we shall explore a great deal, I dare say. They will have
their barouche-landau, of course, which holds four
perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of our
carriage, we should be able to explore the different
beauties extremely well. They would hardly come in their
chaise, I think, at that season of the year. Indeed, when
the time draws on, I shall decidedly recommend their
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bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much
preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of
this sort, you know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally
wishes them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling
is extremely fond of exploring. We explored to King’sWeston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,
just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have
many parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss
Woodhouse, every summer?’
‘No; not immediately here. We are rather out of
distance of the very striking beauties which attract the sort
of parties you speak of; and we are a very quiet set of
people, I believe; more disposed to stay at home than
engage in schemes of pleasure.’
‘Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real
comfort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I
am. I was quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a
time has Selina said, when she has been going to Bristol, ‘I
really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I
absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck
up in the barouche-landau without a companion; but
Augusta, I believe, with her own good-will, would never
stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time has she said so;
and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I think, on
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the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely
from society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much
more advisable to mix in the world in a proper degree,
without living in it either too much or too little. I
perfectly understand your situation, however, Miss
Woodhouse— (looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your
father’s state of health must be a great drawback. Why
does not he try Bath?—Indeed he should. Let me
recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of
its doing Mr. Woodhouse good.’
‘My father tried it more than once, formerly; but
without receiving any benefit; and Mr. Perry, whose
name, I dare say, is not unknown to you, does not
conceive it would be at all more likely to be useful now.’
‘Ah! that’s a great pity; for I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, where the waters do agree, it is quite
wonderful the relief they give. In my Bath life, I have seen
such instances of it! And it is so cheerful a place, that it
could not fail of being of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits,
which, I understand, are sometimes much depressed. And
as to its recommendations to you, I fancy I need not take
much pains to dwell on them. The advantages of Bath to
the young are pretty generally understood. It would be a
charming introduction for you, who have lived so
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secluded a life; and I could immediately secure you some
of the best society in the place. A line from me would
bring you a little host of acquaintance; and my particular
friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always resided with
when in Bath, would be most happy to shew you any
attentions, and would be the very person for you to go
into public with.’
It was as much as Emma could bear, without being
impolite. The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for
what was called an introduction—of her going into public
under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton’s—probably
some vulgar, dashing widow, who, with the help of a
boarder, just made a shift to live!— The dignity of Miss
Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!
She restrained herself, however, from any of the
reproofs she could have given, and only thanked Mrs.
Elton coolly; ‘but their going to Bath was quite out of the
question; and she was not perfectly convinced that the
place might suit her better than her father.’ And then, to
prevent farther outrage and indignation, changed the
subject directly.
‘I do not ask whether you are musical, Mrs. Elton.
Upon these occasions, a lady’s character generally precedes

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her; and Highbury has long known that you are a superior
performer.’
‘Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A
superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you.
Consider from how partial a quarter your information
came. I am doatingly fond of music—passionately fond;—
and my friends say I am not entirely devoid of taste; but as
to any thing else, upon my honour my performance is
mediocre to the last degree. You, Miss Woodhouse, I well
know, play delightfully. I assure you it has been the
greatest satisfaction, comfort, and delight to me, to hear
what a musical society I am got into. I absolutely cannot
do without music. It is a necessary of life to me; and
having always been used to a very musical society, both at
Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been a most
serious sacrifice. I honestly said as much to Mr. E. when
he was speaking of my future home, and expressing his
fears lest the retirement of it should be disagreeable; and
the inferiority of the house too—knowing what I had
been accustomed to—of course he was not wholly
without apprehension. When he was speaking of it in that
way, I honestly said that the world I could give up—
parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement.
Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world
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was not necessary to me. I could do very well without it.
To those who had no resources it was a different thing;
but my resources made me quite independent. And as to
smaller-sized rooms than I had been used to, I really could
not give it a thought. I hoped I was perfectly equal to any
sacrifice of that description. Certainly I had been
accustomed to every luxury at Maple Grove; but I did
assure him that two carriages were not necessary to my
happiness, nor were spacious apartments. ‘But,’ said I, ‘to
be quite honest, I do not think I can live without
something of a musical society. I condition for nothing
else; but without music, life would be a blank to me.’’
‘We cannot suppose,’ said Emma, smiling, ‘that Mr.
Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very
musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find
he has outstepped the truth more than may be pardoned,
in consideration of the motive.’
‘No, indeed, I have no doubts at all on that head. I am
delighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall
have many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss
Woodhouse, you and I must establish a musical club, and
have regular weekly meetings at your house, or ours. Will
not it be a good plan? If we exert ourselves, I think we
shall not be long in want of allies. Something of that
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nature would be particularly desirable for me, as an
inducement to keep me in practice; for married women,
you know— there is a sad story against them, in general.
They are but too apt to give up music.’
‘But you, who are so extremely fond of it—there can
be no danger, surely?’
‘I should hope not; but really when I look around
among my acquaintance, I tremble. Selina has entirely
given up music—never touches the instrument—though
she played sweetly. And the same may be said of Mrs.
Jeffereys—Clara Partridge, that was—and of the two
Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of
more than I can enumerate. Upon my word it is enough
to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina;
but really I begin now to comprehend that a married
woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I
was half an hour this morning shut up with my
housekeeper.’
‘But every thing of that kind,’ said Emma, ‘will soon be
in so regular a train—‘
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Elton, laughing, ‘we shall see.’
Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her
music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment’s
pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject.
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‘We have been calling at Randalls,’ said she, ‘and found
them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to
be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent
creature— quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I
assure you. And she appears so truly good—there is
something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it
wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?’
Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but
Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she
went on.
‘Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to
find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the
gentlewoman.’
‘Mrs. Weston’s manners,’ said Emma, ‘were always
particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and
elegance, would make them the safest model for any
young woman.’
‘And who do you think came in while we were there?’
Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old
acquaintance— and how could she possibly guess?
‘Knightley!’ continued Mrs. Elton; ‘Knightley
himself!—Was not it lucky?—for, not being within when
he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and
of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great
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curiosity. ‘My friend Knightley’ had been so often
mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I
must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not
be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman.
I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very
gentleman-like man.’
Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off;
and Emma could breathe.
‘Insufferable woman!’ was her immediate exclamation.
‘Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable!
Knightley!—I could not have believed it. Knightley!—
never seen him in her life before, and call him
Knightley!—and discover that he is a gentleman! A little
upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her caro sposo,
and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and
underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley
is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the
compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not
have believed it! And to propose that she and I should
unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were
bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!— Astonished that the
person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman!
Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much
beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison.
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Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were
here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah!
there I am— thinking of him directly. Always the first
person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank
Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!’—
All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the
time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the
Eltons’ departure, and was ready to speak, she was very
tolerably capable of attending.
‘Well, my dear,’ he deliberately began, ‘considering we
never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of
young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with
you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of
voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I
am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks
like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very
obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will
make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better
not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not
having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this
happy occasion; I said that I hoped I should in the course
of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to
wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad

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invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage
Lane.’
‘I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton
knows you.’
‘Yes: but a young lady—a bride—I ought to have paid
my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient.’
‘But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony;
and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your
respects to a bride? It ought to be no recommendation to
you. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so
much of them.’
‘No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry,
but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a
lady—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected.
More is avowedly due to her. A bride, you know, my
dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who
they may.’
‘Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do
not know what is. And I should never have expected you
to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor
young ladies.’
‘My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter
of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has

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nothing to do with any encouragement to people to
marry.’
Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and
could not understand her. Her mind returned to Mrs.
Elton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.

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Chapter XV
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery,
to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation
had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to
her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever
they met again,—self-important, presuming, familiar,
ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little
accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought
herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to
enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and
conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in
society as Mrs. Elton’s consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at
all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy
with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating
himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as
not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater
part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or
not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss
Bates’s good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride
must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself,
were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton’s praise passed

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from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded
by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first
contribution and talked with a good grace of her being
‘very pleasant and very elegantly dressed.’
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she
had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards
Emma.—Offended, probably, by the little encouragement
which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back
in her turn and gradually became much more cold and
distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will
which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma’s
dislike. Her manners, too—and Mr. Elton’s, were
unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and
negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet’s
cure; but the sensations which could prompt such
behaviour sunk them both very much.—It was not to be
doubted that poor Harriet’s attachment had been an
offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the
story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the
most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given
also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.—
When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy
to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which

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they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a
broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from
the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one
young lady might be supposed to recommend the other,
but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with
expressing a natural and reasonable admiration— but
without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be
wanting to assist and befriend her.—Before Emma had
forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their
meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton’s knight-errantry on the
subject.—
‘Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss
Woodhouse.—I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.—A sweet,
interesting creature. So mild and ladylike—and with such
talents!—I assure you I think she has very extraordinary
talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely
well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that
point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at
my warmth—but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but
Jane Fairfax.— And her situation is so calculated to affect
one!—Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and
endeavour to do something for her. We must bring her
forward. Such talent as hers must not be suffered to remain
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unknown.—I dare say you have heard those charming
lines of the poet,
‘Full many a flower is born to blush
unseen,
‘And waste its fragrance on the desert air.’
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane
Fairfax.’
‘I cannot think there is any danger of it,’ was Emma’s
calm answer— ‘and when you are better acquainted with
Miss Fairfax’s situation and understand what her home has
been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea
that you will suppose her talents can be unknown.’
‘Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such
retirement, such obscurity, so thrown away.—Whatever
advantages she may have enjoyed with the Campbells are
so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it. I am sure
she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for
it. I must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a
great advocate for timidity—and I am sure one does not
often meet with it.—But in those who are at all inferior, it
is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is

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a very delightful character, and interests me more than I
can express.’
‘You appear to feel a great deal—but I am not aware
how you or any of Miss Fairfax’s acquaintance here, any of
those who have known her longer than yourself, can shew
her any other attention than’—
‘My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by
those who dare to act. You and I need not be afraid. If we
set the example, many will follow it as far as they can;
though all have not our situations. We have carriages to
fetch and convey her home, and we live in a style which
could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time,
the least inconvenient.—I should be extremely displeased
if Wright were to send us up such a dinner, as could make
me regret having asked more than Jane Fairfax to partake
of it. I have no idea of that sort of thing. It is not likely
that I should, considering what I have been used to. My
greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite
the other way, in doing too much, and being too careless
of expense. Maple Grove will probably be my model more
than it ought to be— for we do not at all affect to equal
my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.—However, my
resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.— I shall
certainly have her very often at my house, shall introduce
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her wherever I can, shall have musical parties to draw out
her talents, and shall be constantly on the watch for an
eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very extensive,
that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit her
shortly.—I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly
to my brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure
they will like her extremely; and when she gets a little
acquainted with them, her fears will completely wear off,
for there really is nothing in the manners of either but
what is highly conciliating.—I shall have her very often
indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall
sometimes find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in
some of our exploring parties.’
‘Poor Jane Fairfax!’—thought Emma.—‘You have not
deserved this. You may have done wrong with regard to
Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment beyond what you can
have merited!—The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!—‘Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.’ Heavens! Let me
not suppose that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouseing me!— But upon my honour, there seems no limits to
the licentiousness of that woman’s tongue!’
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again—to any
so exclusively addressed to herself—so disgustingly
decorated with a ‘dear Miss Woodhouse.’ The change on
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Mrs. Elton’s side soon afterwards appeared, and she was
left in peace—neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton’s guidance, the
very active patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with
others in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what
was meditated, what was done.
She looked on with some amusement.—Miss Bates’s
gratitude for Mrs. Elton’s attentions to Jane was in the first
style of guileless simplicity and warmth. She was quite one
of her worthies— the most amiable, affable, delightful
woman—just as accomplished and condescending as Mrs.
Elton meant to be considered. Emma’s only surprize was
that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and
tolerate Mrs. Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her
walking with the Eltons, sitting with the Eltons, spending
a day with the Eltons! This was astonishing!—She could
not have believed it possible that the taste or the pride of
Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as
the Vicarage had to offer.
‘She is a riddle, quite a riddle!’ said she.—‘To chuse to
remain here month after month, under privations of every
sort! And now to chuse the mortification of Mrs. Elton’s
notice and the penury of her conversation, rather than

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return to the superior companions who have always loved
her with such real, generous affection.’
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three
months; the Campbells were gone to Ireland for three
months; but now the Campbells had promised their
daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there.
According to Miss Bates—it all came from her—Mrs.
Dixon had written most pressingly. Would Jane but go,
means were to be found, servants sent, friends contrived—
no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!
‘She must have some motive, more powerful than
appears, for refusing this invitation,’ was Emma’s
conclusion. ‘She must be under some sort of penance,
inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great
fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.— She is
not to be with the Dixons. The decree is issued by
somebody. But why must she consent to be with the
Eltons?—Here is quite a separate puzzle.’
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of
the subject, before the few who knew her opinion of Mrs.
Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this apology for Jane.

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‘We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at
the Vicarage, my dear Emma—but it is better than being
always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but, as a
constant companion, must be very tiresome. We must
consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her
taste for what she goes to.’
‘You are right, Mrs. Weston,’ said Mr. Knightley
warmly, ‘Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming
a just opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with
whom to associate, she would not have chosen her. But
(with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions
from Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her.’
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a
momentary glance; and she was herself struck by his
warmth. With a faint blush, she presently replied,
‘Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s, I should have
imagined, would rather disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should have imagined any thing
but inviting.’
‘I should not wonder,’ said Mrs. Weston, ‘if Miss
Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond her own
inclination, by her aunt’s eagerness in accepting Mrs.
Elton’s civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may very likely
have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
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appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would
have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little
change.’
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and
after a few minutes silence, he said,
‘Another thing must be taken into consideration too—
Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks of
her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he
or she and thou, the plainest spoken amongst us; we all
feel the influence of a something beyond common civility
in our personal intercourse with each other— a something
more early implanted. We cannot give any body the
disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the
hour before. We feel things differently. And besides the
operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure
that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both
of mind and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton
treats her with all the respect which she has a claim to.
Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs.
Elton’s way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent
her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in
action, if not in consciousness.’

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‘I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,’ said
Emma. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of
alarm and delicacy made her irresolute what else to say.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘any body may know how highly I
think of her.’
‘And yet,’ said Emma, beginning hastily and with an
arch look, but soon stopping—it was better, however, to
know the worst at once— she hurried on—‘And yet,
perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
is. The extent of your admiration may take you by
surprize some day or other.’
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower
buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the exertion
of getting them together, or some other cause, brought
the colour into his face, as he answered,
‘Oh! are you there?—But you are miserably
behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks ago.’
He stopped.—Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs.
Weston, and did not herself know what to think. In a
moment he went on—
‘That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss
Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask
her—and I am very sure I shall never ask her.’

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Emma returned her friend’s pressure with interest; and
was pleased enough to exclaim,
‘You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for
you.’
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful—and
in a manner which shewed him not pleased, soon
afterwards said,
‘So you have been settling that I should marry Jane
Fairfax?’
‘No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much
for match-making, for me to presume to take such a
liberty with you. What I said just now, meant nothing.
One says those sort of things, of course, without any idea
of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not
the smallest wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane
any body. You would not come in and sit with us in this
comfortable way, if you were married.’
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his
reverie was, ‘No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my
admiration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never
had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.’ And soon
afterwards, ‘Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a

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fault. She has not the open temper which a man would
wish for in a wife.’
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a
fault. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I
suppose?’
‘Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he
was mistaken; he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole
does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.’
‘In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants
to be wiser and wittier than all the world! I wonder how
she speaks of the Coles— what she calls them! How can
she find any appellation for them, deep enough in familiar
vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley—what can she do for
Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane
Fairfax accepts her civilities and consents to be with her.
Mrs. Weston, your argument weighs most with me. I can
much more readily enter into the temptation of getting
away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax’s mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in
Mrs. Elton’s acknowledging herself the inferior in thought,
word, or deed; or in her being under any restraint beyond
her own scanty rule of good-breeding. I cannot imagine
that she will not be continually insulting her visitor with
praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will
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not be continually detailing her magnificent intentions,
from the procuring her a permanent situation to the
including her in those delightful exploring parties which
are to take place in the barouche-landau.’
‘Jane Fairfax has feeling,’ said Mr. Knightley—‘I do not
accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect,
are strong—and her temper excellent in its power of
forbearance, patience, self-controul; but it wants openness.
She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to
be—And I love an open temper. No—till Cole alluded to
my supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I
saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration
and pleasure always—but with no thought beyond.’
‘Well, Mrs. Weston,’ said Emma triumphantly when he
left them, ‘what do you say now to Mr. Knightley’s
marrying Jane Fairfax?’
‘Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much
occupied by the idea of not being in love with her, that I
should not wonder if it were to end in his being so at last.
Do not beat me.’

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Chapter XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever
visited Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on
his marriage. Dinner-parties and evening-parties were
made for him and his lady; and invitations flowed in so fast
that she had soon the pleasure of apprehending they were
never to have a disengaged day.
‘I see how it is,’ said she. ‘I see what a life I am to lead
among you. Upon my word we shall be absolutely
dissipated. We really seem quite the fashion. If this is living
in the country, it is nothing very formidable. From
Monday next to Saturday, I assure you we have not a
disengaged day!—A woman with fewer resources than I
have, need not have been at a loss.’
No invitation came amiss to her. Her Bath habits made
evening-parties perfectly natural to her, and Maple Grove
had given her a taste for dinners. She was a little shocked
at the want of two drawing rooms, at the poor attempt at
rout-cakes, and there being no ice in the Highbury cardparties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard and others,
were a good deal behind-hand in knowledge of the world,
but she would soon shew them how every thing ought to

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be arranged. In the course of the spring she must return
their civilities by one very superior party—in which her
card-tables should be set out with their separate candles
and unbroken packs in the true style—and more waiters
engaged for the evening than their own establishment
could furnish, to carry round the refreshments at exactly
the proper hour, and in the proper order.
Emma, in the meanwhile, could not be satisfied
without a dinner at Hartfield for the Eltons. They must
not do less than others, or she should be exposed to odious
suspicions, and imagined capable of pitiful resentment. A
dinner there must be. After Emma had talked about it for
ten minutes, Mr. Woodhouse felt no unwillingness, and
only made the usual stipulation of not sitting at the bottom
of the table himself, with the usual regular difficulty of
deciding who should do it for him.
The persons to be invited, required little thought.
Besides the Eltons, it must be the Westons and Mr.
Knightley; so far it was all of course— and it was hardly
less inevitable that poor little Harriet must be asked to
make the eighth:—but this invitation was not given with
equal satisfaction, and on many accounts Emma was
particularly pleased by Harriet’s begging to be allowed to
decline it. ‘She would rather not be in his company more
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than she could help. She was not yet quite able to see him
and his charming happy wife together, without feeling
uncomfortable. If Miss Woodhouse would not be
displeased, she would rather stay at home.’ It was precisely
what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the
fortitude of her little friend—for fortitude she knew it was
in her to give up being in company and stay at home; and
she could now invite the very person whom she really
wanted to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.— Since her last
conversation with Mrs. Weston and Mr. Knightley, she
was more conscience-stricken about Jane Fairfax than she
had often been.—Mr. Knightley’s words dwelt with her.
He had said that Jane Fairfax received attentions from Mrs.
Elton which nobody else paid her.
‘This is very true,’ said she, ‘at least as far as relates to
me, which was all that was meant—and it is very
shameful.—Of the same age— and always knowing her—I
ought to have been more her friend.— She will never like
me now. I have neglected her too long. But I will shew
her greater attention than I have done.’
Every invitation was successful. They were all
disengaged and all happy.— The preparatory interest of
this dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance
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rather unlucky occurred. The two eldest little Knightleys
were engaged to pay their grandpapa and aunt a visit of
some weeks in the spring, and their papa now proposed
bringing them, and staying one whole day at Hartfield—
which one day would be the very day of this party.—His
professional engagements did not allow of his being put
off, but both father and daughter were disturbed by its
happening so. Mr. Woodhouse considered eight persons at
dinner together as the utmost that his nerves could bear—
and here would be a ninth—and Emma apprehended that
it would be a ninth very much out of humour at not being
able to come even to Hartfield for forty-eight hours
without falling in with a dinner-party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort
herself, by representing that though he certainly would
make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the
increase of noise would be very immaterial. She thought it
in reality a sad exchange for herself, to have him with his
grave looks and reluctant conversation opposed to her
instead of his brother.
The event was more favourable to Mr. Woodhouse
than to Emma. John Knightley came; but Mr. Weston was
unexpectedly summoned to town and must be absent on
the very day. He might be able to join them in the
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evening, but certainly not to dinner. Mr. Woodhouse was
quite at ease; and the seeing him so, with the arrival of the
little boys and the philosophic composure of her brother
on hearing his fate, removed the chief of even Emma’s
vexation.
The day came, the party were punctually assembled,
and Mr. John Knightley seemed early to devote himself to
the business of being agreeable. Instead of drawing his
brother off to a window while they waited for dinner, he
was talking to Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton, as elegant as lace
and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence—
wanting only to observe enough for Isabella’s
information—but Miss Fairfax was an old acquaintance
and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her
before breakfast as he was returning from a walk with his
little boys, when it had been just beginning to rain. It was
natural to have some civil hopes on the subject, and he
said,
‘I hope you did not venture far, Miss Fairfax, this
morning, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We
scarcely got home in time. I hope you turned directly.’
‘I went only to the post-office,’ said she, ‘and reached
home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I
always fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble,
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and is a something to get me out. A walk before breakfast
does me good.’
‘Not a walk in the rain, I should imagine.’
‘No, but it did not absolutely rain when I set out.’
Mr. John Knightley smiled, and replied,
‘That is to say, you chose to have your walk, for you
were not six yards from your own door when I had the
pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen
more drops than they could count long before. The postoffice has a great charm at one period of our lives. When
you have lived to my age, you will begin to think letters
are never worth going through the rain for.’
There was a little blush, and then this answer,
‘I must not hope to be ever situated as you are, in the
midst of every dearest connexion, and therefore I cannot
expect that simply growing older should make me
indifferent about letters.’
‘Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could
become indifferent. Letters are no matter of indifference;
they are generally a very positive curse.’
‘You are speaking of letters of business; mine are letters
of friendship.’

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‘I have often thought them the worst of the two,’
replied he coolly. ‘Business, you know, may bring money,
but friendship hardly ever does.’
‘Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John
Knightley too well— I am very sure he understands the
value of friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe
that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but
it is not your being ten years older than myself which
makes the difference, it is not age, but situation. You have
every body dearest to you always at hand, I, probably,
never shall again; and therefore till I have outlived all my
affections, a post-office, I think, must always have power
to draw me out, in worse weather than to-day.’
‘When I talked of your being altered by time, by the
progress of years,’ said John Knightley, ‘I meant to imply
the change of situation which time usually brings. I
consider one as including the other. Time will generally
lessen the interest of every attachment not within the daily
circle—but that is not the change I had in view for you.
As an old friend, you will allow me to hope, Miss Fairfax,
that ten years hence you may have as many concentrated
objects as I have.’
It was kindly said, and very far from giving offence. A
pleasant ‘thank you’ seemed meant to laugh it off, but a
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blush, a quivering lip, a tear in the eye, shewed that it was
felt beyond a laugh. Her attention was now claimed by
Mr. Woodhouse, who being, according to his custom on
such occasions, making the circle of his guests, and paying
his particular compliments to the ladies, was ending with
her—and with all his mildest urbanity, said,
‘I am very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax, of your being out
this morning in the rain. Young ladies should take care of
themselves.— Young ladies are delicate plants. They
should take care of their health and their complexion. My
dear, did you change your stockings?’
‘Yes, sir, I did indeed; and I am very much obliged by
your kind solicitude about me.’
‘My dear Miss Fairfax, young ladies are very sure to be
cared for.— I hope your good grand-mama and aunt are
well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my
health allowed me to be a better neighbour. You do us a
great deal of honour to-day, I am sure. My daughter and I
are both highly sensible of your goodness, and have the
greatest satisfaction in seeing you at Hartfield.’
The kind-hearted, polite old man might then sit down
and feel that he had done his duty, and made every fair
lady welcome and easy.

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By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs.
Elton, and her remonstrances now opened upon Jane.
‘My dear Jane, what is this I hear?—Going to the postoffice in the rain!—This must not be, I assure you.—You
sad girl, how could you do such a thing?—It is a sign I was
not there to take care of you.’
Jane very patiently assured her that she had not caught
any cold.
‘Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and
do not know how to take care of yourself.—To the postoffice indeed! Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?
You and I must positively exert our authority.’
‘My advice,’ said Mrs. Weston kindly and persuasively,
‘I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must
not run such risks.— Liable as you have been to severe
colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful,
especially at this time of year. The spring I always think
requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or
two, or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk
of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel
that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable.
You look as if you would not do such a thing again.’
‘Oh! she shall not do such a thing again,’ eagerly
rejoined Mrs. Elton. ‘We will not allow her to do such a
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thing again:’— and nodding significantly—‘there must be
some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak
to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning
(one of our men, I forget his name) shall inquire for yours
too and bring them to you. That will obviate all
difficulties you know; and from us I really think, my dear
Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an
accommodation.’
‘You are extremely kind,’ said Jane; ‘but I cannot give
up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much
as I can, I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an
object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad
morning before.’
‘My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is
determined, that is (laughing affectedly) as far as I can
presume to determine any thing without the concurrence
of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and
I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do
flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not
entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable
difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Jane earnestly, ‘I cannot by any means
consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome
to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it
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could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my
grandmama’s.’
‘Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do!—And it
is a kindness to employ our men.’
Jane looked as if she did not mean to be conquered; but
instead of answering, she began speaking again to Mr.
John Knightley.
‘The post-office is a wonderful establishment!’ said
she.— ‘The regularity and despatch of it! If one thinks of
all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really
astonishing!’
‘It is certainly very well regulated.’
‘So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So
seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are
constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried
wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost!
And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
hands too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the
wonder.’
‘The clerks grow expert from habit.—They must begin
with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise
improves them. If you want any farther explanation,’
continued he, smiling, ‘they are paid for it. That is the key

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to a great deal of capacity. The public pays and must be
served well.’
The varieties of handwriting were farther talked of, and
the usual observations made.
‘I have heard it asserted,’ said John Knightley, ‘that the
same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and
where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But
for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be
chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little
teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand
they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very
much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.’
‘Yes,’ said his brother hesitatingly, ‘there is a likeness. I
know what you mean—but Emma’s hand is the strongest.’
‘Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,’ said Mr.
Woodhouse; ‘and always did. And so does poor Mrs.
Weston’—with half a sigh and half a smile at her.
‘I never saw any gentleman’s handwriting’—Emma
began, looking also at Mrs. Weston; but stopped, on
perceiving that Mrs. Weston was attending to some one
else—and the pause gave her time to reflect, ‘Now, how
am I going to introduce him?—Am I unequal to speaking
his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for
me to use any roundabout phrase?—Your Yorkshire
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friend— your correspondent in Yorkshire;—that would be
the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.—No, I can
pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I
certainly get better and better.—Now for it.’
Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again—
‘Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman’s
hands I ever saw.’
‘I do not admire it,’ said Mr. Knightley. ‘It is too
small— wants strength. It is like a woman’s writing.’
This was not submitted to by either lady. They
vindicated him against the base aspersion. ‘No, it by no
means wanted strength— it was not a large hand, but very
clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter
about her to produce?’ No, she had heard from him very
lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away.
‘If we were in the other room,’ said Emma, ‘if I had
my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I
have a note of his.— Do not you remember, Mrs.
Weston, employing him to write for you one day?’
‘He chose to say he was employed’—
‘Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after
dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.’
‘Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank
Churchill,’ said Mr. Knightley dryly, ‘writes to a fair lady
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like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his
best.’
Dinner was on table.—Mrs. Elton, before she could be
spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had
reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her
into the dining-parlour, was saying—
‘Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading
the way.’
Jane’s solicitude about fetching her own letters had not
escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt
some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this
morning had produced any. She suspected that it had; that
it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in
full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and
that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air
of greater happiness than usual—a glow both of
complexion and spirits.
She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the
expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;—it was at
her tongue’s end— but she abstained. She was quite
determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane
Fairfax’s feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of
the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will
highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each.
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Chapter XVII
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after
dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their
making two distinct parties;— with so much perseverance
in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane
Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were
obliged to be almost always either talking together or
silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane
repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and
though much that passed between them was in a halfwhisper, especially on Mrs. Elton’s side, there was no
avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The
post-office—catching
cold—fetching
letters—and
friendship, were long under discussion; and to them
succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant
to Jane—inquiries whether she had yet heard of any
situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton’s
meditated activity.
‘Here is April come!’ said she, ‘I get quite anxious
about you. June will soon be here.’
‘But I have never fixed on June or any other month—
merely looked forward to the summer in general.’

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‘But have you really heard of nothing?’
‘I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to
make any yet.’
‘Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not
aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable
thing.’
‘I not aware!’ said Jane, shaking her head; ‘dear Mrs.
Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?’
‘But you have not seen so much of the world as I have.
You do not know how many candidates there always are
for the first situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the
neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr.
Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications;
every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves
in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You
may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom
Mrs. Bragge’s is the one I would most wish to see you in.’
‘Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by
midsummer,’ said Jane. ‘I must spend some time with
them; I am sure they will want it;—afterwards I may
probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not
wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at
present.’

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‘Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of
giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the
Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I
am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and
shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any
thing eligible.’
‘Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention
the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish
to be giving any body trouble.’
‘But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is
April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such
business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really
amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your
friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence,
is not obtained at a moment’s notice; indeed, indeed, we
must begin inquiring directly.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but this is by no means my
intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry
to have any made by my friends. When I am quite
determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being
long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where
inquiry would soon produce something—Offices for the
sale— not quite of human flesh—but of human intellect.’

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‘Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you
mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling
was always rather a friend to the abolition.’
‘I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade,’
replied Jane; ‘governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I
had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of
those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the
victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to
say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying
to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting
with something that would do.’
‘Something that would do!’ repeated Mrs. Elton. ‘Aye,
that may suit your humble ideas of yourself;—I know
what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your
friends to have you taking up with any thing that may
offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not
moving in a certain circle, or able to command the
elegancies of life.’
‘You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very
indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the
rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater;
I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman’s
family is all that I should condition for.’

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‘I know you, I know you; you would take up with any
thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the
good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your
superior talents, you have a right to move in the first
circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you
to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like,
and mix in the family as much as you chose;—that is—I
do not know— if you knew the harp, you might do all
that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;—yes, I
really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate
for what you chose;—and you must and shall be
delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the
Campbells or I have any rest.’
‘You may well class the delight, the honour, and the
comfort of such a situation together,’ said Jane, ‘they are
pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not
wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to
any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in
wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or
three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I
am.’
‘And I am quite serious too, I assure you,’ replied Mrs.
Elton gaily, ‘in resolving to be always on the watch, and
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employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really
unexceptionable may pass us.’
In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by
any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her
vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her
saying in the same half-whisper to Jane,
‘Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!—
Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the
other men!—what a dear creature he is;—I assure you I
like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned
politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease;
modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old Mr.
Woodhouse, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to
me at dinner. Oh! I assure you I began to think my caro
sposo would be absolutely jealous. I fancy I am rather a
favourite; he took notice of my gown. How do you like
it?—Selina’s choice—handsome, I think, but I do not
know whether it is not over-trimmed; I have the greatest
dislike to the idea of being over-trimmed—quite a horror
of finery. I must put on a few ornaments now, because it
is expected of me. A bride, you know, must appear like a
bride, but my natural taste is all for simplicity; a simple
style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery. But I am
quite in the minority, I believe; few people seem to value
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simplicity of dress,—show and finery are every thing. I
have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my
white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well?’
The whole party were but just reassembled in the
drawing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance
among them. He had returned to a late dinner, and
walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been
too much expected by the best judges, for surprize— but
there was great joy. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as glad to
see him now, as he would have been sorry to see him
before. John Knightley only was in mute astonishment.—
That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at
home after a day of business in London, should set off
again, and walk half a mile to another man’s house, for the
sake of being in mixed company till bed-time, of finishing
his day in the efforts of civility and the noise of numbers,
was a circumstance to strike him deeply. A man who had
been in motion since eight o’clock in the morning, and
might now have been still, who had been long talking,
and might have been silent, who had been in more than
one crowd, and might have been alone!—Such a man, to
quit the tranquillity and independence of his own fireside,
and on the evening of a cold sleety April day rush out
again into the world!—Could he by a touch of his finger
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have instantly taken back his wife, there would have been
a motive; but his coming would probably prolong rather
than break up the party. John Knightley looked at him
with amazement, then shrugged his shoulders, and said, ‘I
could not have believed it even of him.’
Mr. Weston meanwhile, perfectly unsuspicious of the
indignation he was exciting, happy and cheerful as usual,
and with all the right of being principal talker, which a day
spent anywhere from home confers, was making himself
agreeable among the rest; and having satisfied the inquiries
of his wife as to his dinner, convincing her that none of all
her careful directions to the servants had been forgotten,
and spread abroad what public news he had heard, was
proceeding to a family communication, which, though
principally addressed to Mrs. Weston, he had not the
smallest doubt of being highly interesting to every body in
the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank, and to
herself; he had met with it in his way, and had taken the
liberty of opening it.
‘Read it, read it,’ said he, ‘it will give you pleasure;
only a few lines—will not take you long; read it to
Emma.’

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The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat
smiling and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a
little subdued, but very audible to every body.
‘Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well,
what do you say to it?—I always told you he would be
here again soon, did not I?—Anne, my dear, did not I
always tell you so, and you would not believe me?—In
town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say; for she
is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to
be done; most likely they will be there to-morrow or
Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing of course. But it is
an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near
as town. They will stay a good while when they do come,
and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what
I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you
finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we
will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will
not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to
the others in a common way.’
Mrs. Weston was most comfortably pleased on the
occasion. Her looks and words had nothing to restrain
them. She was happy, she knew she was happy, and knew
she ought to be happy. Her congratulations were warm
and open; but Emma could not speak so fluently. She was
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a little occupied in weighing her own feelings, and trying
to understand the degree of her agitation, which she rather
thought was considerable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant,
too communicative to want others to talk, was very well
satisfied with what she did say, and soon moved away to
make the rest of his friends happy by a partial
communication of what the whole room must have
overheard already.
It was well that he took every body’s joy for granted,
or he might not have thought either Mr. Woodhouse or
Mr. Knightley particularly delighted. They were the first
entitled, after Mrs. Weston and Emma, to be made
happy;—from them he would have proceeded to Miss
Fairfax, but she was so deep in conversation with John
Knightley, that it would have been too positive an
interruption; and finding himself close to Mrs. Elton, and
her attention disengaged, he necessarily began on the
subject with her.

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Chapter XVIII
‘I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of introducing my
son to you,’ said Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton, very willing to suppose a particular
compliment intended her by such a hope, smiled most
graciously.
‘You have heard of a certain Frank Churchill, I
presume,’ he continued— ‘and know him to be my son,
though he does not bear my name.’
‘Oh! yes, and I shall be very happy in his acquaintance.
I am sure Mr. Elton will lose no time in calling on him;
and we shall both have great pleasure in seeing him at the
Vicarage.’
‘You are very obliging.—Frank will be extremely
happy, I am sure.— He is to be in town next week, if not
sooner. We have notice of it in a letter to-day. I met the
letters in my way this morning, and seeing my son’s hand,
presumed to open it—though it was not directed to me—
it was to Mrs. Weston. She is his principal correspondent,
I assure you. I hardly ever get a letter.’
‘And so you absolutely opened what was directed to
her! Oh! Mr. Weston— (laughing affectedly) I must

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protest against that.—A most dangerous precedent
indeed!—I beg you will not let your neighbours follow
your example.—Upon my word, if this is what I am to
expect, we married women must begin to exert
ourselves!—Oh! Mr. Weston, I could not have believed it
of you!’
‘Aye, we men are sad fellows. You must take care of
yourself, Mrs. Elton.—This letter tells us—it is a short
letter—written in a hurry, merely to give us notice—it
tells us that they are all coming up to town directly, on
Mrs. Churchill’s account—she has not been well the
whole winter, and thinks Enscombe too cold for her— so
they are all to move southward without loss of time.’
‘Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in
Yorkshire?’
‘Yes, they are about one hundred and ninety miles
from London. a considerable journey.’
‘Yes, upon my word, very considerable. Sixty-five
miles farther than from Maple Grove to London. But what
is distance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You
would be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling,
sometimes flies about. You will hardly believe me— but
twice in one week he and Mr. Bragge went to London
and back again with four horses.’
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‘The evil of the distance from Enscombe,’ said Mr.
Weston, ‘is, that Mrs. Churchill, as we understand, has not
been able to leave the sofa for a week together. In Frank’s
last letter she complained, he said, of being too weak to
get into her conservatory without having both his arm and
his uncle’s! This, you know, speaks a great degree of
weakness—but now she is so impatient to be in town, that
she means to sleep only two nights on the road.—So
Frank writes word. Certainly, delicate ladies have very
extraordinary constitutions, Mrs. Elton. You must grant
me that.’
‘No, indeed, I shall grant you nothing. I Always take
the part of my own sex. I do indeed. I give you notice—
You will find me a formidable antagonist on that point. I
always stand up for women— and I assure you, if you
knew how Selina feels with respect to sleeping at an inn,
you would not wonder at Mrs. Churchill’s making
incredible exertions to avoid it. Selina says it is quite
horror to her—and I believe I have caught a little of her
nicety. She always travels with her own sheets; an
excellent precaution. Does Mrs. Churchill do the same?’
‘Depend upon it, Mrs. Churchill does every thing that
any other fine lady ever did. Mrs. Churchill will not be
second to any lady in the land for’—
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Mrs. Elton eagerly interposed with,
‘Oh! Mr. Weston, do not mistake me. Selina is no fine
lady, I assure you. Do not run away with such an idea.’
‘Is not she? Then she is no rule for Mrs. Churchill,
who is as thorough a fine lady as any body ever beheld.’
Mrs. Elton began to think she had been wrong in
disclaiming so warmly. It was by no means her object to
have it believed that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps
there was want of spirit in the pretence of it;—and she was
considering in what way she had best retract, when Mr.
Weston went on.
‘Mrs. Churchill is not much in my good graces, as you
may suspect— but this is quite between ourselves. She is
very fond of Frank, and therefore I would not speak ill of
her. Besides, she is out of health now; but that indeed, by
her own account, she has always been. I would not say so
to every body, Mrs. Elton, but I have not much faith in
Mrs. Churchill’s illness.’
‘If she is really ill, why not go to Bath, Mr. Weston?—
To Bath, or to Clifton?’ ‘She has taken it into her head
that Enscombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose,
that she is tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer
time stationary there, than she ever was before, and she

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begins to want change. It is a retired place. A fine place,
but very retired.’
‘Aye—like Maple Grove, I dare say. Nothing can stand
more retired from the road than Maple Grove. Such an
immense plantation all round it! You seem shut out from
every thing—in the most complete retirement.— And
Mrs. Churchill probably has not health or spirits like
Selina to enjoy that sort of seclusion. Or, perhaps she may
not have resources enough in herself to be qualified for a
country life. I always say a woman cannot have too many
resources—and I feel very thankful that I have so many
myself as to be quite independent of society.’
‘Frank was here in February for a fortnight.’
‘So I remember to have heard. He will find an addition
to the society of Highbury when he comes again; that is, if
I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he
may never have heard of there being such a creature in the
world.’
This was too loud a call for a compliment to be passed
by, and Mr. Weston, with a very good grace, immediately
exclaimed,
‘My dear madam! Nobody but yourself could imagine
such a thing possible. Not heard of you!—I believe Mrs.

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Weston’s letters lately have been full of very little else than
Mrs. Elton.’
He had done his duty and could return to his son.
‘When Frank left us,’ continued he, ‘it was quite
uncertain when we might see him again, which makes this
day’s news doubly welcome. It has been completely
unexpected. That is, I always had a strong persuasion he
would be here again soon, I was sure something
favourable would turn up—but nobody believed me. He
and Mrs. Weston were both dreadfully desponding. ‘How
could he contrive to come? And how could it be supposed
that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?’ and so
forth—I always felt that something would happen in our
favour; and so it has, you see. I have observed, Mrs. Elton,
in the course of my life, that if things are going
untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.’
‘Very true, Mr. Weston, perfectly true. It is just what I
used to say to a certain gentleman in company in the days
of courtship, when, because things did not go quite right,
did not proceed with all the rapidity which suited his
feelings, he was apt to be in despair, and exclaim that he
was sure at this rate it would be May before Hymen’s
saffron robe would be put on for us. Oh! the pains I have
been at to dispel those gloomy ideas and give him
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cheerfuller views! The carriage—we had disappointments
about the carriage;—one morning, I remember, he came
to me quite in despair.’
She was stopped by a slight fit of coughing, and Mr.
Weston instantly seized the opportunity of going on.
‘You were mentioning May. May is the very month
which Mrs. Churchill is ordered, or has ordered herself, to
spend in some warmer place than Enscombe—in short, to
spend in London; so that we have the agreeable prospect
of frequent visits from Frank the whole spring— precisely
the season of the year which one should have chosen for
it: days almost at the longest; weather genial and pleasant,
always inviting one out, and never too hot for exercise.
When he was here before, we made the best of it; but
there was a good deal of wet, damp, cheerless weather;
there always is in February, you know, and we could not
do half that we intended. Now will be the time. This will
be complete enjoyment; and I do not know, Mrs. Elton,
whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the sort of
constant expectation there will be of his coming in to-day
or to-morrow, and at any hour, may not be more friendly
to happiness than having him actually in the house. I think
it is so. I think it is the state of mind which gives most
spirit and delight. I hope you will be pleased with my son;
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but you must not expect a prodigy. He is generally
thought a fine young man, but do not expect a prodigy.
Mrs. Weston’s partiality for him is very great, and, as you
may suppose, most gratifying to me. She thinks nobody
equal to him.’
‘And I assure you, Mr. Weston, I have very little doubt
that my opinion will be decidedly in his favour. I have
heard so much in praise of Mr. Frank Churchill.—At the
same time it is fair to observe, that I am one of those who
always judge for themselves, and are by no means
implicitly guided by others. I give you notice that as I find
your son, so I shall judge of him.—I am no flatterer.’
Mr. Weston was musing.
‘I hope,’ said he presently, ‘I have not been severe
upon poor Mrs. Churchill. If she is ill I should be sorry to
do her injustice; but there are some traits in her character
which make it difficult for me to speak of her with the
forbearance I could wish. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs.
Elton, of my connexion with the family, nor of the
treatment I have met with; and, between ourselves, the
whole blame of it is to be laid to her. She was the
instigator. Frank’s mother would never have been slighted
as she was but for her. Mr. Churchill has pride; but his
pride is nothing to his wife’s: his is a quiet, indolent,
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gentlemanlike sort of pride that would harm nobody, and
only make himself a little helpless and tiresome; but her
pride is arrogance and insolence! And what inclines one
less to bear, she has no fair pretence of family or blood.
She was nobody when he married her, barely the daughter
of a gentleman; but ever since her being turned into a
Churchill she has out-Churchill’d them all in high and
mighty claims: but in herself, I assure you, she is an
upstart.’
‘Only think! well, that must be infinitely provoking! I
have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove has given me
a thorough disgust to people of that sort; for there is a
family in that neighbourhood who are such an annoyance
to my brother and sister from the airs they give
themselves! Your description of Mrs. Churchill made me
think of them directly. People of the name of Tupman,
very lately settled there, and encumbered with many low
connexions, but giving themselves immense airs, and
expecting to be on a footing with the old established
families. A year and a half is the very utmost that they can
have lived at West Hall; and how they got their fortune
nobody knows. They came from Birmingham, which is
not a place to promise much, you know, Mr. Weston.
One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I always say
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there is something direful in the sound: but nothing more
is positively known of the Tupmans, though a good many
things I assure you are suspected; and yet by their manners
they evidently think themselves equal even to my brother,
Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their nearest
neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has
been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose
father had it before him—I believe, at least—I am almost
sure that old Mr. Suckling had completed the purchase
before his death.’
They were interrupted. Tea was carrying round, and
Mr. Weston, having said all that he wanted, soon took the
opportunity of walking away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Elton sat
down with Mr. Woodhouse to cards. The remaining five
were left to their own powers, and Emma doubted their
getting on very well; for Mr. Knightley seemed little
disposed for conversation; Mrs. Elton was wanting notice,
which nobody had inclination to pay, and she was herself
in a worry of spirits which would have made her prefer
being silent.
Mr. John Knightley proved more talkative than his
brother. He was to leave them early the next day; and he
soon began with—
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‘Well, Emma, I do not believe I have any thing more
to say about the boys; but you have your sister’s letter, and
every thing is down at full length there we may be sure.
My charge would be much more concise than her’s, and
probably not much in the same spirit; all that I have to
recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and
do not physic them.’
‘I rather hope to satisfy you both,’ said Emma, ‘for I
shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will
be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false
indulgence and physic.’
‘And if you find them troublesome, you must send
them home again.’
‘That is very likely. You think so, do not you?’
‘I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your
father— or even may be some encumbrance to you, if
your visiting engagements continue to increase as much as
they have done lately.’
‘Increase!’
‘Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half-year
has made a great difference in your way of life.’
‘Difference! No indeed I am not.’
‘There can be no doubt of your being much more
engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this
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very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and
you are engaged with a dinner-party!— When did it
happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood
is increasing, and you mix more with it. A little while ago,
every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties;
dinners at Mr. Cole’s, or balls at the Crown. The
difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your
goings-on, is very great.’
‘Yes,’ said his brother quickly, ‘it is Randalls that does
it all.’
‘Very well—and as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to
have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a
possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be
sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to
send them home.’
‘No,’ cried Mr. Knightley, ‘that need not be the
consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall
certainly be at leisure.’
‘Upon my word,’ exclaimed Emma, ‘you amuse me! I
should like to know how many of all my numerous
engagements take place without your being of the party;
and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure
to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of
mine— what have they been? Dining once with the
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Coles—and having a ball talked of, which never took
place. I can understand you—(nodding at Mr. John
Knightley)—your good fortune in meeting with so many
of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass
unnoticed. But you, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) who
know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from
Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of
dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear
little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for
them, I do not think they would fare much better with
Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five
hours where she is absent one— and who, when he is at
home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.’
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and
succeeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning
to talk to him.

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Volume III

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Chapter I
A very little quiet reflection was enough to satisfy
Emma as to the nature of her agitation on hearing this
news of Frank Churchill. She was soon convinced that it
was not for herself she was feeling at all apprehensive or
embarrassed; it was for him. Her own attachment had
really subsided into a mere nothing; it was not worth
thinking of;— but if he, who had undoubtedly been
always so much the most in love of the two, were to be
returning with the same warmth of sentiment which he
had taken away, it would be very distressing. If a
separation of two months should not have cooled him,
there were dangers and evils before her:—caution for him
and for herself would be necessary. She did not mean to
have her own affections entangled again, and it would be
incumbent on her to avoid any encouragement of his.
She wished she might be able to keep him from an
absolute declaration. That would be so very painful a
conclusion of their present acquaintance! and yet, she
could not help rather anticipating something decisive. She
felt as if the spring would not pass without bringing a
crisis, an event, a something to alter her present composed
and tranquil state.

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It was not very long, though rather longer than Mr.
Weston had foreseen, before she had the power of
forming some opinion of Frank Churchill’s feelings. The
Enscombe family were not in town quite so soon as had
been imagined, but he was at Highbury very soon
afterwards. He rode down for a couple of hours; he could
not yet do more; but as he came from Randalls
immediately to Hartfield, she could then exercise all her
quick observation, and speedily determine how he was
influenced, and how she must act. They met with the
utmost friendliness. There could be no doubt of his great
pleasure in seeing her. But she had an almost instant doubt
of his caring for her as he had done, of his feeling the same
tenderness in the same degree. She watched him well. It
was a clear thing he was less in love than he had been.
Absence, with the conviction probably of her indifference,
had produced this very natural and very desirable effect.
He was in high spirits; as ready to talk and laugh as
ever, and seemed delighted to speak of his former visit,
and recur to old stories: and he was not without agitation.
It was not in his calmness that she read his comparative
difference. He was not calm; his spirits were evidently
fluttered; there was restlessness about him. Lively as he
was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy himself; but
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what decided her belief on the subject, was his staying
only a quarter of an hour, and hurrying away to make
other calls in Highbury. ‘He had seen a group of old
acquaintance in the street as he passed— he had not
stopped, he would not stop for more than a word—but he
had the vanity to think they would be disappointed if he
did not call, and much as he wished to stay longer at
Hartfield, he must hurry off.’ She had no doubt as to his
being less in love—but neither his agitated spirits, nor his
hurrying away, seemed like a perfect cure; and she was
rather inclined to think it implied a dread of her returning
power, and a discreet resolution of not trusting himself
with her long.
This was the only visit from Frank Churchill in the
course of ten days. He was often hoping, intending to
come—but was always prevented. His aunt could not bear
to have him leave her. Such was his own account at
Randall’s. If he were quite sincere, if he really tried to
come, it was to be inferred that Mrs. Churchill’s removal
to London had been of no service to the wilful or nervous
part of her disorder. That she was really ill was very
certain; he had declared himself convinced of it, at
Randalls. Though much might be fancy, he could not
doubt, when he looked back, that she was in a weaker
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state of health than she had been half a year ago. He did
not believe it to proceed from any thing that care and
medicine might not remove, or at least that she might not
have many years of existence before her; but he could not
be prevailed on, by all his father’s doubts, to say that her
complaints were merely imaginary, or that she was as
strong as ever.
It soon appeared that London was not the place for her.
She could not endure its noise. Her nerves were under
continual irritation and suffering; and by the ten days’ end,
her nephew’s letter to Randalls communicated a change of
plan. They were going to remove immediately to
Richmond. Mrs. Churchill had been recommended to the
medical skill of an eminent person there, and had
otherwise a fancy for the place. A ready-furnished house
in a favourite spot was engaged, and much benefit
expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank wrote in the highest spirits of
this arrangement, and seemed most fully to appreciate the
blessing of having two months before him of such near
neighbourhood to many dear friends— for the house was
taken for May and June. She was told that now he wrote
with the greatest confidence of being often with them,
almost as often as he could even wish.
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Emma saw how Mr. Weston understood these joyous
prospects. He was considering her as the source of all the
happiness they offered. She hoped it was not so. Two
months must bring it to the proof.
Mr. Weston’s own happiness was indisputable. He was
quite delighted. It was the very circumstance he could
have wished for. Now, it would be really having Frank in
their neighbourhood. What were nine miles to a young
man?—An hour’s ride. He would be always coming over.
The difference in that respect of Richmond and London
was enough to make the whole difference of seeing him
always and seeing him never. Sixteen miles—nay,
eighteen—it must be full eighteen to Manchester-street—
was a serious obstacle. Were he ever able to get away, the
day would be spent in coming and returning. There was
no comfort in having him in London; he might as well be
at Enscombe; but Richmond was the very distance for
easy intercourse. Better than nearer!
One good thing was immediately brought to a certainty
by this removal,— the ball at the Crown. It had not been
forgotten before, but it had been soon acknowledged vain
to attempt to fix a day. Now, however, it was absolutely
to be; every preparation was resumed, and very soon after
the Churchills had removed to Richmond, a few lines
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from Frank, to say that his aunt felt already much better
for the change, and that he had no doubt of being able to
join them for twenty-four hours at any given time,
induced them to name as early a day as possible.
Mr. Weston’s ball was to be a real thing. A very few
to-morrows stood between the young people of Highbury
and happiness.
Mr. Woodhouse was resigned. The time of year
lightened the evil to him. May was better for every thing
than February. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the
evening at Hartfield, James had due notice, and he
sanguinely hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear
little John would have any thing the matter with them,
while dear Emma were gone.

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Chapter II
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The
day approached, the day arrived; and after a morning of
some anxious watching, Frank Churchill, in all the
certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before dinner,
and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him
and Emma. The room at the Crown was to witness it;—
but it would be better than a common meeting in a
crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after
themselves, for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the
propriety and comfort of the rooms before any other
persons came, that she could not refuse him, and must
therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man’s
company. She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to
the Crown in good time, the Randalls party just
sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch;
and though he did not say much, his eyes declared that he
meant to have a delightful evening. They all walked about
together, to see that every thing was as it should be; and

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within a few minutes were joined by the contents of
another carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound
of at first, without great surprize. ‘So unreasonably early!’
she was going to exclaim; but she presently found that it
was a family of old friends, who were coming, like herself,
by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston’s judgment; and
they were so very closely followed by another carriage of
cousins, who had been entreated to come early with the
same distinguishing earnestness, on the same errand, that it
seemed as if half the company might soon be collected
together for the purpose of preparatory inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste
on which Mr. Weston depended, and felt, that to be the
favourite and intimate of a man who had so many
intimates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction
in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a
little less of open-heartedness would have made him a
higher character.—General benevolence, but not general
friendship, made a man what he ought to be.— She could
fancy such a man. The whole party walked about, and
looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing else to
do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe
in their various modes, till other subjects were started,

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that, though May, a fire in the evening was still very
pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston’s fault that the
number of privy councillors was not yet larger. They had
stopped at Mrs. Bates’s door to offer the use of their
carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the
Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a
restlessness, which shewed a mind not at ease. He was
looking about, he was going to the door, he was watching
for the sound of other carriages,— impatient to begin, or
afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. ‘I think she must be here
soon,’ said he. ‘I have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I
have heard so much of her. It cannot be long, I think,
before she comes.’
A carriage was heard. He was on the move
immediately; but coming back, said,
‘I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I
have never seen either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no
business to put myself forward.’
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the
proprieties passed.

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‘But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!’ said Mr. Weston,
looking about. ‘We thought you were to bring them.’
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for
them now. Emma longed to know what Frank’s first
opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how he was affected by
the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to
form an opinion, by giving her very proper attention, after
the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.—Somebody
talked of rain.— ‘I will see that there are umbrellas, sir,’
said Frank to his father: ‘Miss Bates must not be forgotten:’
and away he went. Mr. Weston was following; but Mrs.
Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion of his
son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man
himself, though by no means moving slowly, could hardly
be out of hearing.
‘A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You
know I candidly told you I should form my own opinion;
and I am happy to say that I am extremely pleased with
him.—You may believe me. I never compliment. I think
him a very handsome young man, and his manners are
precisely what I like and approve—so truly the gentleman,
without the least conceit or puppyism. You must know I
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have a vast dislike to puppies— quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr.
Suckling nor me had ever any patience with them; and we
used sometimes to say very cutting things! Selina, who is
mild almost to a fault, bore with them much better.’
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston’s attention was
chained; but when she got to Maple Grove, he could
recollect that there were ladies just arriving to be attended
to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. ‘I have no doubt of
its being our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our
coachman and horses are so extremely expeditious!—I
believe we drive faster than any body.— What a pleasure
it is to send one’s carriage for a friend!— I understand you
were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite
unnecessary. You may be very sure I shall always take care
of them.’
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two
gentlemen, walked into the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed
to think it as much her duty as Mrs. Weston’s to receive
them. Her gestures and movements might be understood
by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words,
every body’s words, were soon lost under the incessant
flow of Miss Bates, who came in talking, and had not
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finished her speech under many minutes after her being
admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she
was heard,
‘So very obliging of you!—No rain at all. Nothing to
signify. I do not care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And
Jane declares— Well!—(as soon as she was within the
door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!—This is admirable!—
Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting.
Could not have imagined it.—So well lighted up!— Jane,
Jane, look!—did you ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston,
you must really have had Aladdin’s lamp. Good Mrs.
Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
I came in; she was standing in the entrance. ‘Oh! Mrs.
Stokes,’ said I— but I had not time for more.’ She was
now met by Mrs. Weston.— ‘Very well, I thank you,
ma’am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear it.
So afraid you might have a headach!— seeing you pass by
so often, and knowing how much trouble you must have.
Delighted to hear it indeed. Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so
obliged to you for the carriage!—excellent time. Jane and
I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most
comfortable carriage.— Oh! and I am sure our thanks are
due to you, Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had
most kindly sent Jane a note, or we should have been.—
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But two such offers in one day!—Never were such
neighbours. I said to my mother, ‘Upon my word,
ma’am—.’ Thank you, my mother is remarkably well.
Gone to Mr. Woodhouse’s. I made her take her shawl—
for the evenings are not warm—her large new shawl—
Mrs. Dixon’s wedding-present.—So kind of her to think
of my mother! Bought at Weymouth, you know—Mr.
Dixon’s choice. There were three others, Jane says, which
they hesitated about some time. Colonel Campbell rather
preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did not
wet your feet?—It was but a drop or two, but I am so
afraid:—but Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely— and
there was a mat to step upon—I shall never forget his
extreme politeness.—Oh! Mr. Frank Churchill, I must tell
you my mother’s spectacles have never been in fault since;
the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of
your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?—Do not we often
talk of Mr. Frank Churchill?— Ah! here’s Miss
Woodhouse.—Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do you do?—
Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite in
fairy-land!— Such a transformation!—Must not
compliment, I know (eyeing Emma most complacently)—
that would be rude—but upon my word, Miss
Woodhouse, you do look—how do you like Jane’s
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hair?—You are a judge.— She did it all herself. Quite
wonderful how she does her hair!— No hairdresser from
London I think could.—Ah! Dr. Hughes I declare— and
Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes
for a moment.—How do you do? How do you do?—
Very well, I thank you. This is delightful, is not it?—
Where’s dear Mr. Richard?— Oh! there he is. Don’t
disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young
ladies. How do you do, Mr. Richard?—I saw you the
other day as you rode through the town—Mrs. Otway, I
protest!— and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and
Miss Caroline.—Such a host of friends!—and Mr. George
and Mr. Arthur!—How do you do? How do you all
do?—Quite well, I am much obliged to you. Never
better.— Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this
be?—very likely the worthy Coles.—Upon my word, this
is charming to be standing about among such friends! And
such a noble fire!—I am quite roasted. No coffee, I thank
you, for me—never take coffee.—A little tea if you please,
sir, by and bye,—no hurry—Oh! here it comes. Every
thing so good!’
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and
as soon as Miss Bates was quiet, she found herself
necessarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and
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Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind her.—
He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she
could not determine. After a good many compliments to
Jane on her dress and look, compliments very quietly and
properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be
complimented herself— and it was, ‘How do you like my
gown?—How do you like my trimming?— How has
Wright done my hair?’—with many other relative
questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton
then said, ‘Nobody can think less of dress in general than I
do—but upon such an occasion as this, when every body’s
eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the
Westons—who I have no doubt are giving this ball chiefly
to do me honour—I would not wish to be inferior to
others. And I see very few pearls in the room except
mine.— So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I
understand.—We shall see if our styles suit.—A fine young
man certainly is Frank Churchill. I like him very well.’
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that
Emma could not but imagine he had overheard his own
praises, and did not want to hear more;—and the voices of
the ladies were drowned for a while, till another
suspension brought Mrs. Elton’s tones again distinctly

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forward.—Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife
was exclaiming,
‘Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our
seclusion?— I was this moment telling Jane, I thought you
would begin to be impatient for tidings of us.’
‘Jane!’—repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of
surprize and displeasure.— ‘That is easy—but Miss Fairfax
does not disapprove it, I suppose.’
‘How do you like Mrs. Elton?’ said Emma in a
whisper.
‘Not at all.’
‘You are ungrateful.’
‘Ungrateful!—What do you mean?’ Then changing
from a frown to a smile—‘No, do not tell me—I do not
want to know what you mean.— Where is my father?—
When are we to begin dancing?’
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an
odd humour. He walked off to find his father, but was
quickly back again with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston. He
had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be
laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston
that Mrs. Elton must be asked to begin the ball; that she
would expect it; which interfered with all their wishes of

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giving Emma that distinction.—Emma heard the sad truth
with fortitude.
‘And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?’
said Mr. Weston. ‘She will think Frank ought to ask her.’
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former
promise; and boasted himself an engaged man, which his
father looked his most perfect approbation of—and it then
appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting him to dance
with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to
help to persuade him into it, which was done pretty
soon.— Mr. Weston and Mrs. Elton led the way, Mr.
Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed. Emma
must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she
had always considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was
almost enough to make her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton
had undoubtedly the advantage, at this time, in vanity
completely gratified; for though she had intended to begin
with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change.
Mr. Weston might be his son’s superior.— In spite of this
little rub, however, Emma was smiling with enjoyment,
delighted to see the respectable length of the set as it was
forming, and to feel that she had so many hours of unusual
festivity before her.— She was more disturbed by Mr.
Knightley’s not dancing than by any thing else.—There he
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was, among the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he
ought to be dancing,—not classing himself with the
husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who were
pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers
were made up,—so young as he looked!— He could not
have appeared to greater advantage perhaps anywhere,
than where he had placed himself. His tall, firm, upright
figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of
the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every
body’s eyes; and, excepting her own partner, there was
not one among the whole row of young men who could
be compared with him.—He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how
gentlemanlike a manner, with what natural grace, he must
have danced, would he but take the trouble.—Whenever
she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but in general
he was looking grave. She wished he could love a
ballroom better, and could like Frank Churchill better.—
He seemed often observing her. She must not flatter
herself that he thought of her dancing, but if he were
criticising her behaviour, she did not feel afraid. There was
nothing like flirtation between her and her partner. They
seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That

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Frank Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was
indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the
incessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown
away. Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a
delightful ball, which is seldom bestowed till after a ball
has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in the very
beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very
recordable events, it was not more productive than such
meetings usually are. There was one, however, which
Emma thought something of.—The two last dances before
supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;—the only
young lady sitting down;— and so equal had been hitherto
the number of dancers, that how there could be any one
disengaged was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder
lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton sauntering
about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were
possible to be avoided: she was sure he would not—and
she was expecting him every moment to escape into the
card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part
of the room where the sitters-by were collected, spoke to
some, and walked about in front of them, as if to shew his
liberty, and his resolution of maintaining it. He did not
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omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.— Emma saw it.
She was not yet dancing; she was working her way up
from the bottom, and had therefore leisure to look
around, and by only turning her head a little she saw it all.
When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were
exactly behind her, and she would no longer allow her
eyes to watch; but Mr. Elton was so near, that she heard
every syllable of a dialogue which just then took place
between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that his
wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not
only listening also, but even encouraging him by
significant glances.—The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs.
Weston had left her seat to join him and say, ‘Do not you
dance, Mr. Elton?’ to which his prompt reply was, ‘Most
readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.’
‘Me!—oh! no—I would get you a better partner than
myself. I am no dancer.’
‘If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance,’ said he, ‘I shall have
great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to feel
myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing
days are over, it would give me very great pleasure at any
time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.’

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‘Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a
young lady disengaged whom I should be very glad to see
dancing—Miss Smith.’ ‘Miss Smith!—oh!—I had not
observed.—You are extremely obliging— and if I were
not an old married man.—But my dancing days are over,
Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should
be most happy to do, at your command—but my dancing
days are over.’
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine
with what surprize and mortification she must be
returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the amiable,
obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.— She looked round for a
moment; he had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance,
and was arranging himself for settled conversation, while
smiles of high glee passed between him and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow,
and she feared her face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;—Mr.
Knightley leading Harriet to the set!—Never had she been
more surprized, seldom more delighted, than at that
instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude, both for Harriet
and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon
as she could catch his eye again.
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His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it,
extremely good; and Harriet would have seemed almost
too lucky, if it had not been for the cruel state of things
before, and for the very complete enjoyment and very
high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded
higher than ever, flew farther down the middle, and was
in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking
(Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was
quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like
her;—she spoke some of her feelings, by observing audibly
to her partner,
‘Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!—
Very goodnatured, I declare.’
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss
Bates might be heard from that moment, without
interruption, till her being seated at table and taking up
her spoon.
‘Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?—Here is
your tippet. Mrs. Weston begs you to put on your tippet.
She says she is afraid there will be draughts in the passage,
though every thing has been done—One door nailed
up—Quantities of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you
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must. Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well
you put it on!—so gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!—
Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said I should, to help
grandmama to bed, and got back again, and nobody
missed me.—I set off without saying a word, just as I told
you. Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening
with Mr. Woodhouse, a vast deal of chat, and
backgammon.—Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and
baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing
luck in some of her throws: and she inquired a great deal
about you, how you were amused, and who were your
partners. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘I shall not forestall Jane; I left her
dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell you
all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr.
Elton, I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr.
William Cox.’ My dear sir, you are too obliging.—Is there
nobody you would not rather?—I am not helpless. Sir,
you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and
me on the other!—Stop, stop, let us stand a little back,
Mrs. Elton is going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she
looks!—Beautiful lace!—Now we all follow in her train.
Quite the queen of the evening!—Well, here we are at
the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps.
Oh! no, there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there
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were two. How very odd! I was convinced there were
two, and there is but one. I never saw any thing equal to
the comfort and style—Candles everywhere.—I was
telling you of your grandmama, Jane,—There was a little
disappointment.— The baked apples and biscuits,
excellent in their way, you know; but there was a delicate
fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at
first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the
asparagus quite boiled enough, sent it all out again. Now
there is nothing grandmama loves better than sweetbread
and asparagus— so she was rather disappointed, but we
agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of its
getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so
very much concerned!—Well, this is brilliant! I am all
amazement! could not have supposed any thing!—Such
elegance and profusion!—I have seen nothing like it
since— Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit?
Anywhere, so that Jane is not in a draught. Where I sit is
of no consequence. Oh! do you recommend this side?—
Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill— only it seems too
good—but just as you please. What you direct in this
house cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever
recollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless

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me! I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most
excellent, and I cannot help beginning.’
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr.
Knightley till after supper; but, when they were all in the
ballroom again, her eyes invited him irresistibly to come
to her and be thanked. He was warm in his reprobation of
Mr. Elton’s conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton’s looks also received the due share of
censure.
‘They aimed at wounding more than Harriet,’ said he.
‘Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?’
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving
no answer, added, ‘She ought not to be angry with you, I
suspect, whatever he may be.—To that surmise, you say
nothing, of course; but confess, Emma, that you did want
him to marry Harriet.’
‘I did,’ replied Emma, ‘and they cannot forgive me.’
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence
with it, and he only said,
‘I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own
reflections.’
‘Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain
spirit ever tell me I am wrong?’

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‘Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.—If one
leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you of it.’
‘I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in
Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him which you
discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced
of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a series of
strange blunders!’
‘And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will
do you the justice to say, that you would have chosen for
him better than he has chosen for himself.—Harriet Smith
has some first-rate qualities, which Mrs. Elton is totally
without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—
infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to
such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more
conversable than I expected.’
Emma was extremely gratified.—They were
interrupted by the bustle of Mr. Weston calling on every
body to begin dancing again.
‘Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax,
what are you all doing?— Come Emma, set your
companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body
is asleep!’
‘I am ready,’ said Emma, ‘whenever I am wanted.’

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‘Whom are you going to dance with?’ asked Mr.
Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, ‘With you, if
you will ask me.’
‘Will you?’ said he, offering his hand.
‘Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance,
and you know we are not really so much brother and
sister as to make it at all improper.’
‘Brother and sister! no, indeed.’

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Chapter III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma
considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable
recollections of the ball, which she walked about the lawn
the next morning to enjoy.—She was extremely glad that
they had come to so good an understanding respecting the
Eltons, and that their opinions of both husband and wife
were so much alike; and his praise of Harriet, his
concession in her favour, was peculiarly gratifying. The
impertinence of the Eltons, which for a few minutes had
threatened to ruin the rest of her evening, had been the
occasion of some of its highest satisfactions; and she looked
forward to another happy result—the cure of Harriet’s
infatuation.— From Harriet’s manner of speaking of the
circumstance before they quitted the ballroom, she had
strong hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly
opened, and she were enabled to see that Mr. Elton was
not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever
was over, and Emma could harbour little fear of the pulse
being quickened again by injurious courtesy. She
depended on the evil feelings of the Eltons for supplying
all the discipline of pointed neglect that could be farther

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requisite.—Harriet rational, Frank Churchill not too much
in love, and Mr. Knightley not wanting to quarrel with
her, how very happy a summer must be before her!
She was not to see Frank Churchill this morning. He
had told her that he could not allow himself the pleasure
of stopping at Hartfield, as he was to be at home by the
middle of the day. She did not regret it.
Having arranged all these matters, looked them
through, and put them all to rights, she was just turning to
the house with spirits freshened up for the demands of the
two little boys, as well as of their grandpapa, when the
great iron sweep-gate opened, and two persons entered
whom she had never less expected to see together—Frank
Churchill, with Harriet leaning on his arm—actually
Harriet!—A moment sufficed to convince her that
something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked
white and frightened, and he was trying to cheer her.—
The iron gates and the front-door were not twenty yards
asunder;— they were all three soon in the hall, and
Harriet immediately sinking into a chair fainted away.
A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions
must be answered, and surprizes be explained. Such events
are very interesting, but the suspense of them cannot last

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long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the
whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour
boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s, who had been also at the ball,
had walked out together, and taken a road, the Richmond
road, which, though apparently public enough for safety,
had led them into alarm.—About half a mile beyond
Highbury, making a sudden turn, and deeply shaded by
elms on each side, it became for a considerable stretch very
retired; and when the young ladies had advanced some
way into it, they had suddenly perceived at a small
distance before them, on a broader patch of greensward by
the side, a party of gipsies. A child on the watch, came
towards them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, excessively
frightened, gave a great scream, and calling on Harriet to
follow her, ran up a steep bank, cleared a slight hedge at
the top, and made the best of her way by a short cut back
to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had
suffered very much from cramp after dancing, and her first
attempt to mount the bank brought on such a return of it
as made her absolutely powerless— and in this state, and
exceedingly terrified, she had been obliged to remain.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young
ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such
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an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harriet
was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by a
stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and
impertinent in look, though not absolutely in word.—
More and more frightened, she immediately promised
them money, and taking out her purse, gave them a
shilling, and begged them not to want more, or to use her
ill.—She was then able to walk, though but slowly, and
was moving away—but her terror and her purse were too
tempting, and she was followed, or rather surrounded, by
the whole gang, demanding more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she
trembling and conditioning, they loud and insolent. By a
most fortunate chance his leaving Highbury had been
delayed so as to bring him to her assistance at this critical
moment. The pleasantness of the morning had induced
him to walk forward, and leave his horses to meet him by
another road, a mile or two beyond Highbury— and
happening to have borrowed a pair of scissors the night
before of Miss Bates, and to have forgotten to restore
them, he had been obliged to stop at her door, and go in
for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had
intended; and being on foot, was unseen by the whole
party till almost close to them. The terror which the
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woman and boy had been creating in Harriet was then
their own portion. He had left them completely
frightened; and Harriet eagerly clinging to him, and hardly
able to speak, had just strength enough to reach Hartfield,
before her spirits were quite overcome. It was his idea to
bring her to Hartfield: he had thought of no other place.
This was the amount of the whole story,—of his
communication and of Harriet’s as soon as she had
recovered her senses and speech.— He dared not stay
longer than to see her well; these several delays left him
not another minute to lose; and Emma engaging to give
assurance of her safety to Mrs. Goddard, and notice of
there being such a set of people in the neighbourhood to
Mr. Knightley, he set off, with all the grateful blessings
that she could utter for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this,—a fine young man and a
lovely young woman thrown together in such a way,
could hardly fail of suggesting certain ideas to the coldest
heart and the steadiest brain. So Emma thought, at least.
Could a linguist, could a grammarian, could even a
mathematician have seen what she did, have witnessed
their appearance together, and heard their history of it,
without feeling that circumstances had been at work to
make them peculiarly interesting to each other?—How
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much more must an imaginist, like herself, be on fire with
speculation and foresight!—especially with such a
groundwork of anticipation as her mind had already made.
It was a very extraordinary thing! Nothing of the sort
had ever occurred before to any young ladies in the place,
within her memory; no rencontre, no alarm of the
kind;—and now it had happened to the very person, and
at the very hour, when the other very person was
chancing to pass by to rescue her!—It certainly was very
extraordinary!—And knowing, as she did, the favourable
state of mind of each at this period, it struck her the more.
He was wishing to get the better of his attachment to
herself, she just recovering from her mania for Mr. Elton.
It seemed as if every thing united to promise the most
interesting consequences. It was not possible that the
occurrence should not be strongly recommending each to
the other.
In the few minutes’ conversation which she had yet
had with him, while Harriet had been partially insensible,
he had spoken of her terror, her naivete, her fervour as she
seized and clung to his arm, with a sensibility amused and
delighted; and just at last, after Harriet’s own account had
been given, he had expressed his indignation at the
abominable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms.
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Every thing was to take its natural course, however,
neither impelled nor assisted. She would not stir a step,
nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference.
There could be no harm in a scheme, a mere passive
scheme. It was no more than a wish. Beyond it she would
on no account proceed.
Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the
knowledge of what had passed,—aware of the anxiety and
alarm it would occasion: but she soon felt that
concealment must be impossible. Within half an hour it
was known all over Highbury. It was the very event to
engage those who talk most, the young and the low; and
all the youth and servants in the place were soon in the
happiness of frightful news. The last night’s ball seemed
lost in the gipsies. Poor Mr. Woodhouse trembled as he
sat, and, as Emma had foreseen, would scarcely be satisfied
without their promising never to go beyond the shrubbery
again. It was some comfort to him that many inquiries
after himself and Miss Woodhouse (for his neighbours
knew that he loved to be inquired after), as well as Miss
Smith, were coming in during the rest of the day; and he
had the pleasure of returning for answer, that they were all
very indifferent— which, though not exactly true, for she
was perfectly well, and Harriet not much otherwise,
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Emma would not interfere with. She had an unhappy state
of health in general for the child of such a man, for she
hardly knew what indisposition was; and if he did not
invent illnesses for her, she could make no figure in a
message.
The gipsies did not wait for the operations of justice;
they took themselves off in a hurry. The young ladies of
Highbury might have walked again in safety before their
panic began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a
matter of little importance but to Emma and her
nephews:—in her imagination it maintained its ground,
and Henry and John were still asking every day for the
story of Harriet and the gipsies, and still tenaciously setting
her right if she varied in the slightest particular from the
original recital.

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Chapter IV
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when
Harriet came one morning to Emma with a small parcel in
her hand, and after sitting down and hesitating, thus
began:
‘Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have
something that I should like to tell you—a sort of
confession to make—and then, you know, it will be over.’
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to
speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet’s manner which
prepared her, quite as much as her words, for something
more than ordinary.
‘It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish,’ she
continued, ‘to have no reserves with you on this subject.
As I am happily quite an altered creature in one respect, it
is very fit that you should have the satisfaction of knowing
it. I do not want to say more than is necessary—I am too
much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and I
dare say you understand me.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘I hope I do.’
‘How I could so long a time be fancying myself! …’
cried Harriet, warmly. ‘It seems like madness! I can see

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nothing at all extraordinary in him now.—I do not care
whether I meet him or not—except that of the two I had
rather not see him— and indeed I would go any distance
round to avoid him—but I do not envy his wife in the
least; I neither admire her nor envy her, as I have done:
she is very charming, I dare say, and all that, but I think
her very ill-tempered and disagreeable—I shall never
forget her look the other night!—However, I assure you,
Miss Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.—No, let them be
ever so happy together, it will not give me another
moment’s pang: and to convince you that I have been
speaking truth, I am now going to destroy—what I ought
to have destroyed long ago—what I ought never to have
kept— I know that very well (blushing as she spoke).—
However, now I will destroy it all—and it is my particular
wish to do it in your presence, that you may see how
rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
holds?’ said she, with a conscious look.
‘Not the least in the world.—Did he ever give you any
thing?’
‘No—I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I
have valued very much.’
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the
words Most precious treasures on the top. Her curiosity
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was greatly excited. Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she
looked on with impatience. Within abundance of silver
paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box, which
Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton;
but, excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of
court-plaister.
‘Now,’ said Harriet, ‘you must recollect.’
‘No, indeed I do not.’
‘Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you
could forget what passed in this very room about courtplaister, one of the very last times we ever met in it!—It
was but a very few days before I had my sore throat—just
before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came— I think the
very evening.—Do not you remember his cutting his
finger with your new penknife, and your recommending
court-plaister?— But, as you had none about you, and
knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too
large, and he cut it smaller, and kept playing some time
with what was left, before he gave it back to me. And so
then, in my nonsense, I could not help making a treasure
of it— so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it
now and then as a great treat.’

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‘My dearest Harriet!’ cried Emma, putting her hand
before her face, and jumping up, ‘you make me more
ashamed of myself than I can bear. Remember it? Aye, I
remember it all now; all, except your saving this relic—I
knew nothing of that till this moment—but the cutting
the finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and
saying I had none about me!—Oh! my sins, my sins!—
And I had plenty all the while in my pocket!—One of my
senseless tricks!—I deserve to be under a continual blush
all the rest of my life.—Well—(sitting down again)— go
on—what else?’
‘And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I
never suspected it, you did it so naturally.’
‘And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by
for his sake!’ said Emma, recovering from her state of
shame and feeling divided between wonder and
amusement. And secretly she added to herself, ‘Lord bless
me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in
cotton a piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had
been pulling about! I never was equal to this.’
‘Here,’ resumed Harriet, turning to her box again,
‘here is something still more valuable, I mean that has
been more valuable, because this is what did really once
belong to him, which the court-plaister never did.’
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Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It
was the end of an old pencil,—the part without any lead.
‘This was really his,’ said Harriet.—‘Do not you
remember one morning?—no, I dare say you do not. But
one morning—I forget exactly the day—but perhaps it
was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he
wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it
was about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling
him something about brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted
to put it down; but when he took out his pencil, there
was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and it would
not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon
the table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it;
and, as soon as I dared, caught it up, and never parted with
it again from that moment.’
‘I do remember it,’ cried Emma; ‘I perfectly remember
it.— Talking about spruce-beer.—Oh! yes—Mr.
Knightley and I both saying we liked it, and Mr. Elton’s
seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I perfectly
remember it.—Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here,
was not he? I have an idea he was standing just here.’
‘Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.—It is very odd,
but I cannot recollect.—Mr. Elton was sitting here, I
remember, much about where I am now.’—
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‘Well, go on.’
‘Oh! that’s all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to
say— except that I am now going to throw them both
behind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.’
‘My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found
happiness in treasuring up these things?’
‘Yes, simpleton as I was!—but I am quite ashamed of it
now, and wish I could forget as easily as I can burn them.
It was very wrong of me, you know, to keep any
remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was—but
had not resolution enough to part with them.’
‘But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the courtplaister?—I have not a word to say for the bit of old
pencil, but the court-plaister might be useful.’
‘I shall be happier to burn it,’ replied Harriet. ‘It has a
disagreeable look to me. I must get rid of every thing.—
There it goes, and there is an end, thank Heaven! of Mr.
Elton.’
‘And when,’ thought Emma, ‘will there be a beginning
of Mr. Churchill?’
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the
beginning was already made, and could not but hope that
the gipsy, though she had told no fortune, might be
proved to have made Harriet’s.—About a fortnight after
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the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite
undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the
moment, which made the information she received more
valuable. She merely said, in the course of some trivial
chat, ‘Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise
you to do so and so’—and thought no more of it, till after
a minute’s silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious
tone, ‘I shall never marry.’
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it
was; and after a moment’s debate, as to whether it should
pass unnoticed or not, replied,
‘Never marry!—This is a new resolution.’
‘It is one that I shall never change, however.’
After another short hesitation, ‘I hope it does not
proceed from— I hope it is not in compliment to Mr.
Elton?’
‘Mr. Elton indeed!’ cried Harriet indignantly.—‘Oh!
no’—and Emma could just catch the words, ‘so superior
to Mr. Elton!’
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should
she proceed no farther?—should she let it pass, and seem
to suspect nothing?— Perhaps Harriet might think her
cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were totally
silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear
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too much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as
had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes
and chances, she was perfectly resolved.— She believed it
would be wiser for her to say and know at once, all that
she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always best.
She had previously determined how far she would
proceed, on any application of the sort; and it would be
safer for both, to have the judicious law of her own brain
laid down with speed.— She was decided, and thus
spoke—
‘Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your
meaning. Your resolution, or rather your expectation of
never marrying, results from an idea that the person whom
you might prefer, would be too greatly your superior in
situation to think of you. Is not it so?’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the
presumption to suppose— Indeed I am not so mad.—But
it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a distance—and to
think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of the world,
with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially.’
‘I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he
rendered you was enough to warm your heart.’

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‘Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!—
The very recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time—
when I saw him coming—his noble look—and my
wretchedness before. Such a change! In one moment such
a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!’
‘It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.—
Yes, honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so
gratefully.— But that it will be a fortunate preference is
more that I can promise. I do not advise you to give way
to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage for its being
returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any
rate do not let them carry you far, unless you are
persuaded of his liking you. Be observant of him. Let his
behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I give you this
caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
the subject. I am determined against all interference.
Henceforward I know nothing of the matter. Let no name
ever pass our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be
cautious now.—He is your superior, no doubt, and there
do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature;
but yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place,
there have been matches of greater disparity. But take care
of yourself. I would not have you too sanguine; though,
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however it may end, be assured your raising your thoughts
to him, is a mark of good taste which I shall always know
how to value.’
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive
gratitude. Emma was very decided in thinking such an
attachment no bad thing for her friend. Its tendency
would be to raise and refine her mind— and it must be
saving her from the danger of degradation.

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Chapter V
In this state of schemes, and hopes, and connivance,
June opened upon Hartfield. To Highbury in general it
brought no material change. The Eltons were still talking
of a visit from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of
their barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her
grandmother’s; and as the return of the Campbells from
Ireland was again delayed, and August, instead of
Midsummer, fixed for it, she was likely to remain there
full two months longer, provided at least she were able to
defeat Mrs. Elton’s activity in her service, and save herself
from being hurried into a delightful situation against her
will.
Mr. Knightley, who, for some reason best known to
himself, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank
Churchill, was only growing to dislike him more. He
began to suspect him of some double dealing in his pursuit
of Emma. That Emma was his object appeared
indisputable. Every thing declared it; his own attentions,
his father’s hints, his mother-in-law’s guarded silence; it
was all in unison; words, conduct, discretion, and
indiscretion, told the same story. But while so many were

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devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself making him
over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of
some inclination to trifle with Jane Fairfax. He could not
understand it; but there were symptoms of intelligence
between them—he thought so at least— symptoms of
admiration on his side, which, having once observed, he
could not persuade himself to think entirely void of
meaning, however he might wish to escape any of Emma’s
errors of imagination. She was not present when the
suspicion first arose. He was dining with the Randalls
family, and Jane, at the Eltons’; and he had seen a look,
more than a single look, at Miss Fairfax, which, from the
admirer of Miss Woodhouse, seemed somewhat out of
place. When he was again in their company, he could not
help remembering what he had seen; nor could he avoid
observations which, unless it were like Cowper and his
fire at twilight,
‘Myself creating what I saw,’
brought him yet stronger suspicion of there being a
something of private liking, of private understanding even,
between Frank Churchill and Jane.
He had walked up one day after dinner, as he very
often did, to spend his evening at Hartfield. Emma and
Harriet were going to walk; he joined them; and, on
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returning, they fell in with a larger party, who, like
themselves, judged it wisest to take their exercise early, as
the weather threatened rain; Mr. and Mrs. Weston and
their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had accidentally
met. They all united; and, on reaching Hartfield gates,
Emma, who knew it was exactly the sort of visiting that
would be welcome to her father, pressed them all to go in
and drink tea with him. The Randalls party agreed to it
immediately; and after a pretty long speech from Miss
Bates, which few persons listened to, she also found it
possible to accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging
invitation.
As they were turning into the grounds, Mr. Perry
passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his
horse.
‘By the bye,’ said Frank Churchill to Mrs. Weston
presently, ‘what became of Mr. Perry’s plan of setting up
his carriage?’
Mrs. Weston looked surprized, and said, ‘I did not
know that he ever had any such plan.’
‘Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it
three months ago.’
‘Me! impossible!’

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‘Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You
mentioned it as what was certainly to be very soon. Mrs.
Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about
it. It was owing to her persuasion, as she thought his being
out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You
must remember it now?’
‘Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.’
‘Never! really, never!—Bless me! how could it be?—
Then I must have dreamt it—but I was completely
persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired.
You will not be sorry to find yourself at home.’
‘What is this?—What is this?’ cried Mr. Weston, ‘about
Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up his carriage,
Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself,
had you?’
‘No, sir,’ replied his son, laughing, ‘I seem to have had
it from nobody.—Very odd!—I really was persuaded of
Mrs. Weston’s having mentioned it in one of her letters to
Enscombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—
but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before,
of course it must have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.
I dream of every body at Highbury when I am away—
and when I have gone through my particular friends, then
I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.’
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‘It is odd though,’ observed his father, ‘that you should
have had such a regular connected dream about people
whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at
Enscombe. Perry’s setting up his carriage! and his wife’s
persuading him to it, out of care for his health— just what
will happen, I have no doubt, some time or other; only a
little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs
through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities
it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shews that
Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent.
Emma, you are a great dreamer, I think?’
Emma was out of hearing. She had hurried on before
her guests to prepare her father for their appearance, and
was beyond the reach of Mr. Weston’s hint.
‘Why, to own the truth,’ cried Miss Bates, who had
been trying in vain to be heard the last two minutes, ‘if I
must speak on this subject, there is no denying that Mr.
Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he
did not dream it—I am sure I have sometimes the oddest
dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I
must acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring;
for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother, and the
Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a
secret, known to nobody else, and only thought of about
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three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should
have a carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits
one morning because she thought she had prevailed. Jane,
don’t you remember grandmama’s telling us of it when we
got home? I forget where we had been walking to— very
likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs.
Perry was always particularly fond of my mother—indeed
I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to
her in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us,
of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from that day
to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At
the same time, I will not positively answer for my having
never dropt a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop
out a thing before I am aware. I am a talker, you know; I
am rather a talker; and now and then I have let a thing
escape me which I should not. I am not like Jane; I wish I
were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing
in the world. Where is she?—Oh! just behind. Perfectly
remember Mrs. Perry’s coming.— Extraordinary dream,
indeed!’
They were entering the hall. Mr. Knightley’s eyes had
preceded Miss Bates’s in a glance at Jane. From Frank
Churchill’s face, where he thought he saw confusion
suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned
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to hers; but she was indeed behind, and too busy with her
shawl. Mr. Weston had walked in. The two other
gentlemen waited at the door to let her pass. Mr.
Knightley suspected in Frank Churchill the determination
of catching her eye— he seemed watching her intently—
in vain, however, if it were so— Jane passed between
them into the hall, and looked at neither.
There was no time for farther remark or explanation.
The dream must be borne with, and Mr. Knightley must
take his seat with the rest round the large modern circular
table which Emma had introduced at Hartfield, and which
none but Emma could have had power to place there and
persuade her father to use, instead of the small-sized
Pembroke, on which two of his daily meals had, for forty
years been crowded. Tea passed pleasantly, and nobody
seemed in a hurry to move.
‘Miss Woodhouse,’ said Frank Churchill, after
examining a table behind him, which he could reach as he
sat, ‘have your nephews taken away their alphabets—their
box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a
sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated
rather as winter than summer. We had great amusement
with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you
again.’
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Emma was pleased with the thought; and producing
the box, the table was quickly scattered over with
alphabets, which no one seemed so much disposed to
employ as their two selves. They were rapidly forming
words for each other, or for any body else who would be
puzzled. The quietness of the game made it particularly
eligible for Mr. Woodhouse, who had often been
distressed by the more animated sort, which Mr. Weston
had occasionally introduced, and who now sat happily
occupied in lamenting, with tender melancholy, over the
departure of the ‘poor little boys,’ or in fondly pointing
out, as he took up any stray letter near him, how
beautifully Emma had written it.
Frank Churchill placed a word before Miss Fairfax. She
gave a slight glance round the table, and applied herself to
it. Frank was next to Emma, Jane opposite to them—and
Mr. Knightley so placed as to see them all; and it was his
object to see as much as he could, with as little apparent
observation. The word was discovered, and with a faint
smile pushed away. If meant to be immediately mixed
with the others, and buried from sight, she should have
looked on the table instead of looking just across, for it
was not mixed; and Harriet, eager after every fresh word,
and finding out none, directly took it up, and fell to work.
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She was sitting by Mr. Knightley, and turned to him for
help. The word was blunder; and as Harriet exultingly
proclaimed it, there was a blush on Jane’s cheek which
gave it a meaning not otherwise ostensible. Mr. Knightley
connected it with the dream; but how it could all be, was
beyond his comprehension. How the delicacy, the
discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep!
He feared there must be some decided involvement.
Disingenuousness and double dealing seemed to meet him
at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for
gallantry and trick. It was a child’s play, chosen to conceal
a deeper game on Frank Churchill’s part.
With great indignation did he continue to observe him;
with great alarm and distrust, to observe also his two
blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for
Emma, and given to her with a look sly and demure. He
saw that Emma had soon made it out, and found it highly
entertaining, though it was something which she judged it
proper to appear to censure; for she said, ‘Nonsense! for
shame!’ He heard Frank Churchill next say, with a glance
towards Jane, ‘I will give it to her—shall I?’—and as
clearly heard Emma opposing it with eager laughing
warmth. ‘No, no, you must not; you shall not, indeed.’

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It was done however. This gallant young man, who
seemed to love without feeling, and to recommend
himself without complaisance, directly handed over the
word to Miss Fairfax, and with a particular degree of
sedate civility entreated her to study it. Mr. Knightley’s
excessive curiosity to know what this word might be,
made him seize every possible moment for darting his eye
towards it, and it was not long before he saw it to be
Dixon. Jane Fairfax’s perception seemed to accompany his;
her comprehension was certainly more equal to the covert
meaning, the superior intelligence, of those five letters so
arranged. She was evidently displeased; looked up, and
seeing herself watched, blushed more deeply than he had
ever perceived her, and saying only, ‘I did not know that
proper names were allowed,’ pushed away the letters with
even an angry spirit, and looked resolved to be engaged by
no other word that could be offered. Her face was averted
from those who had made the attack, and turned towards
her aunt.
‘Aye, very true, my dear,’ cried the latter, though Jane
had not spoken a word—‘I was just going to say the same
thing. It is time for us to be going indeed. The evening is
closing in, and grandmama will be looking for us. My dear

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sir, you are too obliging. We really must wish you good
night.’
Jane’s alertness in moving, proved her as ready as her
aunt had preconceived. She was immediately up, and
wanting to quit the table; but so many were also moving,
that she could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought
he saw another collection of letters anxiously pushed
towards her, and resolutely swept away by her
unexamined. She was afterwards looking for her shawl—
Frank Churchill was looking also—it was growing dusk,
and the room was in confusion; and how they parted, Mr.
Knightley could not tell.
He remained at Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts
full of what he had seen; so full, that when the candles
came to assist his observations, he must—yes, he certainly
must, as a friend— an anxious friend—give Emma some
hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a
situation of such danger, without trying to preserve her. It
was his duty.
‘Pray, Emma,’ said he, ‘may I ask in what lay the great
amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to
you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to
know how it could be so very entertaining to the one, and
so very distressing to the other.’
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Emma was extremely confused. She could not endure
to give him the true explanation; for though her suspicions
were by no means removed, she was really ashamed of
having ever imparted them.
‘Oh!’ she cried in evident embarrassment, ‘it all meant
nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.’
‘The joke,’ he replied gravely, ‘seemed confined to you
and Mr. Churchill.’
He had hoped she would speak again, but she did not.
She would rather busy herself about any thing than speak.
He sat a little while in doubt. A variety of evils crossed his
mind. Interference— fruitless interference. Emma’s
confusion, and the acknowledged intimacy, seemed to
declare her affection engaged. Yet he would speak. He
owed it to her, to risk any thing that might be involved in
an unwelcome interference, rather than her welfare; to
encounter any thing, rather than the remembrance of
neglect in such a cause.
‘My dear Emma,’ said he at last, with earnest kindness,
‘do you think you perfectly understand the degree of
acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have
been speaking of?’
‘Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax? Oh!
yes, perfectly.— Why do you make a doubt of it?’
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‘Have you never at any time had reason to think that
he admired her, or that she admired him?’
‘Never, never!’ she cried with a most open eagerness—
‘Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an
idea occur to me. And how could it possibly come into
your head?’
‘I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of
attachment between them— certain expressive looks,
which I did not believe meant to be public.’
‘Oh! you amuse me excessively. I am delighted to find
that you can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—
but it will not do— very sorry to check you in your first
essay—but indeed it will not do. There is no admiration
between them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar
circumstances—feelings rather of a totally different
nature— it is impossible exactly to explain:—there is a
good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is capable
of being communicated, which is sense, is, that they are as
far from any attachment or admiration for one another, as
any two beings in the world can be. That is, I presume it
to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on
his. I will answer for the gentleman’s indifference.’

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She spoke with a confidence which staggered, with a
satisfaction which silenced, Mr. Knightley. She was in gay
spirits, and would have prolonged the conversation,
wanting to hear the particulars of his suspicions, every
look described, and all the wheres and hows of a
circumstance which highly entertained her: but his gaiety
did not meet hers. He found he could not be useful, and
his feelings were too much irritated for talking. That he
might not be irritated into an absolute fever, by the fire
which Mr. Woodhouse’s tender habits required almost
every evening throughout the year, he soon afterwards
took a hasty leave, and walked home to the coolness and
solitude of Donwell Abbey.

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Chapter VI
After being long fed with hopes of a speedy visit from
Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world were obliged
to endure the mortification of hearing that they could not
possibly come till the autumn. No such importation of
novelties could enrich their intellectual stores at present. In
the daily interchange of news, they must be again
restricted to the other topics with which for a while the
Sucklings’ coming had been united, such as the last
accounts of Mrs. Churchill, whose health seemed every
day to supply a different report, and the situation of Mrs.
Weston, whose happiness it was to be hoped might
eventually be as much increased by the arrival of a child, as
that of all her neighbours was by the approach of it.
Mrs. Elton was very much disappointed. It was the
delay of a great deal of pleasure and parade. Her
introductions and recommendations must all wait, and
every projected party be still only talked of. So she
thought at first;—but a little consideration convinced her
that every thing need not be put off. Why should not they
explore to Box Hill though the Sucklings did not come?
They could go there again with them in the autumn. It

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was settled that they should go to Box Hill. That there
was to be such a party had been long generally known: it
had even given the idea of another. Emma had never been
to Box Hill; she wished to see what every body found so
well worth seeing, and she and Mr. Weston had agreed to
chuse some fine morning and drive thither. Two or three
more of the chosen only were to be admitted to join
them, and it was to be done in a quiet, unpretending,
elegant way, infinitely superior to the bustle and
preparation, the regular eating and drinking, and picnic
parade of the Eltons and the Sucklings.
This was so very well understood between them, that
Emma could not but feel some surprise, and a little
displeasure, on hearing from Mr. Weston that he had been
proposing to Mrs. Elton, as her brother and sister had
failed her, that the two parties should unite, and go
together; and that as Mrs. Elton had very readily acceded
to it, so it was to be, if she had no objection. Now, as her
objection was nothing but her very great dislike of Mrs.
Elton, of which Mr. Weston must already be perfectly
aware, it was not worth bringing forward again:—it could
not be done without a reproof to him, which would be
giving pain to his wife; and she found herself therefore
obliged to consent to an arrangement which she would
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have done a great deal to avoid; an arrangement which
would probably expose her even to the degradation of
being said to be of Mrs. Elton’s party! Every feeling was
offended; and the forbearance of her outward submission
left a heavy arrear due of secret severity in her reflections
on the unmanageable goodwill of Mr. Weston’s temper.
‘I am glad you approve of what I have done,’ said he
very comfortably. ‘But I thought you would. Such
schemes as these are nothing without numbers. One
cannot have too large a party. A large party secures its own
amusement. And she is a good-natured woman after all.
One could not leave her out.’
Emma denied none of it aloud, and agreed to none of
it in private.
It was now the middle of June, and the weather fine;
and Mrs. Elton was growing impatient to name the day,
and settle with Mr. Weston as to pigeon-pies and cold
lamb, when a lame carriage-horse threw every thing into
sad uncertainty. It might be weeks, it might be only a few
days, before the horse were useable; but no preparations
could be ventured on, and it was all melancholy
stagnation. Mrs. Elton’s resources were inadequate to such
an attack.

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‘Is not this most vexations, Knightley?’ she cried.—
‘And such weather for exploring!—These delays and
disappointments are quite odious. What are we to do?—
The year will wear away at this rate, and nothing done.
Before this time last year I assure you we had had a
delightful exploring party from Maple Grove to Kings
Weston.’
‘You had better explore to Donwell,’ replied Mr.
Knightley. ‘That may be done without horses. Come, and
eat my strawberries. They are ripening fast.’
If Mr. Knightley did not begin seriously, he was
obliged to proceed so, for his proposal was caught at with
delight; and the ‘Oh! I should like it of all things,’ was not
plainer in words than manner. Donwell was famous for its
strawberry-beds, which seemed a plea for the invitation:
but no plea was necessary; cabbage-beds would have been
enough to tempt the lady, who only wanted to be going
somewhere. She promised him again and again to come—
much oftener than he doubted—and was extremely
gratified by such a proof of intimacy, such a distinguishing
compliment as she chose to consider it.
‘You may depend upon me,’ said she. ‘I certainly will
come. Name your day, and I will come. You will allow
me to bring Jane Fairfax?’
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‘I cannot name a day,’ said he, ‘till I have spoken to
some others whom I would wish to meet you.’
‘Oh! leave all that to me. Only give me a carteblanche.—I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party.
I will bring friends with me.’
‘I hope you will bring Elton,’ said he: ‘but I will not
trouble you to give any other invitations.’
‘Oh! now you are looking very sly. But consider—you
need not be afraid of delegating power to me. I am no
young lady on her preferment. Married women, you
know, may be safely authorised. It is my party. Leave it all
to me. I will invite your guests.’
‘No,’—he calmly replied,—‘there is but one married
woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite
what guests she pleases to Donwell, and that one is—‘
‘—Mrs. Weston, I suppose,’ interrupted Mrs. Elton,
rather mortified.
‘No—Mrs. Knightley;—and till she is in being, I will
manage such matters myself.’
‘Ah! you are an odd creature!’ she cried, satisfied to
have no one preferred to herself.—‘You are a humourist,
and may say what you like. Quite a humourist. Well, I
shall bring Jane with me— Jane and her aunt.—The rest I
leave to you. I have no objections at all to meeting the
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Hartfield family. Don’t scruple. I know you are attached
to them.’
‘You certainly will meet them if I can prevail; and I
shall call on Miss Bates in my way home.’
‘That’s quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day:—but as
you like. It is to be a morning scheme, you know,
Knightley; quite a simple thing. I shall wear a large
bonnet, and bring one of my little baskets hanging on my
arm. Here,—probably this basket with pink ribbon.
Nothing can be more simple, you see. And Jane will have
such another. There is to be no form or parade—a sort of
gipsy party. We are to walk about your gardens, and
gather the strawberries ourselves, and sit under trees;—and
whatever else you may like to provide, it is to be all out of
doors—a table spread in the shade, you know. Every thing
as natural and simple as possible. Is not that your idea?’
‘Not quite. My idea of the simple and the natural will
be to have the table spread in the dining-room. The
nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with
their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by
meals within doors. When you are tired of eating
strawberries in the garden, there shall be cold meat in the
house.’

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‘Well—as you please; only don’t have a great set out.
And, by the bye, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to
you with our opinion?— Pray be sincere, Knightley. If
you wish me to talk to Mrs. Hodges, or to inspect
anything—‘
‘I have not the least wish for it, I thank you.’
‘Well—but if any difficulties should arise, my
housekeeper is extremely clever.’
‘I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as
clever, and would spurn any body’s assistance.’
‘I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be for us all
to come on donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates, and me—and my
caro sposo walking by. I really must talk to him about
purchasing a donkey. In a country life I conceive it to be a
sort of necessary; for, let a woman have ever so many
resources, it is not possible for her to be always shut up at
home;—and very long walks, you know—in summer
there is dust, and in winter there is dirt.’
‘You will not find either, between Donwell and
Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty, and now it is
perfectly dry. Come on a donkey, however, if you prefer
it. You can borrow Mrs. Cole’s. I would wish every thing
to be as much to your taste as possible.’

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‘That I am sure you would. Indeed I do you justice,
my good friend. Under that peculiar sort of dry, blunt
manner, I know you have the warmest heart. As I tell Mr.
E., you are a thorough humourist.— Yes, believe me,
Knightley, I am fully sensible of your attention to me in
the whole of this scheme. You have hit upon the very
thing to please me.’
Mr. Knightley had another reason for avoiding a table
in the shade. He wished to persuade Mr. Woodhouse, as
well as Emma, to join the party; and he knew that to have
any of them sitting down out of doors to eat would
inevitably make him ill. Mr. Woodhouse must not, under
the specious pretence of a morning drive, and an hour or
two spent at Donwell, be tempted away to his misery.
He was invited on good faith. No lurking horrors were
to upbraid him for his easy credulity. He did consent. He
had not been at Donwell for two years. ‘Some very fine
morning, he, and Emma, and Harriet, could go very well;
and he could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear
girls walked about the gardens. He did not suppose they
could be damp now, in the middle of the day. He should
like to see the old house again exceedingly, and should be
very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of
his neighbours.—He could not see any objection at all to
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his, and Emma’s, and Harriet’s going there some very fine
morning. He thought it very well done of Mr. Knightley
to invite them— very kind and sensible—much cleverer
than dining out.—He was not fond of dining out.’
Mr. Knightley was fortunate in every body’s most ready
concurrence. The invitation was everywhere so well
received, that it seemed as if, like Mrs. Elton, they were all
taking the scheme as a particular compliment to
themselves.—Emma and Harriet professed very high
expectations of pleasure from it; and Mr. Weston,
unasked, promised to get Frank over to join them, if
possible; a proof of approbation and gratitude which could
have been dispensed with.— Mr. Knightley was then
obliged to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr.
Weston engaged to lose no time in writing, and spare no
arguments to induce him to come.
In the meanwhile the lame horse recovered so fast, that
the party to Box Hill was again under happy
consideration; and at last Donwell was settled for one day,
and Box Hill for the next,—the weather appearing exactly
right.
Under a bright mid-day sun, at almost Midsummer,
Mr. Woodhouse was safely conveyed in his carriage, with
one window down, to partake of this al-fresco party; and
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in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey,
especially prepared for him by a fire all the morning, he
was happily placed, quite at his ease, ready to talk with
pleasure of what had been achieved, and advise every body
to come and sit down, and not to heat themselves.— Mrs.
Weston, who seemed to have walked there on purpose to
be tired, and sit all the time with him, remained, when all
the others were invited or persuaded out, his patient
listener and sympathiser.
It was so long since Emma had been at the Abbey, that
as soon as she was satisfied of her father’s comfort, she was
glad to leave him, and look around her; eager to refresh
and correct her memory with more particular observation,
more exact understanding of a house and grounds which
must ever be so interesting to her and all her family.
She felt all the honest pride and complacency which
her alliance with the present and future proprietor could
fairly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style
of the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic
situation, low and sheltered— its ample gardens stretching
down to meadows washed by a stream, of which the
Abbey, with all the old neglect of prospect, had scarcely a
sight—and its abundance of timber in rows and avenues,
which neither fashion nor extravagance had rooted up.—
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The house was larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it,
covering a good deal of ground, rambling and irregular,
with many comfortable, and one or two handsome
rooms.—It was just what it ought to be, and it looked
what it was—and Emma felt an increasing respect for it, as
the residence of a family of such true gentility, untainted
in blood and understanding.—Some faults of temper John
Knightley had; but Isabella had connected herself
unexceptionably. She had given them neither men, nor
names, nor places, that could raise a blush. These were
pleasant feelings, and she walked about and indulged them
till it was necessary to do as the others did, and collect
round the strawberry-beds.—The whole party were
assembled, excepting Frank Churchill, who was expected
every moment from Richmond; and Mrs. Elton, in all her
apparatus of happiness, her large bonnet and her basket,
was very ready to lead the way in gathering, accepting, or
talking—strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be
thought or spoken of.—‘The best fruit in England— every
body’s favourite—always wholesome.—These the finest
beds and finest sorts.—Delightful to gather for one’s self—
the only way of really enjoying them.—Morning
decidedly the best time—never tired— every sort good—
hautboy infinitely superior—no comparison— the others
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hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—
white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
London— abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—
cultivation—beds when to be renewed—gardeners
thinking exactly different—no general rule— gardeners
never to be put out of their way—delicious fruit— only
too rich to be eaten much of—inferior to cherries—
currants more refreshing—only objection to gathering
strawberries the stooping—glaring sun—tired to death—
could bear it no longer— must go and sit in the shade.’
Such, for half an hour, was the conversation—
interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston, who came out, in
her solicitude after her son-in-law, to inquire if he were
come—and she was a little uneasy.— She had some fears
of his horse.
Seats tolerably in the shade were found; and now
Emma was obliged to overhear what Mrs. Elton and Jane
Fairfax were talking of.— A situation, a most desirable
situation, was in question. Mrs. Elton had received notice
of it that morning, and was in raptures. It was not with
Mrs. Suckling, it was not with Mrs. Bragge, but in felicity
and splendour it fell short only of them: it was with a
cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a
lady known at Maple Grove. Delightful, charming,
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superior, first circles, spheres, lines, ranks, every thing—
and Mrs. Elton was wild to have the offer closed with
immediately.—On her side, all was warmth, energy, and
triumph—and she positively refused to take her friend’s
negative, though Miss Fairfax continued to assure her that
she would not at present engage in any thing, repeating
the same motives which she had been heard to urge
before.— Still Mrs. Elton insisted on being authorised to
write an acquiescence by the morrow’s post.—How Jane
could bear it at all, was astonishing to Emma.—She did
look vexed, she did speak pointedly—and at last, with a
decision of action unusual to her, proposed a removal.—
‘Should not they walk? Would not Mr. Knightley shew
them the gardens— all the gardens?—She wished to see
the whole extent.’—The pertinacity of her friend seemed
more than she could bear.
It was hot; and after walking some time over the
gardens in a scattered, dispersed way, scarcely any three
together, they insensibly followed one another to the
delicious shade of a broad short avenue of limes, which
stretching beyond the garden at an equal distance from the
river, seemed the finish of the pleasure grounds.— It led
to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone
wall with high pillars, which seemed intended, in their
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erection, to give the appearance of an approach to the
house, which never had been there. Disputable, however,
as might be the taste of such a termination, it was in itself a
charming walk, and the view which closed it extremely
pretty.—The considerable slope, at nearly the foot of
which the Abbey stood, gradually acquired a steeper form
beyond its grounds; and at half a mile distant was a bank of
considerable abruptness and grandeur, well clothed with
wood;— and at the bottom of this bank, favourably placed
and sheltered, rose the Abbey Mill Farm, with meadows in
front, and the river making a close and handsome curve
around it.
It was a sweet view—sweet to the eye and the mind.
English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen
under a sun bright, without being oppressive.
In this walk Emma and Mr. Weston found all the
others assembled; and towards this view she immediately
perceived Mr. Knightley and Harriet distinct from the rest,
quietly leading the way. Mr. Knightley and Harriet!—It
was an odd tete-a-tete; but she was glad to see it.—There
had been a time when he would have scorned her as a
companion, and turned from her with little ceremony.
Now they seemed in pleasant conversation. There had
been a time also when Emma would have been sorry to
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see Harriet in a spot so favourable for the Abbey Mill
Farm; but now she feared it not. It might be safely viewed
with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich
pastures, spreading flocks, orchard in blossom, and light
column of smoke ascending.—She joined them at the
wall, and found them more engaged in talking than in
looking around. He was giving Harriet information as to
modes of agriculture, etc. and Emma received a smile
which seemed to say, ‘These are my own concerns. I have
a right to talk on such subjects, without being suspected of
introducing Robert Martin.’—She did not suspect him. It
was too old a story.—Robert Martin had probably ceased
to think of Harriet.—They took a few turns together
along the walk.—The shade was most refreshing, and
Emma found it the pleasantest part of the day.
The next remove was to the house; they must all go in
and eat;— and they were all seated and busy, and still
Frank Churchill did not come. Mrs. Weston looked, and
looked in vain. His father would not own himself uneasy,
and laughed at her fears; but she could not be cured of
wishing that he would part with his black mare. He had
expressed himself as to coming, with more than common
certainty. ‘His aunt was so much better, that he had not a
doubt of getting over to them.’—Mrs. Churchill’s state,
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however, as many were ready to remind her, was liable to
such sudden variation as might disappoint her nephew in
the most reasonable dependence—and Mrs. Weston was at
last persuaded to believe, or to say, that it must be by some
attack of Mrs. Churchill that he was prevented coming.—
Emma looked at Harriet while the point was under
consideration; she behaved very well, and betrayed no
emotion.
The cold repast was over, and the party were to go out
once more to see what had not yet been seen, the old
Abbey fish-ponds; perhaps get as far as the clover, which
was to be begun cutting on the morrow, or, at any rate,
have the pleasure of being hot, and growing cool again.—
Mr. Woodhouse, who had already taken his little round in
the highest part of the gardens, where no damps from the
river were imagined even by him, stirred no more; and his
daughter resolved to remain with him, that Mrs. Weston
might be persuaded away by her husband to the exercise
and variety which her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Knightley had done all in his power for Mr.
Woodhouse’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers
of medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family
collection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his
old friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness
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had perfectly answered. Mr. Woodhouse had been
exceedingly well amused. Mrs. Weston had been shewing
them all to him, and now he would shew them all to
Emma;—fortunate in having no other resemblance to a
child, than in a total want of taste for what he saw, for he
was slow, constant, and methodical.—Before this second
looking over was begun, however, Emma walked into the
hall for the sake of a few moments’ free observation of the
entrance and ground-plot of the house—and was hardly
there, when Jane Fairfax appeared, coming quickly in
from the garden, and with a look of escape.— Little
expecting to meet Miss Woodhouse so soon, there was a
start at first; but Miss Woodhouse was the very person she
was in quest of.
‘Will you be so kind,’ said she, ‘when I am missed, as
to say that I am gone home?—I am going this moment.—
My aunt is not aware how late it is, nor how long we have
been absent—but I am sure we shall be wanted, and I am
determined to go directly.—I have said nothing about it to
any body. It would only be giving trouble and distress.
Some are gone to the ponds, and some to the lime walk.
Till they all come in I shall not be missed; and when they
do, will you have the goodness to say that I am gone?’

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‘Certainly, if you wish it;—but you are not going to
walk to Highbury alone?’
‘Yes—what should hurt me?—I walk fast. I shall be at
home in twenty minutes.’
‘But it is too far, indeed it is, to be walking quite alone.
Let my father’s servant go with you.—Let me order the
carriage. It can be round in five minutes.’
‘Thank you, thank you—but on no account.—I would
rather walk.— And for me to be afraid of walking
alone!—I, who may so soon have to guard others!’
She spoke with great agitation; and Emma very
feelingly replied, ‘That can be no reason for your being
exposed to danger now. I must order the carriage. The
heat even would be danger.—You are fatigued already.’
‘I am,’—she answered—‘I am fatigued; but it is not the
sort of fatigue—quick walking will refresh me.—Miss
Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied
in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest
kindness you can shew me, will be to let me have my own
way, and only say that I am gone when it is necessary.’
Emma had not another word to oppose. She saw it all;
and entering into her feelings, promoted her quitting the
house immediately, and watched her safely off with the
zeal of a friend. Her parting look was grateful—and her
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parting words, ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of
being sometimes alone!’—seemed to burst from an
overcharged heart, and to describe somewhat of the
continual endurance to be practised by her, even towards
some of those who loved her best.
‘Such a home, indeed! such an aunt!’ said Emma, as she
turned back into the hall again. ‘I do pity you. And the
more sensibility you betray of their just horrors, the more
I shall like you.’
Jane had not been gone a quarter of an hour, and they
had only accomplished some views of St. Mark’s Place,
Venice, when Frank Churchill entered the room. Emma
had not been thinking of him, she had forgotten to think
of him—but she was very glad to see him. Mrs. Weston
would be at ease. The black mare was blameless; they
were right who had named Mrs. Churchill as the cause.
He had been detained by a temporary increase of illness in
her; a nervous seizure, which had lasted some hours—and
he had quite given up every thought of coming, till very
late;—and had he known how hot a ride he should have,
and how late, with all his hurry, he must be, he believed
he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he
had never suffered any thing like it—almost wished he had
staid at home—nothing killed him like heat—he could
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bear any degree of cold, etc., but heat was intolerable—
and he sat down, at the greatest possible distance from the
slight remains of Mr. Woodhouse’s fire, looking very
deplorable.
‘You will soon be cooler, if you sit still,’ said Emma.
‘As soon as I am cooler I shall go back again. I could
very ill be spared—but such a point had been made of my
coming! You will all be going soon I suppose; the whole
party breaking up. I met one as I came—Madness in such
weather!—absolute madness!’
Emma listened, and looked, and soon perceived that
Frank Churchill’s state might be best defined by the
expressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people
were always cross when they were hot. Such might be his
constitution; and as she knew that eating and drinking
were often the cure of such incidental complaints, she
recommended his taking some refreshment; he would find
abundance of every thing in the dining-room—and she
humanely pointed out the door.
‘No—he should not eat. He was not hungry; it would
only make him hotter.’ In two minutes, however, he
relented in his own favour; and muttering something
about spruce-beer, walked off. Emma returned all her
attention to her father, saying in secret—
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‘I am glad I have done being in love with him. I should
not like a man who is so soon discomposed by a hot
morning. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.’
He was gone long enough to have had a very
comfortable meal, and came back all the better—grown
quite cool—and, with good manners, like himself—able to
draw a chair close to them, take an interest in their
employment; and regret, in a reasonable way, that he
should be so late. He was not in his best spirits, but
seemed trying to improve them; and, at last, made himself
talk nonsense very agreeably. They were looking over
views in Swisserland.
‘As soon as my aunt gets well, I shall go abroad,’ said
he. ‘I shall never be easy till I have seen some of these
places. You will have my sketches, some time or other, to
look at—or my tour to read—or my poem. I shall do
something to expose myself.’
‘That may be—but not by sketches in Swisserland. You
will never go to Swisserland. Your uncle and aunt will
never allow you to leave England.’
‘They may be induced to go too. A warm climate may
be prescribed for her. I have more than half an expectation
of our all going abroad. I assure you I have. I feel a strong
persuasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I
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ought to travel. I am tired of doing nothing. I want a
change. I am serious, Miss Woodhouse, whatever your
penetrating eyes may fancy—I am sick of England— and
would leave it to-morrow, if I could.’
‘You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Cannot you
invent a few hardships for yourself, and be contented to
stay?’
‘I sick of prosperity and indulgence! You are quite
mistaken. I do not look upon myself as either prosperous
or indulged. I am thwarted in every thing material. I do
not consider myself at all a fortunate person.’
‘You are not quite so miserable, though, as when you
first came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you will
do very well. Another slice of cold meat, another draught
of Madeira and water, will make you nearly on a par with
the rest of us.’
‘No—I shall not stir. I shall sit by you. You are my best
cure.’
‘We are going to Box Hill to-morrow;—you will join
us. It is not Swisserland, but it will be something for a
young man so much in want of a change. You will stay,
and go with us?’
‘No, certainly not; I shall go home in the cool of the
evening.’
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‘But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow
morning.’
‘No—It will not be worth while. If I come, I shall be
cross.’
‘Then pray stay at Richmond.’
‘But if I do, I shall be crosser still. I can never bear to
think of you all there without me.’
‘These are difficulties which you must settle for
yourself. Chuse your own degree of crossness. I shall press
you no more.’
The rest of the party were now returning, and all were
soon collected. With some there was great joy at the sight
of Frank Churchill; others took it very composedly; but
there was a very general distress and disturbance on Miss
Fairfax’s disappearance being explained. That it was time
for every body to go, concluded the subject; and with a
short final arrangement for the next day’s scheme, they
parted. Frank Churchill’s little inclination to exclude
himself increased so much, that his last words to Emma
were,
‘Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I
will.’

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She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a
summons from Richmond was to take him back before
the following evening.

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Chapter VII
They had a very fine day for Box Hill; and all the other
outward circumstances of arrangement, accommodation,
and punctuality, were in favour of a pleasant party. Mr.
Weston directed the whole, officiating safely between
Hartfield and the Vicarage, and every body was in good
time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and
her niece, with the Eltons; the gentlemen on horseback.
Mrs. Weston remained with Mr. Woodhouse. Nothing
was wanting but to be happy when they got there. Seven
miles were travelled in expectation of enjoyment, and
every body had a burst of admiration on first arriving; but
in the general amount of the day there was deficiency.
There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union,
which could not be got over. They separated too much
into parties. The Eltons walked together; Mr. Knightley
took charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and
Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston
tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at
first an accidental division, but it never materially varied.
Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to
mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two

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whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a
principle of separation, between the other parties, too
strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any
cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had
never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said
nothing worth hearing— looked without seeing—admired
without intelligence—listened without knowing what she
said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet
should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable.
When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a
great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and
gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing
attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse
her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared
for—and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be
flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the
friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant,
which she had ever given in the first and most animating
period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own
estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of
most people looking on it must have had such an
appearance as no English word but flirtation could very
well describe. ‘Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse
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flirted together excessively.’ They were laying themselves
open to that very phrase—and to having it sent off in a
letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another.
Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real
felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she
had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed;
and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought
them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness,
extremely judicious, they were not winning back her
heart. She still intended him for her friend.
‘How much I am obliged to you,’ said he, ‘for telling
me to come to-day!— If it had not been for you, I should
certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had
quite determined to go away again.’
‘Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what
about, except that you were too late for the best
strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But
you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to
come.’
‘Don’t say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat
overcame me.’
‘It is hotter to-day.’
‘Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day.’

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‘You are comfortable because you are under
command.’
‘Your command?—Yes.’
‘Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant selfcommand. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds
yesterday, and run away from your own management; but
to-day you are got back again—and as I cannot be always
with you, it is best to believe your temper under your
own command rather than mine.’
‘It comes to the same thing. I can have no selfcommand without a motive. You order me, whether you
speak or not. And you can be always with me. You are
always with me.’
‘Dating from three o’clock yesterday. My perpetual
influence could not begin earlier, or you would not have
been so much out of humour before.’
‘Three o’clock yesterday! That is your date. I thought I
had seen you first in February.’
‘Your gallantry is really unanswerable. But (lowering
her voice)— nobody speaks except ourselves, and it is
rather too much to be talking nonsense for the
entertainment of seven silent people.’
‘I say nothing of which I am ashamed,’ replied he, with
lively impudence. ‘I saw you first in February. Let every
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body on the Hill hear me if they can. Let my accents swell
to Mickleham on one side, and Dorking on the other. I
saw you first in February.’ And then whispering— ‘Our
companions are excessively stupid. What shall we do to
rouse them? Any nonsense will serve. They shall talk.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse
(who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to
know what you are all thinking of?’
Some laughed, and answered good-humouredly. Miss
Bates said a great deal; Mrs. Elton swelled at the idea of
Miss Woodhouse’s presiding; Mr. Knightley’s answer was
the most distinct.
‘Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear
what we are all thinking of?’
‘Oh! no, no’—cried Emma, laughing as carelessly as she
could— ‘Upon no account in the world. It is the very last
thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear
any thing rather than what you are all thinking of. I will
not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, (glancing
at Mr. Weston and Harriet,) whose thoughts I might not
be afraid of knowing.’
‘It is a sort of thing,’ cried Mrs. Elton emphatically,
‘which I should not have thought myself privileged to
inquire into. Though, perhaps, as the Chaperon of the
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party— I never was in any circle—exploring parties—
young ladies—married women—‘
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he
murmured, in reply,
‘Very true, my love, very true. Exactly so, indeed—
quite unheard of— but some ladies say any thing. Better
pass it off as a joke. Every body knows what is due to
you.’
‘It will not do,’ whispered Frank to Emma; ‘they are
most of them affronted. I will attack them with more
address. Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss
Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing
exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires
something very entertaining from each of you, in a general
way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is
pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only
demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be
it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things
moderately clever— or three things very dull indeed, and
she engages to laugh heartily at them all.’
‘Oh! very well,’ exclaimed Miss Bates, ‘then I need not
be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just
do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull
things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? (looking
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round with the most good-humoured dependence on
every body’s assent)—Do not you all think I shall?’
Emma could not resist.
‘Ah! ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon
me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at
once.’
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her
manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but,
when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight
blush shewed that it could pain her.
‘Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means,
(turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my
tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she
would not have said such a thing to an old friend.’
‘I like your plan,’ cried Mr. Weston. ‘Agreed, agreed. I
will do my best. I am making a conundrum. How will a
conundrum reckon?’
‘Low, I am afraid, sir, very low,’ answered his son;—
‘but we shall be indulgent—especially to any one who
leads the way.’
‘No, no,’ said Emma, ‘it will not reckon low. A
conundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next
neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.’

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‘I doubt its being very clever myself,’ said Mr. Weston.
‘It is too much a matter of fact, but here it is.—What two
letters of the alphabet are there, that express perfection?’
‘What two letters!—express perfection! I am sure I do
not know.’
‘Ah! you will never guess. You, (to Emma), I am
certain, will never guess.—I will tell you.—M. and A.—
Em-ma.—Do you understand?’
Understanding and gratification came together. It
might be a very indifferent piece of wit, but Emma found
a great deal to laugh at and enjoy in it—and so did Frank
and Harriet.—It did not seem to touch the rest of the
party equally; some looked very stupid about it, and Mr.
Knightley gravely said,
‘This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted,
and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself; but he
must have knocked up every body else. Perfection should
not have come quite so soon.’
‘Oh! for myself, I protest I must be excused,’ said Mrs.
Elton; ‘I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the
sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my
own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew
who it came from. An abominable puppy!— You know
who I mean (nodding to her husband). These kind of
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things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting
round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion,
when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss
Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who
have witty things at every body’s service. I do not pretend
to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way,
but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and
when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr.
Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane, and myself. We
have nothing clever to say— not one of us.
‘Yes, yes, pray pass me,’ added her husband, with a sort
of sneering consciousness; ‘I have nothing to say that can
entertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An
old married man— quite good for nothing. Shall we walk,
Augusta?’
‘With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so
long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.’
Jane declined it, however, and the husband and wife
walked off. ‘Happy couple!’ said Frank Churchill, as soon
as they were out of hearing:—‘How well they suit one
another!—Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an
acquaintance formed only in a public place!—They only
knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly
lucky!— for as to any real knowledge of a person’s
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disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is
all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by
seeing women in their own homes, among their own set,
just as they always are, that you can form any just
judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck— and will
generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed
himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of
his life!’
Miss Fairfax, who had seldom spoken before, except
among her own confederates, spoke now.
‘Such things do occur, undoubtedly.’—She was
stopped by a cough. Frank Churchill turned towards her
to listen.
‘You were speaking,’ said he, gravely. She recovered
her voice.
‘I was only going to observe, that though such
unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to
men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very
frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—
but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I
would be understood to mean, that it can be only weak,
irresolute characters, (whose happiness must be always at
the mercy of chance,) who will suffer an unfortunate

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acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression for
ever.’
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in
submission; and soon afterwards said, in a lively tone,
‘Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment,
that whenever I marry, I hope some body will chuse my
wife for me. Will you? (turning to Emma.) Will you chuse
a wife for me?—I am sure I should like any body fixed on
by you. You provide for the family, you know, (with a
smile at his father). Find some body for me. I am in no
hurry. Adopt her, educate her.’
‘And make her like myself.’
‘By all means, if you can.’
‘Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have
a charming wife.’
‘She must be very lively, and have hazle eyes. I care for
nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and
when I return, I shall come to you for my wife.
Remember.’
Emma was in no danger of forgetting. It was a
commission to touch every favourite feeling. Would not
Harriet be the very creature described? Hazle eyes
excepted, two years more might make her all that he
wished. He might even have Harriet in his thoughts at the
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moment; who could say? Referring the education to her
seemed to imply it.
‘Now, ma’am,’ said Jane to her aunt, ‘shall we join
Mrs. Elton?’
‘If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite
ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do
just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no,
that’s somebody else. That’s one of the ladies in the Irish
car party, not at all like her.— Well, I declare—‘
They walked off, followed in half a minute by Mr.
Knightley. Mr. Weston, his son, Emma, and Harriet, only
remained; and the young man’s spirits now rose to a pitch
almost unpleasant. Even Emma grew tired at last of flattery
and merriment, and wished herself rather walking quietly
about with any of the others, or sitting almost alone, and
quite unattended to, in tranquil observation of the
beautiful views beneath her. The appearance of the
servants looking out for them to give notice of the
carriages was a joyful sight; and even the bustle of
collecting and preparing to depart, and the solicitude of
Mrs. Elton to have her carriage first, were gladly endured,
in the prospect of the quiet drive home which was to close
the very questionable enjoyments of this day of pleasure.

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Such another scheme, composed of so many ill-assorted
people, she hoped never to be betrayed into again.
While waiting for the carriage, she found Mr.
Knightley by her side. He looked around, as if to see that
no one were near, and then said,
‘Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been
used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed,
perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting
wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so
unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in
your wit to a woman of her character, age, and
situation?— Emma, I had not thought it possible.’
Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to
laugh it off.
‘Nay, how could I help saying what I did?—Nobody
could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she
did not understand me.’
‘I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She
has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how
she talked of it— with what candour and generosity. I
wish you could have heard her honouring your
forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions, as
she was for ever receiving from yourself and your father,
when her society must be so irksome.’
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‘Oh!’ cried Emma, ‘I know there is not a better
creature in the world: but you must allow, that what is
good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately
blended in her.’
‘They are blended,’ said he, ‘I acknowledge; and, were
she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional
prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a
woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity
to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any
liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation—
but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case.
She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born
to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more.
Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly
done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant,
whom she had seen grow up from a period when her
notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless
spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble
her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many
of whom (certainly some,) would be entirely guided by
your treatment of her.—This is not pleasant to you,
Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must,
I will,—I will tell you truths while I can; satisfied with
proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
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trusting that you will some time or other do me greater
justice than you can do now.’
While they talked, they were advancing towards the
carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again,
he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings
which had kept her face averted, and her tongue
motionless. They were combined only of anger against
herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been
able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for
a moment overcome—then reproaching herself for having
taken no leave, making no acknowledgment, parting in
apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand
eager to shew a difference; but it was just too late. He had
turned away, and the horses were in motion. She
continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what
appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill,
and every thing left far behind. She was vexed beyond
what could have been expressed—almost beyond what she
could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified,
grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most
forcibly struck. The truth of this representation there was
no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have
been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have
exposed herself to such ill opinion in any one she valued!
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And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word
of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she reflected more, she
seemed but to feel it more. She never had been so
depressed. Happily it was not necessary to speak. There
was only Harriet, who seemed not in spirits herself,
fagged, and very willing to be silent; and Emma felt the
tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home,
without being at any trouble to check them, extraordinary
as they were.

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Chapter VIII
The wretchedness of a scheme to Box Hill was in
Emma’s thoughts all the evening. How it might be
considered by the rest of the party, she could not tell.
They, in their different homes, and their different ways,
might be looking back on it with pleasure; but in her view
it was a morning more completely misspent, more totally
bare of rational satisfaction at the time, and more to be
abhorred in recollection, than any she had ever passed. A
whole evening of back-gammon with her father, was
felicity to it. There, indeed, lay real pleasure, for there she
was giving up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four to his
comfort; and feeling that, unmerited as might be the
degree of his fond affection and confiding esteem, she
could not, in her general conduct, be open to any severe
reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not without a
heart. She hoped no one could have said to her, ‘How
could you be so unfeeling to your father?— I must, I will
tell you truths while I can.’ Miss Bates should never
again—no, never! If attention, in future, could do away
the past, she might hope to be forgiven. She had been
often remiss, her conscience told her so; remiss, perhaps,

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more in thought than fact; scornful, ungracious. But it
should be so no more. In the warmth of true contrition,
she would call upon her the very next morning, and it
should be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal,
kindly intercourse.
She was just as determined when the morrow came,
and went early, that nothing might prevent her. It was not
unlikely, she thought, that she might see Mr. Knightley in
her way; or, perhaps, he might come in while she were
paying her visit. She had no objection. She would not be
ashamed of the appearance of the penitence, so justly and
truly hers. Her eyes were towards Donwell as she walked,
but she saw him not.
‘The ladies were all at home.’ She had never rejoiced at
the sound before, nor ever before entered the passage, nor
walked up the stairs, with any wish of giving pleasure, but
in conferring obligation, or of deriving it, except in
subsequent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of
moving and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice,
something was to be done in a hurry; the maid looked
frightened and awkward; hoped she would be pleased to
wait a moment, and then ushered her in too soon. The
aunt and niece seemed both escaping into the adjoining
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room. Jane she had a distinct glimpse of, looking
extremely ill; and, before the door had shut them out, she
heard Miss Bates saying, ‘Well, my dear, I shall say you are
laid down upon the bed, and I am sure you are ill
enough.’
Poor old Mrs. Bates, civil and humble as usual, looked
as if she did not quite understand what was going on.
‘I am afraid Jane is not very well,’ said she, ‘but I do
not know; they tell me she is well. I dare say my daughter
will be here presently, Miss Woodhouse. I hope you find a
chair. I wish Hetty had not gone. I am very little able—
Have you a chair, ma’am? Do you sit where you like? I
am sure she will be here presently.’
Emma seriously hoped she would. She had a moment’s
fear of Miss Bates keeping away from her. But Miss Bates
soon came—‘Very happy and obliged’—but Emma’s
conscience told her that there was not the same cheerful
volubility as before—less ease of look and manner. A very
friendly inquiry after Miss Fairfax, she hoped, might lead
the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed
immediate.
‘Ah! Miss Woodhouse, how kind you are!—I suppose
you have heard— and are come to give us joy. This does
not seem much like joy, indeed, in me—(twinkling away
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a tear or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part
with her, after having had her so long, and she has a
dreadful headach just now, writing all the morning:—
such long letters, you know, to be written to Colonel
Campbell, and Mrs. Dixon. ‘My dear,’ said I, ‘you will
blind yourself’— for tears were in her eyes perpetually.
One cannot wonder, one cannot wonder. It is a great
change; and though she is amazingly fortunate—such a
situation, I suppose, as no young woman before ever met
with on first going out—do not think us ungrateful, Miss
Woodhouse, for such surprising good fortune—(again
dispersing her tears)—but, poor dear soul! if you were to
see what a headache she has. When one is in great pain,
you know one cannot feel any blessing quite as it may
deserve. She is as low as possible. To look at her, nobody
would think how delighted and happy she is to have
secured such a situation. You will excuse her not coming
to you—she is not able—she is gone into her own
room— I want her to lie down upon the bed. ‘My dear,’
said I, ‘I shall say you are laid down upon the bed:’ but,
however, she is not; she is walking about the room. But,
now that she has written her letters, she says she shall soon
be well. She will be extremely sorry to miss seeing you,
Miss Woodhouse, but your kindness will excuse her. You
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were kept waiting at the door—I was quite ashamed— but
somehow there was a little bustle—for it so happened that
we had not heard the knock, and till you were on the
stairs, we did not know any body was coming. ‘It is only
Mrs. Cole,’ said I, ‘depend upon it. Nobody else would
come so early.’ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘it must be borne some
time or other, and it may as well be now.’ But then Patty
came in, and said it was you. ‘Oh!’ said I, ‘it is Miss
Woodhouse: I am sure you will like to see her.’— ‘I can
see nobody,’ said she; and up she got, and would go away;
and that was what made us keep you waiting—and
extremely sorry and ashamed we were. ‘If you must go,
my dear,’ said I, ‘you must, and I will say you are laid
down upon the bed.’’
Emma was most sincerely interested. Her heart had
been long growing kinder towards Jane; and this picture of
her present sufferings acted as a cure of every former
ungenerous suspicion, and left her nothing but pity; and
the remembrance of the less just and less gentle sensations
of the past, obliged her to admit that Jane might very
naturally resolve on seeing Mrs. Cole or any other steady
friend, when she might not bear to see herself. She spoke
as she felt, with earnest regret and solicitude—sincerely
wishing that the circumstances which she collected from
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Miss Bates to be now actually determined on, might be as
much for Miss Fairfax’s advantage and comfort as possible.
‘It must be a severe trial to them all. She had understood it
was to be delayed till Colonel Campbell’s return.’
‘So very kind! ‘ replied Miss Bates. ‘But you are always
kind.’
There was no bearing such an ‘always;’ and to break
through her dreadful gratitude, Emma made the direct
inquiry of—
‘Where—may I ask?—is Miss Fairfax going?’
‘To a Mrs. Smallridge—charming woman—most
superior—to have the charge of her three little girls—
delightful children. Impossible that any situation could be
more replete with comfort; if we except, perhaps, Mrs.
Suckling’s own family, and Mrs. Bragge’s; but Mrs.
Smallridge is intimate with both, and in the very same
neighbourhood:—lives only four miles from Maple
Grove. Jane will be only four miles from Maple Grove.’
‘Mrs. Elton, I suppose, has been the person to whom
Miss Fairfax owes—‘
‘Yes, our good Mrs. Elton. The most indefatigable, true
friend. She would not take a denial. She would not let
Jane say, ‘No;’ for when Jane first heard of it, (it was the
day before yesterday, the very morning we were at
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Donwell,) when Jane first heard of it, she was quite
decided against accepting the offer, and for the reasons you
mention; exactly as you say, she had made up her mind to
close with nothing till Colonel Campbell’s return, and
nothing should induce her to enter into any engagement
at present—and so she told Mrs. Elton over and over
again—and I am sure I had no more idea that she would
change her mind!—but that good Mrs. Elton, whose
judgment never fails her, saw farther than I did. It is not
every body that would have stood out in such a kind way
as she did, and refuse to take Jane’s answer; but she
positively declared she would not write any such denial
yesterday, as Jane wished her; she would wait—and, sure
enough, yesterday evening it was all settled that Jane
should go. Quite a surprize to me! I had not the least
idea!—Jane took Mrs. Elton aside, and told her at once,
that upon thinking over the advantages of Mrs.
Smallridge’s situation, she had come to the resolution of
accepting it.—I did not know a word of it till it was all
settled.’
‘You spent the evening with Mrs. Elton?’
‘Yes, all of us; Mrs. Elton would have us come. It was
settled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about

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with Mr. Knightley. ‘You must all spend your evening
with us,’ said she—‘I positively must have you all come.’’
‘Mr. Knightley was there too, was he?’
‘No, not Mr. Knightley; he declined it from the first;
and though I thought he would come, because Mrs. Elton
declared she would not let him off, he did not;—but my
mother, and Jane, and I, were all there, and a very
agreeable evening we had. Such kind friends, you know,
Miss Woodhouse, one must always find agreeable, though
every body seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party.
Even pleasure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say
that any of them seemed very much to have enjoyed it.
However, I shall always think it a very pleasant party, and
feel extremely obliged to the kind friends who included
me in it.’
‘Miss Fairfax, I suppose, though you were not aware of
it, had been making up her mind the whole day?’
‘I dare say she had.’
‘Whenever the time may come, it must be unwelcome
to her and all her friends—but I hope her engagement will
have every alleviation that is possible—I mean, as to the
character and manners of the family.’
‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse. Yes, indeed, there
is every thing in the world that can make her happy in it.
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Except the Sucklings and Bragges, there is not such
another nursery establishment, so liberal and elegant, in all
Mrs. Elton’s acquaintance. Mrs. Smallridge, a most
delightful woman!—A style of living almost equal to
Maple Grove—and as to the children, except the little
Sucklings and little Bragges, there are not such elegant
sweet children anywhere. Jane will be treated with such
regard and kindness!— It will be nothing but pleasure, a
life of pleasure.—And her salary!— I really cannot venture
to name her salary to you, Miss Woodhouse. Even you,
used as you are to great sums, would hardly believe that so
much could be given to a young person like Jane.’
‘Ah! madam,’ cried Emma, ‘if other children are at all
like what I remember to have been myself, I should think
five times the amount of what I have ever yet heard
named as a salary on such occasions, dearly earned.’
‘You are so noble in your ideas!’
‘And when is Miss Fairfax to leave you?’
‘Very soon, very soon, indeed; that’s the worst of it.
Within a fortnight. Mrs. Smallridge is in a great hurry. My
poor mother does not know how to bear it. So then, I try
to put it out of her thoughts, and say, Come ma’am, do
not let us think about it any more.’

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‘Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has
engaged herself before their return?’
‘Yes; Jane says she is sure they will; but yet, this is such
a situation as she cannot feel herself justified in declining. I
was so astonished when she first told me what she had
been saying to Mrs. Elton, and when Mrs. Elton at the
same moment came congratulating me upon it! It was
before tea—stay—no, it could not be before tea, because
we were just going to cards—and yet it was before tea,
because I remember thinking—Oh! no, now I recollect,
now I have it; something happened before tea, but not
that. Mr. Elton was called out of the room before tea, old
John Abdy’s son wanted to speak with him. Poor old
John, I have a great regard for him; he was clerk to my
poor father twenty-seven years; and now, poor old man,
he is bed-ridden, and very poorly with the rheumatic gout
in his joints— I must go and see him to-day; and so will
Jane, I am sure, if she gets out at all. And poor John’s son
came to talk to Mr. Elton about relief from the parish; he
is very well to do himself, you know, being head man at
the Crown, ostler, and every thing of that sort, but still he
cannot keep his father without some help; and so, when
Mr. Elton came back, he told us what John ostler had
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been telling him, and then it came out about the chaise
having been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Churchill
to Richmond. That was what happened before tea. It was
after tea that Jane spoke to Mrs. Elton.’
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how
perfectly new this circumstance was to her; but as without
supposing it possible that she could be ignorant of any of
the particulars of Mr. Frank Churchill’s going, she
proceeded to give them all, it was of no consequence.
What Mr. Elton had learned from the ostler on the
subject, being the accumulation of the ostler’s own
knowledge, and the knowledge of the servants at Randalls,
was, that a messenger had come over from Richmond
soon after the return of the party from Box Hill— which
messenger, however, had been no more than was
expected; and that Mr. Churchill had sent his nephew a
few lines, containing, upon the whole, a tolerable account
of Mrs. Churchill, and only wishing him not to delay
coming back beyond the next morning early; but that Mr.
Frank Churchill having resolved to go home directly,
without waiting at all, and his horse seeming to have got a
cold, Tom had been sent off immediately for the Crown
chaise, and the ostler had stood out and seen it pass by, the
boy going a good pace, and driving very steady.
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There was nothing in all this either to astonish or
interest, and it caught Emma’s attention only as it united
with the subject which already engaged her mind. The
contrast between Mrs. Churchill’s importance in the
world, and Jane Fairfax’s, struck her; one was every thing,
the other nothing—and she sat musing on the difference
of woman’s destiny, and quite unconscious on what her
eyes were fixed, till roused by Miss Bates’s saying,
‘Aye, I see what you are thinking of, the pianoforte.
What is to become of that?—Very true. Poor dear Jane
was talking of it just now.— ‘You must go,’ said she. ‘You
and I must part. You will have no business here.—Let it
stay, however,’ said she; ‘give it houseroom till Colonel
Campbell comes back. I shall talk about it to him; he will
settle for me; he will help me out of all my difficulties.’—
And to this day, I do believe, she knows not whether it
was his present or his daughter’s.’
Now Emma was obliged to think of the pianoforte; and
the remembrance of all her former fanciful and unfair
conjectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed
herself to believe her visit had been long enough; and,
with a repetition of every thing that she could venture to
say of the good wishes which she really felt, took leave.

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Chapter IX
Emma’s pensive meditations, as she walked home, were
not interrupted; but on entering the parlour, she found
those who must rouse her. Mr. Knightley and Harriet had
arrived during her absence, and were sitting with her
father.—Mr. Knightley immediately got up, and in a
manner decidedly graver than usual, said,
‘I would not go away without seeing you, but I have
no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone
directly. I am going to London, to spend a few days with
John and Isabella. Have you any thing to send or say,
besides the ‘love,’ which nobody carries?’
‘Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?’
‘Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little
time.’
Emma was sure he had not forgiven her; he looked
unlike himself. Time, however, she thought, would tell
him that they ought to be friends again. While he stood, as
if meaning to go, but not going— her father began his
inquiries.
‘Well, my dear, and did you get there safely?—And
how did you find my worthy old friend and her

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daughter?—I dare say they must have been very much
obliged to you for coming. Dear Emma has been to call
on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you
before. She is always so attentive to them!’
Emma’s colour was heightened by this unjust praise;
and with a smile, and shake of the head, which spoke
much, she looked at Mr. Knightley.— It seemed as if
there were an instantaneous impression in her favour, as if
his eyes received the truth from her’s, and all that had
passed of good in her feelings were at once caught and
honoured.— He looked at her with a glow of regard. She
was warmly gratified— and in another moment still more
so, by a little movement of more than common
friendliness on his part.—He took her hand;— whether
she had not herself made the first motion, she could not
say— she might, perhaps, have rather offered it—but he
took her hand, pressed it, and certainly was on the point
of carrying it to his lips— when, from some fancy or
other, he suddenly let it go.—Why he should feel such a
scruple, why he should change his mind when it was all
but done, she could not perceive.—He would have
judged better, she thought, if he had not stopped.—The
intention, however, was indubitable; and whether it was
that his manners had in general so little gallantry, or
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however else it happened, but she thought nothing
became him more.— It was with him, of so simple, yet so
dignified a nature.— She could not but recall the attempt
with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect amity.—He
left them immediately afterwards— gone in a moment. He
always moved with the alertness of a mind which could
neither be undecided nor dilatory, but now he seemed
more sudden than usual in his disappearance.
Emma could not regret her having gone to Miss Bates,
but she wished she had left her ten minutes earlier;—it
would have been a great pleasure to talk over Jane
Fairfax’s situation with Mr. Knightley.— Neither would
she regret that he should be going to Brunswick Square,
for she knew how much his visit would be enjoyed—but
it might have happened at a better time—and to have had
longer notice of it, would have been pleasanter.—They
parted thorough friends, however; she could not be
deceived as to the meaning of his countenance, and his
unfinished gallantry;—it was all done to assure her that she
had fully recovered his good opinion.—He had been
sitting with them half an hour, she found. It was a pity
that she had not come back earlier!
In the hope of diverting her father’s thoughts from the
disagreeableness of Mr. Knightley’s going to London; and
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going so suddenly; and going on horseback, which she
knew would be all very bad; Emma communicated her
news of Jane Fairfax, and her dependence on the effect
was justified; it supplied a very useful check,— interested,
without disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to
Jane Fairfax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it
cheerfully, but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been
an unexpected blow.
‘I am very glad, indeed, my dear, to hear she is to be so
comfortably settled. Mrs. Elton is very good-natured and
agreeable, and I dare say her acquaintance are just what
they ought to be. I hope it is a dry situation, and that her
health will be taken good care of. It ought to be a first
object, as I am sure poor Miss Taylor’s always was with
me. You know, my dear, she is going to be to this new
lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be
better off in one respect, and not be induced to go away
after it has been her home so long.’
The following day brought news from Richmond to
throw every thing else into the background. An express
arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill! Though her nephew had had no particular
reason to hasten back on her account, she had not lived
above six-and-thirty hours after his return. A sudden
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seizure of a different nature from any thing foreboded by
her general state, had carried her off after a short struggle.
The great Mrs. Churchill was no more.
It was felt as such things must be felt. Every body had a
degree of gravity and sorrow; tenderness towards the
departed, solicitude for the surviving friends; and, in a
reasonable time, curiosity to know where she would be
buried. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops
to folly, she has nothing to do but to die; and when she
stoops to be disagreeable, it is equally to be recommended
as a clearer of ill-fame. Mrs. Churchill, after being disliked
at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with
compassionate allowances. In one point she was fully
justified. She had never been admitted before to be
seriously ill. The event acquitted her of all the fancifulness,
and all the selfishness of imaginary complaints.
‘Poor Mrs. Churchill! no doubt she had been suffering
a great deal: more than any body had ever supposed—and
continual pain would try the temper. It was a sad event—a
great shock—with all her faults, what would Mr.
Churchill do without her? Mr. Churchill’s loss would be
dreadful indeed. Mr. Churchill would never get over
it.’— Even Mr. Weston shook his head, and looked
solemn, and said, ‘Ah! poor woman, who would have
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thought it!’ and resolved, that his mourning should be as
handsome as possible; and his wife sat sighing and
moralising over her broad hems with a commiseration and
good sense, true and steady. How it would affect Frank
was among the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very
early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs.
Churchill, the grief of her husband—her mind glanced
over them both with awe and compassion—and then
rested with lightened feelings on how Frank might be
affected by the event, how benefited, how freed. She saw
in a moment all the possible good. Now, an attachment to
Harriet Smith would have nothing to encounter. Mr.
Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody;
an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into any thing by
his nephew. All that remained to be wished was, that the
nephew should form the attachment, as, with all her
goodwill in the cause, Emma could feel no certainty of its
being already formed.
Harriet behaved extremely well on the occasion, with
great self-command. What ever she might feel of brighter
hope, she betrayed nothing. Emma was gratified, to
observe such a proof in her of strengthened character, and
refrained from any allusion that might endanger its

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maintenance. They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s
death with mutual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls,
communicating all that was immediately important of their
state and plans. Mr. Churchill was better than could be
expected; and their first removal, on the departure of the
funeral for Yorkshire, was to be to the house of a very old
friend in Windsor, to whom Mr. Churchill had been
promising a visit the last ten years. At present, there was
nothing to be done for Harriet; good wishes for the future
were all that could yet be possible on Emma’s side.
It was a more pressing concern to shew attention to
Jane Fairfax, whose prospects were closing, while Harriet’s
opened, and whose engagements now allowed of no delay
in any one at Highbury, who wished to shew her
kindness—and with Emma it was grown into a first wish.
She had scarcely a stronger regret than for her past
coldness; and the person, whom she had been so many
months neglecting, was now the very one on whom she
would have lavished every distinction of regard or
sympathy. She wanted to be of use to her; wanted to shew
a value for her society, and testify respect and
consideration. She resolved to prevail on her to spend a
day at Hartfield. A note was written to urge it. The
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invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. ‘Miss
Fairfax was not well enough to write;’ and when Mr.
Perry called at Hartfield, the same morning, it appeared
that she was so much indisposed as to have been visited,
though against her own consent, by himself, and that she
was suffering under severe headaches, and a nervous fever
to a degree, which made him doubt the possibility of her
going to Mrs. Smallridge’s at the time proposed. Her
health seemed for the moment completely deranged—
appetite quite gone—and though there were no absolutely
alarming symptoms, nothing touching the pulmonary
complaint, which was the standing apprehension of the
family, Mr. Perry was uneasy about her. He thought she
had undertaken more than she was equal to, and that she
felt it so herself, though she would not own it. Her spirits
seemed overcome. Her present home, he could not but
observe, was unfavourable to a nervous disorder:—
confined always to one room;—he could have wished it
otherwise— and her good aunt, though his very old
friend, he must acknowledge to be not the best
companion for an invalid of that description. Her care and
attention could not be questioned; they were, in fact, only
too great. He very much feared that Miss Fairfax derived
more evil than good from them. Emma listened with the
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warmest concern; grieved for her more and more, and
looked around eager to discover some way of being useful.
To take her—be it only an hour or two—from her aunt,
to give her change of air and scene, and quiet rational
conversation, even for an hour or two, might do her
good; and the following morning she wrote again to say,
in the most feeling language she could command, that she
would call for her in the carriage at any hour that Jane
would name— mentioning that she had Mr. Perry’s
decided opinion, in favour of such exercise for his patient.
The answer was only in this short note:
‘Miss Fairfax’s compliments and thanks, but is quite
unequal to any exercise.’
Emma felt that her own note had deserved something
better; but it was impossible to quarrel with words, whose
tremulous inequality shewed indisposition so plainly, and
she thought only of how she might best counteract this
unwillingness to be seen or assisted. In spite of the answer,
therefore, she ordered the carriage, and drove to Mrs.
Bates’s, in the hope that Jane would be induced to join
her— but it would not do;—Miss Bates came to the
carriage door, all gratitude, and agreeing with her most
earnestly in thinking an airing might be of the greatest
service—and every thing that message could do was
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tried— but all in vain. Miss Bates was obliged to return
without success; Jane was quite unpersuadable; the mere
proposal of going out seemed to make her worse.—Emma
wished she could have seen her, and tried her own
powers; but, almost before she could hint the wish, Miss
Bates made it appear that she had promised her niece on
no account to let Miss Woodhouse in. ‘Indeed, the truth
was, that poor dear Jane could not bear to see any body—
any body at all— Mrs. Elton, indeed, could not be
denied—and Mrs. Cole had made such a point—and Mrs.
Perry had said so much—but, except them, Jane would
really see nobody.’
Emma did not want to be classed with the Mrs. Eltons,
the Mrs. Perrys, and the Mrs. Coles, who would force
themselves anywhere; neither could she feel any right of
preference herself— she submitted, therefore, and only
questioned Miss Bates farther as to her niece’s appetite and
diet, which she longed to be able to assist. On that subject
poor Miss Bates was very unhappy, and very
communicative; Jane would hardly eat any thing:— Mr.
Perry recommended nourishing food; but every thing they
could command (and never had any body such good
neighbours) was distasteful.

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Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper
directly, to an examination of her stores; and some
arrowroot of very superior quality was speedily despatched
to Miss Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour
the arrowroot was returned, with a thousand thanks from
Miss Bates, but ‘dear Jane would not be satisfied without
its being sent back; it was a thing she could not take—and,
moreover, she insisted on her saying, that she was not at
all in want of any thing.’
When Emma afterwards heard that Jane Fairfax had
been seen wandering about the meadows, at some distance
from Highbury, on the afternoon of the very day on
which she had, under the plea of being unequal to any
exercise, so peremptorily refused to go out with her in the
carriage, she could have no doubt—putting every thing
together— that Jane was resolved to receive no kindness
from her. She was sorry, very sorry. Her heart was grieved
for a state which seemed but the more pitiable from this
sort of irritation of spirits, inconsistency of action, and
inequality of powers; and it mortified her that she was
given so little credit for proper feeling, or esteemed so
little worthy as a friend: but she had the consolation of
knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able
to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley have been privy
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to all her attempts of assisting Jane Fairfax, could he even
have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion,
have found any thing to reprove.

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Chapter X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s
decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who
‘could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to
speak with her.’— He met her at the parlour-door, and
hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his
voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father,
‘Can you come to Randalls at any time this
morning?—Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see
you. She must see you.’
‘Is she unwell?’
‘No, no, not at all—only a little agitated. She would
have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must
see you alone, and that you know—(nodding towards her
father)—Humph!—Can you come?’
‘Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible
to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the
matter?— Is she really not ill?’
‘Depend upon me—but ask no more questions. You
will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business!
But hush, hush!’

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To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for
Emma. Something really important seemed announced by
his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not
to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would
take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of
the house together and on their way at a quick pace for
Randalls.
‘Now,’—said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the
sweep gates,— ‘now Mr. Weston, do let me know what
has happened.’
‘No, no,’—he gravely replied.—‘Don’t ask me. I
promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to
you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will
all come out too soon.’
‘Break it to me,’ cried Emma, standing still with
terror.— ‘Good God!—Mr. Weston, tell me at once.—
Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it
has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is.’
‘No, indeed you are mistaken.’—
‘Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.—Consider how
many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square.
Which of them is it?— I charge you by all that is sacred,
not to attempt concealment.’
‘Upon my word, Emma.’—
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‘Your word!—why not your honour!—why not say
upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of
them? Good Heavens!—What can be to be broke to me,
that does not relate to one of that family?’
‘Upon my honour,’ said he very seriously, ‘it does not.
It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human
being of the name of Knightley.’
Emma’s courage returned, and she walked on.
‘I was wrong,’ he continued, ‘in talking of its being
broke to you. I should not have used the expression. In
fact, it does not concern you— it concerns only myself,—
that is, we hope.—Humph!—In short, my dear Emma,
there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don’t say
that it is not a disagreeable business—but things might be
much worse.—If we walk fast, we shall soon be at
Randalls.’
Emma found that she must wait; and now it required
little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely
employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her
the probability of its being some money concern—
something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in
the circumstances of the family,—something which the
late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy
was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—
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and poor Frank cut off!— This, though very undesirable,
would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more
than an animating curiosity.
‘Who is that gentleman on horseback?’ said she, as they
proceeded— speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in
keeping his secret, than with any other view.
‘I do not know.—One of the Otways.—Not Frank;—
it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is
half way to Windsor by this time.’
‘Has your son been with you, then?’
‘Oh! yes—did not you know?—Well, well, never
mind.’
For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone
much more guarded and demure,
‘Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how
we did.’
They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.—
‘Well, my dear,’ said he, as they entered the room—‘I
have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be
better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay.
I shall not be far off, if you want me.’— And Emma
distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he
quitted the room,—‘I have been as good as my word. She
has not the least idea.’
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Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so
much perturbation, that Emma’s uneasiness increased; and
the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,
‘What is it my dear friend? Something of a very
unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know
directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in
complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let
mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of
your distress, whatever it may be.’
‘Have you indeed no idea?’ said Mrs. Weston in a
trembling voice. ‘Cannot you, my dear Emma—cannot
you form a guess as to what you are to hear?’
‘So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do
guess.’
‘You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you
directly;’ (resuming her work, and seeming resolved
against looking up.) ‘He has been here this very morning,
on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express
our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a
subject,—to announce an attachment—‘
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself,
and then of Harriet.
‘More than an attachment, indeed,’ resumed Mrs.
Weston; ‘an engagement— a positive engagement.—What
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will you say, Emma—what will any body say, when it is
known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are
engaged;—nay, that they have been long engaged!’
Emma even jumped with surprize;—and, horrorstruck, exclaimed,
‘Jane Fairfax!—Good God! You are not serious? You
do not mean it?’
‘You may well be amazed,’ returned Mrs. Weston, still
averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that
Emma might have time to recover— ‘You may well be
amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn
engagement between them ever since October—formed at
Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a
creature knowing it but themselves—neither the
Campbells, nor her family, nor his.— It is so wonderful,
that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost
incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.— I thought I
knew him.’
Emma scarcely heard what was said.—Her mind was
divided between two ideas—her own former
conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor
Harriet;—and for some time she could only exclaim, and
require confirmation, repeated confirmation.

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‘Well,’ said she at last, trying to recover herself; ‘this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day,
before I can at all comprehend it. What!—engaged to her
all the winter— before either of them came to Highbury?’
‘Engaged since October,—secretly engaged.—It has
hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally.
Some part of his conduct we cannot excuse.’
Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, ‘I will
not pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the
relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has
followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of.’
Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma’s
countenance was as steady as her words.
‘That you may have less difficulty in believing this
boast, of my present perfect indifference,’ she continued, ‘I
will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early
part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was
very much disposed to be attached to him—nay, was
attached—and how it came to cease, is perhaps the
wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really
for some time past, for at least these three months, cared
nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston.
This is the simple truth.’

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Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she
could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had
done her more good than any thing else in the world
could do.
‘Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself,’
said she. ‘On this point we have been wretched. It was
our darling wish that you might be attached to each
other—and we were persuaded that it was so.— Imagine
what we have been feeling on your account.’
‘I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a
matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does
not acquit him, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think
him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among
us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so
very disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to
please, as he certainly did—to distinguish any one young
woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did—
while he really belonged to another?—How could he tell
what mischief he might be doing?— How could he tell
that he might not be making me in love with him?— very
wrong, very wrong indeed.’
‘From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather
imagine—‘

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‘And how could she bear such behaviour! Composure
with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were
offering to another woman, before her face, and not resent
it.—That is a degree of placidity, which I can neither
comprehend nor respect.’
‘There were misunderstandings between them, Emma;
he said so expressly. He had not time to enter into much
explanation. He was here only a quarter of an hour, and in
a state of agitation which did not allow the full use even of
the time he could stay— but that there had been
misunderstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis,
indeed, seemed to be brought on by them; and those
misunderstandings might very possibly arise from the
impropriety of his conduct.’
‘Impropriety! Oh! Mrs. Weston—it is too calm a
censure. Much, much beyond impropriety!—It has sunk
him, I cannot say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So
unlike what a man should be!— None of that upright
integrity, that strict adherence to truth and principle, that
disdain of trick and littleness, which a man should display
in every transaction of his life.’
‘Nay, dear Emma, now I must take his part; for though
he has been wrong in this instance, I have known him

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long enough to answer for his having many, very many,
good qualities; and—‘
‘Good God!’ cried Emma, not attending to her.—‘Mrs.
Smallridge, too! Jane actually on the point of going as
governess! What could he mean by such horrible
indelicacy? To suffer her to engage herself— to suffer her
even to think of such a measure!’
‘He knew nothing about it, Emma. On this article I
can fully acquit him. It was a private resolution of hers,
not communicated to him—or at least not communicated
in a way to carry conviction.— Till yesterday, I know he
said he was in the dark as to her plans. They burst on him,
I do not know how, but by some letter or message— and
it was the discovery of what she was doing, of this very
project of hers, which determined him to come forward at
once, own it all to his uncle, throw himself on his
kindness, and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of
concealment that had been carrying on so long.’
Emma began to listen better.
‘I am to hear from him soon,’ continued Mrs. Weston.
‘He told me at parting, that he should soon write; and he
spoke in a manner which seemed to promise me many
particulars that could not be given now. Let us wait,
therefore, for this letter. It may bring many extenuations.
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It may make many things intelligible and excusable which
now are not to be understood. Don’t let us be severe,
don’t let us be in a hurry to condemn him. Let us have
patience. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on
one point, the one material point, I am sincerely anxious
for its all turning out well, and ready to hope that it may.
They must both have suffered a great deal under such a
system of secresy and concealment.’
‘His sufferings,’ replied Emma dryly, ‘do not appear to
have done him much harm. Well, and how did Mr.
Churchill take it?’
‘Most favourably for his nephew—gave his consent
with scarcely a difficulty. Conceive what the events of a
week have done in that family! While poor Mrs. Churchill
lived, I suppose there could not have been a hope, a
chance, a possibility;—but scarcely are her remains at rest
in the family vault, than her husband is persuaded to act
exactly opposite to what she would have required. What a
blessing it is, when undue influence does not survive the
grave!— He gave his consent with very little persuasion.’
‘Ah!’ thought Emma, ‘he would have done as much for
Harriet.’
‘This was settled last night, and Frank was off with the
light this morning. He stopped at Highbury, at the Bates’s,
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I fancy, some time—and then came on hither; but was in
such a hurry to get back to his uncle, to whom he is just
now more necessary than ever, that, as I tell you, he could
stay with us but a quarter of an hour.— He was very
much agitated—very much, indeed—to a degree that
made him appear quite a different creature from any thing
I had ever seen him before.—In addition to all the rest,
there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell,
which he had had no previous suspicion of— and there
was every appearance of his having been feeling a great
deal.’
‘And do you really believe the affair to have been
carrying on with such perfect secresy?—The Campbells,
the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?’
Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a
little blush.
‘None; not one. He positively said that it had been
known to no being in the world but their two selves.’
‘Well,’ said Emma, ‘I suppose we shall gradually grow
reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I
shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding.
What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,—
espionage, and treachery?— To come among us with
professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league
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in secret to judge us all!—Here have we been, the whole
winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves
all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two
people in the midst of us who may have been carrying
round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments
and words that were never meant for both to hear.—They
must take the consequence, if they have heard each other
spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!’
‘I am quite easy on that head,’ replied Mrs. Weston. ‘I
am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the
other, which both might not have heard.’
‘You are in luck.—Your only blunder was confined to
my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in
love with the lady.’
‘True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good
opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder,
have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I
must have been safe.’
At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little
distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His
wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he
was coming round, added, ‘Now, dearest Emma, let me
intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his
heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the
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match. Let us make the best of it—and, indeed, almost
every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a
connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel
that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate
circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should
have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of
character and good judgment as I have always given her
credit for— and still am disposed to give her credit for, in
spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of
right. And how much may be said in her situation for
even that error!’
‘Much, indeed!’ cried Emma feelingly. ‘If a woman can
ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a
situation like Jane Fairfax’s.—Of such, one may almost
say, that ‘the world is not their’s, nor the world’s law.’’
She met Mr. Weston on his entrance, with a smiling
countenance, exclaiming,
‘A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon
my word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my
curiosity, and exercise my talent of guessing. But you
really frightened me. I thought you had lost half your
property, at least. And here, instead of its being a matter of
condolence, it turns out to be one of congratulation.—I
congratulate you, Mr. Weston, with all my heart, on the
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prospect of having one of the most lovely and
accomplished young women in England for your
daughter.’
A glance or two between him and his wife, convinced
him that all was as right as this speech proclaimed; and its
happy effect on his spirits was immediate. His air and
voice recovered their usual briskness: he shook her heartily
and gratefully by the hand, and entered on the subject in a
manner to prove, that he now only wanted time and
persuasion to think the engagement no very bad thing. His
companions suggested only what could palliate
imprudence, or smooth objections; and by the time they
had talked it all over together, and he had talked it all over
again with Emma, in their walk back to Hartfield, he was
become perfectly reconciled, and not far from thinking it
the very best thing that Frank could possibly have done.

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Chapter XI
‘Harriet, poor Harriet!’—Those were the words; in
them lay the tormenting ideas which Emma could not get
rid of, and which constituted the real misery of the
business to her. Frank Churchill had behaved very ill by
herself—very ill in many ways,—but it was not so much
his behaviour as her own, which made her so angry with
him. It was the scrape which he had drawn her into on
Harriet’s account, that gave the deepest hue to his
offence.—Poor Harriet! to be a second time the dupe of
her misconceptions and flattery. Mr. Knightley had spoken
prophetically, when he once said, ‘Emma, you have been
no friend to Harriet Smith.’—She was afraid she had done
her nothing but disservice.—It was true that she had not
to charge herself, in this instance as in the former, with
being the sole and original author of the mischief; with
having suggested such feelings as might otherwise never
have entered Harriet’s imagination; for Harriet had
acknowledged her admiration and preference of Frank
Churchill before she had ever given her a hint on the
subject; but she felt completely guilty of having
encouraged what she might have repressed. She might

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have prevented the indulgence and increase of such
sentiments. Her influence would have been enough. And
now she was very conscious that she ought to have
prevented them.—She felt that she had been risking her
friend’s happiness on most insufficient grounds. Common
sense would have directed her to tell Harriet, that she
must not allow herself to think of him, and that there were
five hundred chances to one against his ever caring for
her.—‘But, with common sense,’ she added, ‘I am afraid I
have had little to do.’
She was extremely angry with herself. If she could not
have been angry with Frank Churchill too, it would have
been dreadful.— As for Jane Fairfax, she might at least
relieve her feelings from any present solicitude on her
account. Harriet would be anxiety enough; she need no
longer be unhappy about Jane, whose troubles and whose
ill-health having, of course, the same origin, must be
equally under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil
were over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and
prosperous.— Emma could now imagine why her own
attentions had been slighted. This discovery laid many
smaller matters open. No doubt it had been from
jealousy.—In Jane’s eyes she had been a rival; and well
might any thing she could offer of assistance or regard be
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repulsed. An airing in the Hartfield carriage would have
been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield
storeroom must have been poison. She understood it all;
and as far as her mind could disengage itself from the
injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she
acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither
elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor
Harriet was such an engrossing charge! There was little
sympathy to be spared for any body else. Emma was sadly
fearful that this second disappointment would be more
severe than the first. Considering the very superior claims
of the object, it ought; and judging by its apparently
stronger effect on Harriet’s mind, producing reserve and
self-command, it would.— She must communicate the
painful truth, however, and as soon as possible. An
injunction of secresy had been among Mr. Weston’s
parting words. ‘For the present, the whole affair was to be
completely a secret. Mr. Churchill had made a point of it,
as a token of respect to the wife he had so very recently
lost; and every body admitted it to be no more than due
decorum.’— Emma had promised; but still Harriet must
be excepted. It was her superior duty.
In spite of her vexation, she could not help feeling it
almost ridiculous, that she should have the very same
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distressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which
Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The
intelligence, which had been so anxiously announced to
her, she was now to be anxiously announcing to another.
Her heart beat quick on hearing Harriet’s footstep and
voice; so, she supposed, had poor Mrs. Weston felt when
she was approaching Randalls. Could the event of the
disclosure bear an equal resemblance!— But of that,
unfortunately, there could be no chance.
‘Well, Miss Woodhouse!’ cried Harriet, coming eagerly
into the room— ‘is not this the oddest news that ever
was?’
‘What news do you mean?’ replied Emma, unable to
guess, by look or voice, whether Harriet could indeed
have received any hint.
‘About Jane Fairfax. Did you ever hear any thing so
strange? Oh!—you need not be afraid of owning it to me,
for Mr. Weston has told me himself. I met him just now.
He told me it was to be a great secret; and, therefore, I
should not think of mentioning it to any body but you,
but he said you knew it.’
‘What did Mr. Weston tell you?’—said Emma, still
perplexed.

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‘Oh! he told me all about it; that Jane Fairfax and Mr.
Frank Churchill are to be married, and that they have
been privately engaged to one another this long while.
How very odd!’
It was, indeed, so odd; Harriet’s behaviour was so
extremely odd, that Emma did not know how to
understand it. Her character appeared absolutely changed.
She seemed to propose shewing no agitation, or
disappointment, or peculiar concern in the discovery.
Emma looked at her, quite unable to speak.
‘Had you any idea,’ cried Harriet, ‘of his being in love
with her?—You, perhaps, might.—You (blushing as she
spoke) who can see into every body’s heart; but nobody
else—‘
‘Upon my word,’ said Emma, ‘I begin to doubt my
having any such talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet,
whether I imagined him attached to another woman at the
very time that I was—tacitly, if not openly— encouraging
you to give way to your own feelings?—I never had the
slightest suspicion, till within the last hour, of Mr. Frank
Churchill’s having the least regard for Jane Fairfax. You
may be very sure that if I had, I should have cautioned
you accordingly.’

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‘Me!’ cried Harriet, colouring, and astonished. ‘Why
should you caution me?—You do not think I care about
Mr. Frank Churchill.’
‘I am delighted to hear you speak so stoutly on the
subject,’ replied Emma, smiling; ‘but you do not mean to
deny that there was a time—and not very distant either—
when you gave me reason to understand that you did care
about him?’
‘Him!—never, never. Dear Miss Woodhouse, how
could you so mistake me?’ turning away distressed.
‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, after a moment’s pause—‘What
do you mean?— Good Heaven! what do you mean?—
Mistake you!—Am I to suppose then?—‘
She could not speak another word.—Her voice was
lost; and she sat down, waiting in great terror till Harriet
should answer.
Harriet, who was standing at some distance, and with
face turned from her, did not immediately say any thing;
and when she did speak, it was in a voice nearly as agitated
as Emma’s.
‘I should not have thought it possible,’ she began, ‘that
you could have misunderstood me! I know we agreed
never to name him— but considering how infinitely
superior he is to every body else, I should not have
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thought it possible that I could be supposed to mean any
other person. Mr. Frank Churchill, indeed! I do not know
who would ever look at him in the company of the other.
I hope I have a better taste than to think of Mr. Frank
Churchill, who is like nobody by his side. And that you
should have been so mistaken, is amazing!—I am sure, but
for believing that you entirely approved and meant to
encourage me in my attachment, I should have considered
it at first too great a presumption almost, to dare to think
of him. At first, if you had not told me that more
wonderful things had happened; that there had been
matches of greater disparity (those were your very
words);— I should not have dared to give way to—I
should not have thought it possible—But if you, who had
been always acquainted with him—‘
‘Harriet!’ cried Emma, collecting herself resolutely—
‘Let us understand each other now, without the possibility
of farther mistake. Are you speaking of—Mr. Knightley?’
‘To be sure I am. I never could have an idea of any
body else— and so I thought you knew. When we talked
about him, it was as clear as possible.’
‘Not quite,’ returned Emma, with forced calmness, ‘for
all that you then said, appeared to me to relate to a
different person. I could almost assert that you had named
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Mr. Frank Churchill. I am sure the service Mr. Frank
Churchill had rendered you, in protecting you from the
gipsies, was spoken of.’
‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, how you do forget!’
‘My dear Harriet, I perfectly remember the substance of
what I said on the occasion. I told you that I did not
wonder at your attachment; that considering the service he
had rendered you, it was extremely natural:—and you
agreed to it, expressing yourself very warmly as to your
sense of that service, and mentioning even what your
sensations had been in seeing him come forward to your
rescue.—The impression of it is strong on my memory.’
‘Oh, dear,’ cried Harriet, ‘now I recollect what you
mean; but I was thinking of something very different at
the time. It was not the gipsies—it was not Mr. Frank
Churchill that I meant. No! (with some elevation) I was
thinking of a much more precious circumstance— of Mr.
Knightley’s coming and asking me to dance, when Mr.
Elton would not stand up with me; and when there was
no other partner in the room. That was the kind action;
that was the noble benevolence and generosity; that was
the service which made me begin to feel how superior he
was to every other being upon earth.’

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‘Good God!’ cried Emma, ‘this has been a most
unfortunate— most deplorable mistake!—What is to be
done?’
‘You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had
understood me? At least, however, I cannot be worse off
than I should have been, if the other had been the person;
and now—it is possible—‘
She paused a few moments. Emma could not speak.
‘I do not wonder, Miss Woodhouse,’ she resumed,
‘that you should feel a great difference between the two, as
to me or as to any body. You must think one five hundred
million times more above me than the other. But I hope,
Miss Woodhouse, that supposing—that if— strange as it
may appear—. But you know they were your own words,
that more wonderful things had happened, matches of
greater disparity had taken place than between Mr. Frank
Churchill and me; and, therefore, it seems as if such a
thing even as this, may have occurred before— and if I
should be so fortunate, beyond expression, as to— if Mr.
Knightley should really—if he does not mind the disparity,
I hope, dear Miss Woodhouse, you will not set yourself
against it, and try to put difficulties in the way. But you
are too good for that, I am sure.’

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Harriet was standing at one of the windows. Emma
turned round to look at her in consternation, and hastily
said,
‘Have you any idea of Mr. Knightley’s returning your
affection?’
‘Yes,’ replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—‘I
must say that I have.’
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat
silently meditating, in a fixed attitude, for a few minutes.
A few minutes were sufficient for making her acquainted
with her own heart. A mind like hers, once opening to
suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched— she
admitted—she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it
so much worse that Harriet should be in love with Mr.
Knightley, than with Frank Churchill? Why was the evil
so dreadfully increased by Harriet’s having some hope of a
return? It darted through her, with the speed of an arrow,
that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Her own conduct, as well as her own heart, was before
her in the same few minutes. She saw it all with a clearness
which had never blessed her before. How improperly had
she been acting by Harriet! How inconsiderate, how
indelicate, how irrational, how unfeeling had been her
conduct! What blindness, what madness, had led her on! It
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struck her with dreadful force, and she was ready to give it
every bad name in the world. Some portion of respect for
herself, however, in spite of all these demerits— some
concern for her own appearance, and a strong sense of
justice by Harriet—(there would be no need of
compassion to the girl who believed herself loved by Mr.
Knightley—but justice required that she should not be
made unhappy by any coldness now,) gave Emma the
resolution to sit and endure farther with calmness, with
even apparent kindness.—For her own advantage indeed,
it was fit that the utmost extent of Harriet’s hopes should
be enquired into; and Harriet had done nothing to forfeit
the regard and interest which had been so voluntarily
formed and maintained—or to deserve to be slighted by
the person, whose counsels had never led her right.—
Rousing from reflection, therefore, and subduing her
emotion, she turned to Harriet again, and, in a more
inviting accent, renewed the conversation; for as to the
subject which had first introduced it, the wonderful story
of Jane Fairfax, that was quite sunk and lost.— Neither of
them thought but of Mr. Knightley and themselves.
Harriet, who had been standing in no unhappy reverie,
was yet very glad to be called from it, by the now
encouraging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as
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Miss Woodhouse, and only wanted invitation, to give the
history of her hopes with great, though trembling
delight.—Emma’s tremblings as she asked, and as she
listened, were better concealed than Harriet’s, but they
were not less. Her voice was not unsteady; but her mind
was in all the perturbation that such a development of self,
such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of
sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.— She
listened with much inward suffering, but with great
outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Methodical, or well
arranged, or very well delivered, it could not be expected
to be; but it contained, when separated from all the
feebleness and tautology of the narration, a substance to
sink her spirit— especially with the corroborating
circumstances, which her own memory brought in favour
of Mr. Knightley’s most improved opinion of Harriet.
Harriet had been conscious of a difference in his
behaviour ever since those two decisive dances.—Emma
knew that he had, on that occasion, found her much
superior to his expectation. From that evening, or at least
from the time of Miss Woodhouse’s encouraging her to
think of him, Harriet had begun to be sensible of his
talking to her much more than he had been used to do,
and of his having indeed quite a different manner towards
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her; a manner of kindness and sweetness!—Latterly she
had been more and more aware of it. When they had been
all walking together, he had so often come and walked by
her, and talked so very delightfully!—He seemed to want
to be acquainted with her. Emma knew it to have been
very much the case. She had often observed the change, to
almost the same extent.— Harriet repeated expressions of
approbation and praise from him— and Emma felt them
to be in the closest agreement with what she had known
of his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being without
art or affectation, for having simple, honest, generous,
feelings.— She knew that he saw such recommendations
in Harriet; he had dwelt on them to her more than
once.—Much that lived in Harriet’s memory, many little
particulars of the notice she had received from him, a
look, a speech, a removal from one chair to another, a
compliment implied, a preference inferred, had been
unnoticed, because unsuspected, by Emma. Circumstances
that might swell to half an hour’s relation, and contained
multiplied proofs to her who had seen them, had passed
undiscerned by her who now heard them; but the two
latest occurrences to be mentioned, the two of strongest
promise to Harriet, were not without some degree of
witness from Emma herself.—The first, was his walking
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with her apart from the others, in the lime-walk at
Donwell, where they had been walking some time before
Emma came, and he had taken pains (as she was
convinced) to draw her from the rest to himself—and at
first, he had talked to her in a more particular way than he
had ever done before, in a very particular way indeed!—
(Harriet could not recall it without a blush.) He seemed to
be almost asking her, whether her affections were
engaged.— But as soon as she (Miss Woodhouse)
appeared likely to join them, he changed the subject, and
began talking about farming:— The second, was his
having sat talking with her nearly half an hour before
Emma came back from her visit, the very last morning of
his being at Hartfield—though, when he first came in, he
had said that he could not stay five minutes—and his
having told her, during their conversation, that though he
must go to London, it was very much against his
inclination that he left home at all, which was much more
(as Emma felt) than he had acknowledged to her. The
superior degree of confidence towards Harriet, which this
one article marked, gave her severe pain.
On the subject of the first of the two circumstances, she
did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
‘Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as
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you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be
alluding to Mr. Martin— he might have Mr. Martin’s
interest in view? But Harriet rejected the suspicion with
spirit.
‘Mr. Martin! No indeed!—There was not a hint of Mr.
Martin. I hope I know better now, than to care for Mr.
Martin, or to be suspected of it.’
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she appealed to
her dear Miss Woodhouse, to say whether she had not
good ground for hope.
‘I never should have presumed to think of it at first,’
said she, ‘but for you. You told me to observe him
carefully, and let his behaviour be the rule of mine—and
so I have. But now I seem to feel that I may deserve him;
and that if he does chuse me, it will not be any thing so
very wonderful.’
The bitter feelings occasioned by this speech, the many
bitter feelings, made the utmost exertion necessary on
Emma’s side, to enable her to say on reply,
‘Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr.
Knightley is the last man in the world, who would
intentionally give any woman the idea of his feeling for
her more than he really does.’

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Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for a
sentence so satisfactory; and Emma was only saved from
raptures and fondness, which at that moment would have
been dreadful penance, by the sound of her father’s
footsteps. He was coming through the hall. Harriet was
too much agitated to encounter him. ‘She could not
compose herself— Mr. Woodhouse would be alarmed—
she had better go;’—with most ready encouragement from
her friend, therefore, she passed off through another
door—and the moment she was gone, this was the
spontaneous burst of Emma’s feelings: ‘Oh God! that I had
never seen her!’
The rest of the day, the following night, were hardly
enough for her thoughts.—She was bewildered amidst the
confusion of all that had rushed on her within the last few
hours. Every moment had brought a fresh surprize; and
every surprize must be matter of humiliation to her.—
How to understand it all! How to understand the
deceptions she had been thus practising on herself, and
living under!—The blunders, the blindness of her own
head and heart!—she sat still, she walked about, she tried
her own room, she tried the shrubbery—in every place,
every posture, she perceived that she had acted most
weakly; that she had been imposed on by others in a most
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mortifying degree; that she had been imposing on herself
in a degree yet more mortifying; that she was wretched,
and should probably find this day but the beginning of
wretchedness.
To understand, thoroughly understand her own heart,
was the first endeavour. To that point went every leisure
moment which her father’s claims on her allowed, and
every moment of involuntary absence of mind.
How long had Mr. Knightley been so dear to her, as
every feeling declared him now to be? When had his
influence, such influence begun?— When had he
succeeded to that place in her affection, which Frank
Churchill had once, for a short period, occupied?—She
looked back; she compared the two—compared them, as
they had always stood in her estimation, from the time of
the latter’s becoming known to her— and as they must at
any time have been compared by her, had it— oh! had it,
by any blessed felicity, occurred to her, to institute the
comparison.—She saw that there never had been a time
when she did not consider Mr. Knightley as infinitely the
superior, or when his regard for her had not been
infinitely the most dear. She saw, that in persuading
herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had been
entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own
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heart—and, in short, that she had never really cared for
Frank Churchill at all!
This was the conclusion of the first series of reflection.
This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of
inquiry, which she reached; and without being long in
reaching it.— She was most sorrowfully indignant;
ashamed of every sensation but the one revealed to her—
her affection for Mr. Knightley.— Every other part of her
mind was disgusting.
With insufferable vanity had she believed herself in the
secret of every body’s feelings; with unpardonable
arrogance proposed to arrange every body’s destiny. She
was proved to have been universally mistaken; and she had
not quite done nothing—for she had done mischief. She
had brought evil on Harriet, on herself, and she too much
feared, on Mr. Knightley.—Were this most unequal of all
connexions to take place, on her must rest all the reproach
of having given it a beginning; for his attachment, she
must believe to be produced only by a consciousness of
Harriet’s;—and even were this not the case, he would
never have known Harriet at all but for her folly.
Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to
distance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of
Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace,
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threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize,
presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or
thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an
elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was
horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the
general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the
merriment it would prompt at his expense; the
mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand
inconveniences to himself.—Could it be?—No; it was
impossible. And yet it was far, very far, from impossible.—
Was it a new circumstance for a man of first-rate abilities
to be captivated by very inferior powers? Was it new for
one, perhaps too busy to seek, to be the prize of a girl
who would seek him?—Was it new for any thing in this
world to be unequal, inconsistent, incongruous—or for
chance and circumstance (as second causes) to direct the
human fate?
Oh! had she never brought Harriet forward! Had she
left her where she ought, and where he had told her she
ought!—Had she not, with a folly which no tongue could
express, prevented her marrying the unexceptionable
young man who would have made her happy and
respectable in the line of life to which she ought to

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belong— all would have been safe; none of this dreadful
sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption to
raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could dare
to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actually
assured of it!— But Harriet was less humble, had fewer
scruples than formerly.— Her inferiority, whether of mind
or situation, seemed little felt.— She had seemed more
sensible of Mr. Elton’s being to stoop in marrying her,
than she now seemed of Mr. Knightley’s.— Alas! was not
that her own doing too? Who had been at pains to give
Harriet notions of self-consequence but herself?—Who
but herself had taught her, that she was to elevate herself if
possible, and that her claims were great to a high worldly
establishment?— If Harriet, from being humble, were
grown vain, it was her doing too.

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Chapter XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma
had never known how much of her happiness depended
on being first with Mr. Knightley, first in interest and
affection.—Satisfied that it was so, and feeling it her due,
she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in the
dread of being supplanted, found how inexpressibly
important it had been.—Long, very long, she felt she had
been first; for, having no female connexions of his own,
there had been only Isabella whose claims could be
compared with hers, and she had always known exactly
how far he loved and esteemed Isabella. She had herself
been first with him for many years past. She had not
deserved it; she had often been negligent or perverse,
slighting his advice, or even wilfully opposing him,
insensible of half his merits, and quarrelling with him
because he would not acknowledge her false and insolent
estimate of her own—but still, from family attachment and
habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her,
and watched over her from a girl, with an endeavour to
improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right, which no
other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her faults,

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she knew she was dear to him; might she not say, very
dear?— When the suggestions of hope, however, which
must follow here, presented themselves, she could not
presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think
herself not unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively,
passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. She could not. She
could not flatter herself with any idea of blindness in his
attachment to her. She had received a very recent proof of
its impartiality.— How shocked had he been by her
behaviour to Miss Bates! How directly, how strongly had
he expressed himself to her on the subject!—Not too
strongly for the offence—but far, far too strongly to issue
from any feeling softer than upright justice and clearsighted goodwill.— She had no hope, nothing to deserve
the name of hope, that he could have that sort of affection
for herself which was now in question; but there was a
hope (at times a slight one, at times much stronger,) that
Harriet might have deceived herself, and be overrating his
regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be the
consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining single
all his life. Could she be secure of that, indeed, of his
never marrying at all, she believed she should be perfectly
satisfied.—Let him but continue the same Mr. Knightley
to her and her father, the same Mr. Knightley to all the
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world; let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their
precious intercourse of friendship and confidence, and her
peace would be fully secured.—Marriage, in fact, would
not do for her. It would be incompatible with what she
owed to her father, and with what she felt for him.
Nothing should separate her from her father. She would
not marry, even if she were asked by Mr. Knightley.
It must be her ardent wish that Harriet might be
disappointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them
together again, she might at least be able to ascertain what
the chances for it were.—She should see them
henceforward with the closest observance; and wretchedly
as she had hitherto misunderstood even those she was
watching, she did not know how to admit that she could
be blinded here.— He was expected back every day. The
power of observation would be soon given—frightfully
soon it appeared when her thoughts were in one course.
In the meanwhile, she resolved against seeing Harriet.— It
would do neither of them good, it would do the subject
no good, to be talking of it farther.—She was resolved not
to be convinced, as long as she could doubt, and yet had
no authority for opposing Harriet’s confidence. To talk
would be only to irritate.—She wrote to her, therefore,
kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at
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present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her
conviction, that all farther confidential discussion of one
topic had better be avoided; and hoping, that if a few days
were allowed to pass before they met again, except in the
company of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—
they might be able to act as if they had forgotten the
conversation of yesterday.—Harriet submitted, and
approved, and was grateful.
This point was just arranged, when a visitor arrived to
tear Emma’s thoughts a little from the one subject which
had engrossed them, sleeping or waking, the last twentyfour hours—Mrs. Weston, who had been calling on her
daughter-in-law elect, and took Hartfield in her way
home, almost as much in duty to Emma as in pleasure to
herself, to relate all the particulars of so interesting an
interview.
Mr. Weston had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates’s, and
gone through his share of this essential attention most
handsomely; but she having then induced Miss Fairfax to
join her in an airing, was now returned with much more
to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a
quarter of an hour spent in Mrs. Bates’s parlour, with all
the encumbrance of awkward feelings, could have
afforded.
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A little curiosity Emma had; and she made the most of
it while her friend related. Mrs. Weston had set off to pay
the visit in a good deal of agitation herself; and in the first
place had wished not to go at all at present, to be allowed
merely to write to Miss Fairfax instead, and to defer this
ceremonious call till a little time had passed, and Mr.
Churchill could be reconciled to the engagement’s
becoming known; as, considering every thing, she thought
such a visit could not be paid without leading to
reports:— but Mr. Weston had thought differently; he was
extremely anxious to shew his approbation to Miss Fairfax
and her family, and did not conceive that any suspicion
could be excited by it; or if it were, that it would be of
any consequence; for ‘such things,’ he observed, ‘always
got about.’ Emma smiled, and felt that Mr. Weston had
very good reason for saying so. They had gone, in short—
and very great had been the evident distress and confusion
of the lady. She had hardly been able to speak a word, and
every look and action had shewn how deeply she was
suffering from consciousness. The quiet, heart-felt
satisfaction of the old lady, and the rapturous delight of her
daughter—who proved even too joyous to talk as usual,
had been a gratifying, yet almost an affecting, scene. They
were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so
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disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane;
so much of every body, and so little of themselves, that
every kindly feeling was at work for them. Miss Fairfax’s
recent illness had offered a fair plea for Mrs. Weston to
invite her to an airing; she had drawn back and declined at
first, but, on being pressed had yielded; and, in the course
of their drive, Mrs. Weston had, by gentle
encouragement, overcome so much of her embarrassment,
as to bring her to converse on the important subject.
Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their
first reception, and the warmest expressions of the
gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr.
Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these
effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the
present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs.
Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the
greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own
mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much
pleased with all that she had said on the subject.
‘On the misery of what she had suffered, during the
concealment of so many months,’ continued Mrs. Weston,
‘she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. ‘I will
not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have
not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have
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never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’— and the
quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation
that I felt at my heart.’
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma. ‘She thinks herself wrong, then,
for having consented to a private engagement?’
‘Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than
she is disposed to blame herself. ‘The consequence,’ said
she, ‘has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it
ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can
bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I
never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all
my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing
has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what
my conscience tells me ought not to be.’ ‘Do not imagine,
madam,’ she continued, ‘that I was taught wrong. Do not
let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the
friends who brought me up. The error has been all my
own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that
present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread
making the story known to Colonel Campbell.’’
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma again. ‘She loves him then
excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment
only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her
affection must have overpowered her judgment.’
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‘Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached
to him.’
‘I am afraid,’ returned Emma, sighing, ‘that I must
often have contributed to make her unhappy.’
‘On your side, my love, it was very innocently done.
But she probably had something of that in her thoughts,
when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had
given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the
evil she had involved herself in,’ she said, ‘was that of
making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having
done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes,
and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must
have been— that had been—hard for him to bear. ‘I did
not make the allowances,’ said she, ‘which I ought to have
done, for his temper and spirits— his delightful spirits, and
that gaiety, that playfulness of disposition, which, under
any other circumstances, would, I am sure, have been as
constantly bewitching to me, as they were at first.’ She
then began to speak of you, and of the great kindness you
had shewn her during her illness; and with a blush which
shewed me how it was all connected, desired me,
whenever I had an opportunity, to thank you—I could
not thank you too much—for every wish and every

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endeavour to do her good. She was sensible that you had
never received any proper acknowledgment from herself.’
‘If I did not know her to be happy now,’ said Emma,
seriously, ‘which, in spite of every little drawback from
her scrupulous conscience, she must be, I could not bear
these thanks;—for, oh! Mrs. Weston, if there were an
account drawn up of the evil and the good I have done
Miss Fairfax!—Well (checking herself, and trying to be
more lively), this is all to be forgotten. You are very kind
to bring me these interesting particulars. They shew her to
the greatest advantage. I am sure she is very good— I hope
she will be very happy. It is fit that the fortune should be
on his side, for I think the merit will be all on hers.’
Such a conclusion could not pass unanswered by Mrs.
Weston. She thought well of Frank in almost every
respect; and, what was more, she loved him very much,
and her defence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a
great deal of reason, and at least equal affection— but she
had too much to urge for Emma’s attention; it was soon
gone to Brunswick Square or to Donwell; she forgot to
attempt to listen; and when Mrs. Weston ended with, ‘We
have not yet had the letter we are so anxious for, you
know, but I hope it will soon come,’ she was obliged to
pause before she answered, and at last obliged to answer at
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random, before she could at all recollect what letter it was
which they were so anxious for.
‘Are you well, my Emma?’ was Mrs. Weston’s parting
question.
‘Oh! perfectly. I am always well, you know. Be sure to
give me intelligence of the letter as soon as possible.’
Mrs. Weston’s communications furnished Emma with
more food for unpleasant reflection, by increasing her
esteem and compassion, and her sense of past injustice
towards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having
sought a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the
envious feelings which had certainly been, in some
measure, the cause. Had she followed Mr. Knightley’s
known wishes, in paying that attention to Miss Fairfax,
which was every way her due; had she tried to know her
better; had she done her part towards intimacy; had she
endeavoured to find a friend there instead of in Harriet
Smith; she must, in all probability, have been spared from
every pain which pressed on her now.—Birth, abilities,
and education, had been equally marking one as an
associate for her, to be received with gratitude; and the
other—what was she?—Supposing even that they had
never become intimate friends; that she had never been
admitted into Miss Fairfax’s confidence on this important
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matter— which was most probable—still, in knowing her
as she ought, and as she might, she must have been
preserved from the abominable suspicions of an improper
attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only so
foolishly fashioned and harboured herself, but had so
unpardonably imparted; an idea which she greatly feared
had been made a subject of material distress to the delicacy
of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank
Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the
former, since her coming to Highbury, she was persuaded
that she must herself have been the worst. She must have
been a perpetual enemy. They never could have been all
three together, without her having stabbed Jane Fairfax’s
peace in a thousand instances; and on Box Hill, perhaps, it
had been the agony of a mind that would bear no more.
The evening of this day was very long, and
melancholy, at Hartfield. The weather added what it could
of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in, and nothing of July
appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the wind was
despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made
such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could
only be kept tolerably comfortable by almost ceaseless
attention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which
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had never cost her half so much before. It reminded her of
their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening of Mrs.
Weston’s wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked in
then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy
fancy. Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield’s attraction,
as those sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The
picture which she had then drawn of the privations of the
approaching winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had
deserted them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her
present forebodings she feared would experience no
similar contradiction. The prospect before her now, was
threatening to a degree that could not be entirely
dispelled— that might not be even partially brightened. If
all took place that might take place among the circle of her
friends, Hartfield must be comparatively deserted; and she
left to cheer her father with the spirits only of ruined
happiness.
The child to be born at Randalls must be a tie there
even dearer than herself; and Mrs. Weston’s heart and time
would be occupied by it. They should lose her; and,
probably, in great measure, her husband also.—Frank
Churchill would return among them no more; and Miss
Fairfax, it was reasonable to suppose, would soon cease to
belong to Highbury. They would be married, and settled
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either at or near Enscombe. All that were good would be
withdrawn; and if to these losses, the loss of Donwell were
to be added, what would remain of cheerful or of rational
society within their reach? Mr. Knightley to be no longer
coming there for his evening comfort!— No longer
walking in at all hours, as if ever willing to change his own
home for their’s!—How was it to be endured? And if he
were to be lost to them for Harriet’s sake; if he were to be
thought of hereafter, as finding in Harriet’s society all that
he wanted; if Harriet were to be the chosen, the first, the
dearest, the friend, the wife to whom he looked for all the
best blessings of existence; what could be increasing
Emma’s wretchedness but the reflection never far distant
from her mind, that it had been all her own work?
When it came to such a pitch as this, she was not able
to refrain from a start, or a heavy sigh, or even from
walking about the room for a few seconds—and the only
source whence any thing like consolation or composure
could be drawn, was in the resolution of her own better
conduct, and the hope that, however inferior in spirit and
gaiety might be the following and every future winter of
her life to the past, it would yet find her more rational,
more acquainted with herself, and leave her less to regret
when it were gone.
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Chapter XIII
The weather continued much the same all the
following morning; and the same loneliness, and the same
melancholy, seemed to reign at Hartfield—but in the
afternoon it cleared; the wind changed into a softer
quarter; the clouds were carried off; the sun appeared; it
was summer again. With all the eagerness which such a
transition gives, Emma resolved to be out of doors as soon
as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, sensation
of nature, tranquil, warm, and brilliant after a storm, been
more attractive to her. She longed for the serenity they
might gradually introduce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in
soon after dinner, with a disengaged hour to give her
father, she lost no time ill hurrying into the shrubbery.—
There, with spirits freshened, and thoughts a little relieved,
she had taken a few turns, when she saw Mr. Knightley
passing through the garden door, and coming towards
her.—It was the first intimation of his being returned from
London. She had been thinking of him the moment
before, as unquestionably sixteen miles distant.—There
was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. She
must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were

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together. The ‘How d’ye do’s’ were quiet and constrained
on each side. She asked after their mutual friends; they
were all well.—When had he left them?—Only that
morning. He must have had a wet ride.—Yes.—He meant
to walk with her, she found. ‘He had just looked into the
dining-room, and as he was not wanted there, preferred
being out of doors.’—She thought he neither looked nor
spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause for it,
suggested by her fears, was, that he had perhaps been
communicating his plans to his brother, and was pained by
the manner in which they had been received.
They walked together. He was silent. She thought he
was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of
her face than it suited her to give. And this belief
produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to
her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching
for encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel
equal to lead the way to any such subject. He must do it
all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it
was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and,
trying to smile, began—
‘You have some news to hear, now you are come back,
that will rather surprize you.’

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‘Have I?’ said he quietly, and looking at her; ‘of what
nature?’
‘Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding.’
After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to
say no more, he replied,
‘If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have
heard that already.’
‘How is it possible?’ cried Emma, turning her glowing
cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to
her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard’s in his
way.
‘I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston
this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief
account of what had happened.’
Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with
a little more composure,
‘You probably have been less surprized than any of us,
for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten
that you once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had
attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy
sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness.’
For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was
unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till
she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against
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his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great
sensibility, speaking low,
‘Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—
Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your
father’s sake—I know you will not allow yourself—.’ Her
arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and
subdued accent, ‘The feelings of the warmest friendship—
Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!’— And in a louder,
steadier tone, he concluded with, ‘He will soon be gone.
They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She
deserves a better fate.’
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could
recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender
consideration, replied,
‘You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must
set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of
compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me
to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of,
and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many
things which may well lay me open to unpleasant
conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was
not in the secret earlier.’
‘Emma!’ cried he, looking eagerly at her, ‘are you,
indeed?’— but checking himself—‘No, no, I understand
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you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so
much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not
be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate
that your affections were not farther entangled!—I could
never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to
the degree of what you felt— I could only be certain that
there was a preference—and a preference which I never
believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of
man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young
woman?— Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.’
‘Mr. Knightley,’ said Emma, trying to be lively, but
really confused— ‘I am in a very extraordinary situation. I
cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps,
since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much
reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been
at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might
be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the
reverse.— But I never have.’
He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak,
but he would not. She supposed she must say more before
she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to
be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went
on, however.
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‘I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was
tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear
pleased.— An old story, probably—a common case—and
no more than has happened to hundreds of my sex before;
and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets
up as I do for Understanding. Many circumstances assisted
the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was
continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and,
in short, for (with a sigh) let me swell out the causes ever
so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity
was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly,
however—for some time, indeed— I have had no idea of
their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick,
nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has
imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never
been attached to him. And now I can tolerably
comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me.
It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with
another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no
one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than
myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was my
good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe
from him.’

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She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to
say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was
silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At
last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,
‘I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill.—
I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him.
My acquaintance with him has been but trifling.—And
even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet
turn out well.—With such a woman he has a chance.—I
have no motive for wishing him ill—and for her sake,
whose happiness will be involved in his good character
and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.’
‘I have no doubt of their being happy together,’ said
Emma; ‘I believe them to be very mutually and very
sincerely attached.’
‘He is a most fortunate man!’ returned Mr. Knightley,
with energy. ‘So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a
period when, if a man chuses a wife, he generally chuses
ill. At three-and-twenty to have drawn such a prize! What
years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has
before him!—Assured of the love of such a woman—the
disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax’s character vouches for
her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour,— equality
of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the
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habits and manners that are important; equality in every
point but one— and that one, since the purity of her heart
is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for
it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants.—A
man would always wish to give a woman a better home
than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it,
where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be
the happiest of mortals.—Frank Churchill is, indeed, the
favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—
He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains
her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent
treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the
world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have
found her superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt
dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends are eager to
promote his happiness.— He had used every body ill—
and they are all delighted to forgive him.— He is a
fortunate man indeed!’
‘You speak as if you envied him.’
‘And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the
object of my envy.’
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within
half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was
to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she
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would speak of something totally different—the children
in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to
begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,
‘You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You
are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are
wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what
you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next
moment.’
‘Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,’ she eagerly
cried. ‘Take a little time, consider, do not commit
yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said he, in an accent of deep
mortification, and not another syllable followed.
Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was
wishing to confide in her— perhaps to consult her;—cost
her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his
resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just
praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own
independence, relieve him from that state of indecision,
which must be more intolerable than any alternative to
such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.
‘You are going in, I suppose?’ said he.
‘No,’—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the
depressed manner in which he still spoke—‘I should like
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to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.’ And, after
proceeding a few steps, she added— ‘I stopped you
ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid,
gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly
to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that
you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you
may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I will
tell you exactly what I think.’
‘As a friend!’—repeated Mr. Knightley.—‘Emma, that I
fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why
should I hesitate?— I have gone too far already for
concealment.—Emma,
I
accept
your
offer—
Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself
to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of
ever succeeding?’
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and
the expression of his eyes overpowered her.
‘My dearest Emma,’ said he, ‘for dearest you will
always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation,
my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say
‘No,’ if it is to be said.’— She could really say nothing.—
‘You are silent,’ he cried, with great animation; ‘absolutely
silent! at present I ask no more.’

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Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of
this moment. The dread of being awakened from the
happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
‘I cannot make speeches, Emma:’ he soon resumed; and
in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as
was tolerably convincing.—‘If I loved you less, I might be
able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—
You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed
you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
woman in England would have borne it.— Bear with the
truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you
have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as
little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very
indifferent lover.— But you understand me.—Yes, you
see, you understand my feelings— and will return them if
you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your
voice.’
While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and,
with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been
able—and yet without losing a word— to catch and
comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a
delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own—that
Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that
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what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all
taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her
agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement,
had been all received as discouragement from herself.—
And not only was there time for these convictions, with
all their glow of attendant happiness; there was time also
to rejoice that Harriet’s secret had not escaped her, and to
resolve that it need not, and should not.—It was all the
service she could now render her poor friend; for as to any
of that heroism of sentiment which might have prompted
her to entreat him to transfer his affection from herself to
Harriet, as infinitely the most worthy of the two— or
even the more simple sublimity of resolving to refuse him
at once and for ever, without vouchsafing any motive,
because he could not marry them both, Emma had it not.
She felt for Harriet, with pain and with contrition; but no
flight of generosity run mad, opposing all that could be
probable or reasonable, entered her brain. She had led her
friend astray, and it would be a reproach to her for ever;
but her judgment was as strong as her feelings, and as
strong as it had ever been before, in reprobating any such
alliance for him, as most unequal and degrading. Her way
was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on
being so entreated.— What did she say?—Just what she
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ought, of course. A lady always does.— She said enough
to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to
say more himself. He had despaired at one period; he had
received such an injunction to caution and silence, as for
the time crushed every hope;—she had begun by refusing
to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her
renewing the conversation which she had just put an end
to, might be a little extraordinary!—She felt its
inconsistency; but Mr. Knightley was so obliging as to put
up with it, and seek no farther explanation.
Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to
any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that
something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken; but
where, as in this case, though the conduct is mistaken, the
feelings are not, it may not be very material.— Mr.
Knightley could not impute to Emma a more relenting
heart than she possessed, or a heart more disposed to
accept of his.
He had, in fact, been wholly unsuspicious of his own
influence. He had followed her into the shrubbery with
no idea of trying it. He had come, in his anxiety to see
how she bore Frank Churchill’s engagement, with no
selfish view, no view at all, but of endeavouring, if she
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allowed him an opening, to soothe or to counsel her.—
The rest had been the work of the moment, the
immediate effect of what he heard, on his feelings. The
delightful assurance of her total indifference towards Frank
Churchill, of her having a heart completely disengaged
from him, had given birth to the hope, that, in time, he
might gain her affection himself;—but it had been no
present hope—he had only, in the momentary conquest of
eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did
not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes
which gradually opened were so much the more
enchanting.— The affection, which he had been asking to
be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!—Within
half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed
state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that
it could bear no other name.
Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given
to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had
cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy,
or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-standing
jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of
Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and
jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period,
one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the
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other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken
him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided
him on going away. He would save himself from
witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—
He had gone to learn to be indifferent.— But he had gone
to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness
in his brother’s house; woman wore too amiable a form in
it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in
those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other
in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done,
even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on,
however, vigorously, day after day—till this very
morning’s post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—
Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he
did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank
Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much
fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he
could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the
rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how
this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all
her faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her agitated and low.—Frank Churchill
was a villain.— He heard her declare that she had never
loved him. Frank Churchill’s character was not
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desperate.—She was his own Emma, by hand and word,
when they returned into the house; and if he could have
thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed
him a very good sort of fellow.

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Chapter XIV
What totally different feelings did Emma take back into
the house from what she had brought out!—she had then
been only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—
she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness, and such
happiness moreover as she believed must still be greater
when the flutter should have passed away.
They sat down to tea—the same party round the same
table— how often it had been collected!—and how often
had her eyes fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn, and
observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun!—
But never in such a state of spirits, never in any thing like
it; and it was with difficulty that she could summon
enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the
house, or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Woodhouse little suspected what was
plotting against him in the breast of that man whom he
was so cordially welcoming, and so anxiously hoping
might not have taken cold from his ride.—Could he have
seen the heart, he would have cared very little for the
lungs; but without the most distant imagination of the
impending evil, without the slightest perception of any

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thing extraordinary in the looks or ways of either, he
repeated to them very comfortably all the articles of news
he had received from Mr. Perry, and talked on with much
self-contentment, totally unsuspicious of what they could
have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Knightley remained with them, Emma’s
fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to be a
little tranquillised and subdued—and in the course of the
sleepless night, which was the tax for such an evening, she
found one or two such very serious points to consider, as
made her feel, that even her happiness must have some
alloy. Her father—and Harriet. She could not be alone
without feeling the full weight of their separate claims; and
how to guard the comfort of both to the utmost, was the
question. With respect to her father, it was a question
soon answered. She hardly knew yet what Mr. Knightley
would ask; but a very short parley with her own heart
produced the most solemn resolution of never quitting her
father.—She even wept over the idea of it, as a sin of
thought. While he lived, it must be only an engagement;
but she flattered herself, that if divested of the danger of
drawing her away, it might become an increase of comfort
to him.— How to do her best by Harriet, was of more
difficult decision;— how to spare her from any
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unnecessary pain; how to make her any possible
atonement; how to appear least her enemy?— On these
subjects, her perplexity and distress were very great— and
her mind had to pass again and again through every bitter
reproach and sorrowful regret that had ever surrounded
it.— She could only resolve at last, that she would still
avoid a meeting with her, and communicate all that need
be told by letter; that it would be inexpressibly desirable to
have her removed just now for a time from Highbury,
and—indulging in one scheme more— nearly resolve, that
it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to
Brunswick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with
Harriet; and a few weeks spent in London must give her
some amusement.— She did not think it in Harriet’s
nature to escape being benefited by novelty and variety,
by the streets, the shops, and the children.— At any rate, it
would be a proof of attention and kindness in herself, from
whom every thing was due; a separation for the present;
an averting of the evil day, when they must all be together
again.
She rose early, and wrote her letter to Harriet; an
employment which left her so very serious, so nearly sad,
that Mr. Knightley, in walking up to Hartfield to
breakfast, did not arrive at all too soon; and half an hour
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stolen afterwards to go over the same ground again with
him, literally and figuratively, was quite necessary to
reinstate her in a proper share of the happiness of the
evening before.
He had not left her long, by no means long enough for
her to have the slightest inclination for thinking of any
body else, when a letter was brought her from Randalls—
a very thick letter;—she guessed what it must contain, and
deprecated the necessity of reading it.— She was now in
perfect charity with Frank Churchill; she wanted no
explanations, she wanted only to have her thoughts to
herself— and as for understanding any thing he wrote, she
was sure she was incapable of it.—It must be waded
through, however. She opened the packet; it was too
surely so;—a note from Mrs. Weston to herself, ushered in
the letter from Frank to Mrs. Weston.
‘I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, in
forwarding to you the enclosed. I know what thorough
justice you will do it, and have scarcely a doubt of its
happy effect.—I think we shall never materially disagree
about the writer again; but I will not delay you by a long
preface.—We are quite well.— This letter has been the
cure of all the little nervousness I have been feeling
lately.—I did not quite like your looks on Tuesday, but it
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was an ungenial morning; and though you will never own
being affected by weather, I think every body feels a
north-east wind.— I felt for your dear father very much in
the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning,
but had the comfort of hearing last night, by Mr. Perry,
that it had not made him ill.
‘Yours
ever,
‘A. W.’
[To Mrs. Weston.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR MADAM,
‘If I made myself intelligible yesterday, this letter will
be expected; but expected or not, I know it will be read
with candour and indulgence.— You are all goodness, and
I believe there will be need of even all your goodness to
allow for some parts of my past conduct.— But I have
been forgiven by one who had still more to resent. My
courage rises while I write. It is very difficult for the
prosperous to be humble. I have already met with such
success in two applications for pardon, that I may be in
danger of thinking myself too sure of yours, and of those
among your friends who have had any ground of
offence.—You must all endeavour to comprehend the
exact nature of my situation when I first arrived at
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Randalls; you must consider me as having a secret which
was to be kept at all hazards. This was the fact. My right to
place myself in a situation requiring such concealment, is
another question. I shall not discuss it here. For my
temptation to think it a right, I refer every caviller to a
brick house, sashed windows below, and casements above,
in Highbury. I dared not address her openly; my
difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well
known to require definition; and I was fortunate enough
to prevail, before we parted at Weymouth, and to induce
the most upright female mind in the creation to stoop in
charity to a secret engagement.— Had she refused, I
should have gone mad.—But you will be ready to say,
what was your hope in doing this?—What did you look
forward to?— To any thing, every thing—to time,
chance, circumstance, slow effects, sudden bursts,
perseverance and weariness, health and sickness. Every
possibility of good was before me, and the first of blessings
secured, in obtaining her promises of faith and
correspondence. If you need farther explanation, I have
the honour, my dear madam, of being your husband’s son,
and the advantage of inheriting a disposition to hope for
good, which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever
equal the value of.—See me, then, under these
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circumstances, arriving on my first visit to Randalls;—and
here I am conscious of wrong, for that visit might have
been sooner paid. You will look back and see that I did
not come till Miss Fairfax was in Highbury; and as you
were the person slighted, you will forgive me instantly;
but I must work on my father’s compassion, by reminding
him, that so long as I absented myself from his house, so
long I lost the blessing of knowing you. My behaviour,
during the very happy fortnight which I spent with you,
did not, I hope, lay me open to reprehension, excepting
on one point. And now I come to the principal, the only
important part of my conduct while belonging to you,
which excites my own anxiety, or requires very solicitous
explanation. With the greatest respect, and the warmest
friendship, do I mention Miss Woodhouse; my father
perhaps will think I ought to add, with the deepest
humiliation.— A few words which dropped from him
yesterday spoke his opinion, and some censure I
acknowledge myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss
Woodhouse indicated, I believe, more than it ought.— In
order to assist a concealment so essential to me, I was led
on to make more than an allowable use of the sort of
intimacy into which we were immediately thrown.—I
cannot deny that Miss Woodhouse was my ostensible
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object—but I am sure you will believe the declaration,
that had I not been convinced of her indifference, I would
not have been induced by any selfish views to go on.—
Amiable and delightful as Miss Woodhouse is, she never
gave me the idea of a young woman likely to be attached;
and that she was perfectly free from any tendency to being
attached to me, was as much my conviction as my wish.—
She received my attentions with an easy, friendly,
goodhumoured playfulness, which exactly suited me. We
seemed to understand each other. From our relative
situation, those attentions were her due, and were felt to
be so.—Whether Miss Woodhouse began really to
understand me before the expiration of that fortnight, I
cannot say;—when I called to take leave of her, I
remember that I was within a moment of confessing the
truth, and I then fancied she was not without suspicion;
but I have no doubt of her having since detected me, at
least in some degree.— She may not have surmised the
whole, but her quickness must have penetrated a part. I
cannot doubt it. You will find, whenever the subject
becomes freed from its present restraints, that it did not
take her wholly by surprize. She frequently gave me hints
of it. I remember her telling me at the ball, that I owed
Mrs. Elton gratitude for her attentions to Miss Fairfax.— I
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hope this history of my conduct towards her will be
admitted by you and my father as great extenuation of
what you saw amiss. While you considered me as having
sinned against Emma Woodhouse, I could deserve nothing
from either. Acquit me here, and procure for me, when it
is allowable, the acquittal and good wishes of that said
Emma Woodhouse, whom I regard with so much
brotherly affection, as to long to have her as deeply and as
happily in love as myself.— Whatever strange things I said
or did during that fortnight, you have now a key to. My
heart was in Highbury, and my business was to get my
body thither as often as might be, and with the least
suspicion. If you remember any queernesses, set them all
to the right account.— Of the pianoforte so much talked
of, I feel it only necessary to say, that its being ordered was
absolutely unknown to Miss F—, who would never have
allowed me to send it, had any choice been given her.—
The delicacy of her mind throughout the whole
engagement, my dear madam, is much beyond my power
of doing justice to. You will soon, I earnestly hope, know
her thoroughly yourself.— No description can describe
her. She must tell you herself what she is— yet not by
word, for never was there a human creature who would so
designedly suppress her own merit.—Since I began this
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letter, which will be longer than I foresaw, I have heard
from her.— She gives a good account of her own health;
but as she never complains, I dare not depend. I want to
have your opinion of her looks. I know you will soon call
on her; she is living in dread of the visit. Perhaps it is paid
already. Let me hear from you without delay; I am
impatient for a thousand particulars. Remember how few
minutes I was at Randalls, and in how bewildered, how
mad a state: and I am not much better yet; still insane
either from happiness or misery. When I think of the
kindness and favour I have met with, of her excellence
and patience, and my uncle’s generosity, I am mad with
joy: but when I recollect all the uneasiness I occasioned
her, and how little I deserve to be forgiven, I am mad
with anger. If I could but see her again!—But I must not
propose it yet. My uncle has been too good for me to
encroach.—I must still add to this long letter. You have
not heard all that you ought to hear. I could not give any
connected detail yesterday; but the suddenness, and, in
one light, the unseasonableness with which the affair burst
out, needs explanation; for though the event of the 26th
ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened to me the
happiest prospects, I should not have presumed on such
early measures, but from the very particular circumstances,
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which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself have
shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have felt
every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and
refinement.— But I had no choice. The hasty engagement
she had entered into with that woman—Here, my dear
madam, I was obliged to leave off abruptly, to recollect
and compose myself.—I have been walking over the
country, and am now, I hope, rational enough to make
the rest of my letter what it ought to be.—It is, in fact, a
most mortifying retrospect for me. I behaved shamefully.
And here I can admit, that my manners to Miss W., in
being unpleasant to Miss F., were highly blameable. She
disapproved them, which ought to have been enough.—
My plea of concealing the truth she did not think
sufficient.—She was displeased; I thought unreasonably so:
I thought her, on a thousand occasions, unnecessarily
scrupulous and cautious: I thought her even cold. But she
was always right. If I had followed her judgment, and
subdued my spirits to the level of what she deemed
proper, I should have escaped the greatest unhappiness I
have ever known.—We quarrelled.— Do you remember
the morning spent at Donwell?—There every little
dissatisfaction that had occurred before came to a crisis. I
was late; I met her walking home by herself, and wanted
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to walk with her, but she would not suffer it. She
absolutely refused to allow me, which I then thought most
unreasonable. Now, however, I see nothing in it but a
very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While I,
to blind the world to our engagement, was behaving one
hour with objectionable particularity to another woman,
was she to be consenting the next to a proposal which
might have made every previous caution useless?—Had
we been met walking together between Donwell and
Highbury, the truth must have been suspected.— I was
mad enough, however, to resent.—I doubted her
affection. I doubted it more the next day on Box Hill;
when, provoked by such conduct on my side, such
shameful, insolent neglect of her, and such apparent
devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for
any woman of sense to endure, she spoke her resentment
in a form of words perfectly intelligible to me.— In short,
my dear madam, it was a quarrel blameless on her side,
abominable on mine; and I returned the same evening to
Richmond, though I might have staid with you till the
next morning, merely because I would be as angry with
her as possible. Even then, I was not such a fool as not to
mean to be reconciled in time; but I was the injured
person, injured by her coldness, and I went away
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determined that she should make the first advances.—I
shall always congratulate myself that you were not of the
Box Hill party. Had you witnessed my behaviour there, I
can hardly suppose you would ever have thought well of
me again. Its effect upon her appears in the immediate
resolution it produced: as soon as she found I was really
gone from Randalls, she closed with the offer of that
officious Mrs. Elton; the whole system of whose treatment
of her, by the bye, has ever filled me with indignation and
hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance
which has been so richly extended towards myself; but,
otherwise, I should loudly protest against the share of it
which that woman has known.— ‘Jane,’ indeed!—You
will observe that I have not yet indulged myself in calling
her by that name, even to you. Think, then, what I must
have endured in hearing it bandied between the Eltons
with all the vulgarity of needless repetition, and all the
insolence of imaginary superiority. Have patience with
me, I shall soon have done.— She closed with this offer,
resolving to break with me entirely, and wrote the next
day to tell me that we never were to meet again.— She
felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and
misery to each: she dissolved it.—This letter reached me
on the very morning of my poor aunt’s death. I answered
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it within an hour; but from the confusion of my mind,
and the multiplicity of business falling on me at once, my
answer, instead of being sent with all the many other
letters of that day, was locked up in my writing-desk; and
I, trusting that I had written enough, though but a few
lines, to satisfy her, remained without any uneasiness.—I
was rather disappointed that I did not hear from her again
speedily; but I made excuses for her, and was too busy,
and—may I add?— too cheerful in my views to be
captious.—We removed to Windsor; and two days
afterwards I received a parcel from her, my own letters all
returned!—and a few lines at the same time by the post,
stating her extreme surprize at not having had the smallest
reply to her last; and adding, that as silence on such a point
could not be misconstrued, and as it must be equally
desirable to both to have every subordinate arrangement
concluded as soon as possible, she now sent me, by a safe
conveyance, all my letters, and requested, that if I could
not directly command hers, so as to send them to
Highbury within a week, I would forward them after that
period to her at—: in short, the full direction to Mr.
Smallridge’s, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the
name, the place, I knew all about it, and instantly saw
what she had been doing. It was perfectly accordant with
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that resolution of character which I knew her to possess;
and the secrecy she had maintained, as to any such design
in her former letter, was equally descriptive of its anxious
delicacy. For the world would not she have seemed to
threaten me.—Imagine the shock; imagine how, till I had
actually detected my own blunder, I raved at the blunders
of the post.— What was to be done?—One thing only.—I
must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not
hope to be listened to again.— I spoke; circumstances
were in my favour; the late event had softened away his
pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated,
wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last,
poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as
much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I
felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are you disposed
to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the
cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No;
do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I
had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick
looks.—I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from
my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of
a good chance of finding her alone.—I was not
disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in
the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable,
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very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is
done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever,
and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us
again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I
could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand
thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and
ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate
towards her.—If you think me in a way to be happier than
I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.—Miss W. calls me
the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.—In one
respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able
to subscribe myself,
Your
obliged
and
affectionate
Son,
F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.

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Chapter XV
This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She
was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the
contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold.
As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible;
every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost
every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the
subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of
her former regard for the writer, and the very strong
attraction which any picture of love must have for her at
that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through
the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he
had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had
supposed—and he had suffered, and was very sorry—and
he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love
with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there
was no being severe; and could he have entered the room,
she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.
She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr.
Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was
sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated;

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especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so
much to blame in his conduct.
‘I shall be very glad to look it over,’ said he; ‘but it
seems long. I will take it home with me at night.’
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the
evening, and she must return it by him.
‘I would rather be talking to you,’ he replied; ‘but as it
seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.’
He began—stopping, however, almost directly to say,
‘Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s
letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it
would not have been taken with such indifference.’
He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and
then, with a smile, observed, ‘Humph! a fine
complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man’s style
must not be the rule of another’s. We will not be severe.’
‘It will be natural for me,’ he added shortly afterwards,
‘to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall
feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of
time: but if you dislike it—‘
‘Not at all. I should wish it.’
Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater
alacrity.

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‘He trifles here,’ said he, ‘as to the temptation. He
knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.—
Bad.—He ought not to have formed the engagement.—
‘His father’s disposition:’— he is unjust, however, to his
father. Mr. Weston’s sanguine temper was a blessing on all
his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston
earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to
gain it.—Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was
here.’
‘And I have not forgotten,’ said Emma, ‘how sure you
were that he might have come sooner if he would. You
pass it over very handsomely— but you were perfectly
right.’
‘I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:—
but yet, I think— had you not been in the case—I should
still have distrusted him.’
When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to
read the whole of it aloud—all that related to her, with a
smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent,
or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject
required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady
reflection, thus—
‘Very bad—though it might have been worse.—
Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to
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the event for his acquittal.— No judge of his own
manners by you.—Always deceived in fact by his own
wishes, and regardless of little besides his own
convenience.— Fancying you to have fathomed his secret.
Natural enough!— his own mind full of intrigue, that he
should suspect it in others.—Mystery; Finesse—how they
pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every
thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth
and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?’
Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on
Harriet’s account, which she could not give any sincere
explanation of.
‘You had better go on,’ said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, ‘the
pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young
man, one too young to consider whether the
inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the
pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!—I cannot
comprehend a man’s wishing to give a woman any proof
of affection which he knows she would rather dispense
with; and he did know that she would have prevented the
instrument’s coming if she could.’

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After this, he made some progress without any pause.
Frank Churchill’s confession of having behaved shamefully
was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing.
‘I perfectly agree with you, sir,’—was then his remark.
‘You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer
line.’ And having gone through what immediately
followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his
persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax’s sense
of right, he made a fuller pause to say, ‘This is very bad.—
He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a
situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should
have been his first object to prevent her from suffering
unnecessarily.—She must have had much more to contend
with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could.
He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had
there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must
look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a
wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that
she should have been in such a state of punishment.’
Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill
party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had
been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a
little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however,
steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and,
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excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly
withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain—no remembrance
of Box Hill seemed to exist.
‘There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good
friends, the Eltons,’ was his next observation.—‘His
feelings are natural.— What! actually resolve to break with
him entirely!—She felt the engagement to be a source of
repentance and misery to each— she dissolved it.—What a
view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!—Well, he
must be a most extraordinary—‘
‘Nay, nay, read on.—You will find how very much he
suffers.’
‘I hope he does,’ replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and
resuming the letter. ‘‘Smallridge!’—What does this mean?
What is all this?’
‘She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs.
Smallridge’s children— a dear friend of Mrs. Elton’s—a
neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder
how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?’
‘Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to
read—not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I
shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!’
‘I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards
him.’
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‘Well, there is feeling here.—He does seem to have
suffered in finding her ill.—Certainly, I can have no doubt
of his being fond of her. ‘Dearer, much dearer than ever.’
I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a
reconciliation.—He is a very liberal thanker, with his
thousands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I
deserve.’ Come, he knows himself there. ‘Miss
Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.’—Those
were Miss Woodhouse’s words, were they?— And a fine
ending—and there is the letter. The child of good fortune!
That was your name for him, was it?’
‘You do not appear so well satisfied with his letter as I
am; but still you must, at least I hope you must, think the
better of him for it. I hope it does him some service with
you.’
‘Yes, certainly it does. He has had great faults, faults of
inconsideration and thoughtlessness; and I am very much
of his opinion in thinking him likely to be happier than he
deserves: but still as he is, beyond a doubt, really attached
to Miss Fairfax, and will soon, it may be hoped, have the
advantage of being constantly with her, I am very ready to
believe his character will improve, and acquire from hers
the steadiness and delicacy of principle that it wants. And
now, let me talk to you of something else. I have another
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person’s interest at present so much at heart, that I cannot
think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left
you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work
on one subject.’
The subject followed; it was in plain, unaffected,
gentlemanlike English, such as Mr. Knightley used even to
the woman he was in love with, how to be able to ask her
to marry him, without attacking the happiness of her
father. Emma’s answer was ready at the first word. ‘While
her dear father lived, any change of condition must be
impossible for her. She could never quit him.’ Part only of
this answer, however, was admitted. The impossibility of
her quitting her father, Mr. Knightley felt as strongly as
herself; but the inadmissibility of any other change, he
could not agree to. He had been thinking it over most
deeply, most intently; he had at first hoped to induce Mr.
Woodhouse to remove with her to Donwell; he had
wanted to believe it feasible, but his knowledge of Mr.
Woodhouse would not suffer him to deceive himself long;
and now he confessed his persuasion, that such a
transplantation would be a risk of her father’s comfort,
perhaps even of his life, which must not be hazarded. Mr.
Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that it
ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen
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on the sacrifice of this, he trusted his dearest Emma would
not find in any respect objectionable; it was, that he
should be received at Hartfield; that so long as her father’s
happiness in other words his life—required Hartfield to
continue her home, it should be his likewise.
Of their all removing to Donwell, Emma had already
had her own passing thoughts. Like him, she had tried the
scheme and rejected it; but such an alternative as this had
not occurred to her. She was sensible of all the affection it
evinced. She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be
sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and
habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no
house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be
borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him
to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no
reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the
subject. He had given it, he could assure her, very long
and calm consideration; he had been walking away from
William Larkins the whole morning, to have his thoughts
to himself.
‘Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for,’ cried
Emma. ‘I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You
must get his consent before you ask mine.’

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She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty
nearly promised, moreover, to think of it, with the
intention of finding it a very good scheme.
It is remarkable, that Emma, in the many, very many,
points of view in which she was now beginning to
consider Donwell Abbey, was never struck with any sense
of injury to her nephew Henry, whose rights as heirexpectant had formerly been so tenaciously regarded.
Think she must of the possible difference to the poor little
boy; and yet she only gave herself a saucy conscious smile
about it, and found amusement in detecting the real cause
of that violent dislike of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane
Fairfax, or any body else, which at the time she had
wholly imputed to the amiable solicitude of the sister and
the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and
continuing at Hartfield— the more she contemplated it,
the more pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen,
her own advantages to increase, their mutual good to
outweigh every drawback. Such a companion for herself
in the periods of anxiety and cheerlessness before her!—
Such a partner in all those duties and cares to which time
must be giving increase of melancholy!

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She would have been too happy but for poor Harriet;
but every blessing of her own seemed to involve and
advance the sufferings of her friend, who must now be
even excluded from Hartfield. The delightful family party
which Emma was securing for herself, poor Harriet must,
in mere charitable caution, be kept at a distance from. She
would be a loser in every way. Emma could not deplore
her future absence as any deduction from her own
enjoyment. In such a party, Harriet would be rather a dead
weight than otherwise; but for the poor girl herself, it
seemed a peculiarly cruel necessity that was to be placing
her in such a state of unmerited punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Knightley would be forgotten,
that is, supplanted; but this could not be expected to
happen very early. Mr. Knightley himself would be doing
nothing to assist the cure;— not like Mr. Elton. Mr.
Knightley, always so kind, so feeling, so truly considerate
for every body, would never deserve to be less worshipped
than now; and it really was too much to hope even of
Harriet, that she could be in love with more than three
men in one year.

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Chapter XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as
desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse
was painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they
been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be
supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of illusage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of
resentment, a something bordering on it in her style,
which increased the desirableness of their being
separate.— It might be only her own consciousness; but it
seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without
resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Isabella’s invitation;
and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for
asking it, without resorting to invention.—There was a
tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished some
time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Knightley was
delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a
recommendation to her—and though not so fond of a
dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have
Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on her

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sister’s side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found
her very persuadable.— Harriet was to go; she was invited
for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr.
Woodhouse’s carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all
completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could, indeed, enjoy Mr. Knightley’s
visits; now she could talk, and she could listen with true
happiness, unchecked by that sense of injustice, of guilt, of
something most painful, which had haunted her when
remembering how disappointed a heart was near her, how
much might at that moment, and at a little distance, be
enduring by the feelings which she had led astray herself.
The difference of Harriet at Mrs. Goddard’s, or in
London, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in
Emma’s sensations; but she could not think of her in
London without objects of curiosity and employment,
which must be averting the past, and carrying her out of
herself.
She would not allow any other anxiety to succeed
directly to the place in her mind which Harriet had
occupied. There was a communication before her, one
which she only could be competent to make— the
confession of her engagement to her father; but she would
have nothing to do with it at present.—She had resolved
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to defer the disclosure till Mrs. Weston were safe and well.
No additional agitation should be thrown at this period
among those she loved— and the evil should not act on
herself by anticipation before the appointed time.—A
fortnight, at least, of leisure and peace of mind, to crown
every warmer, but more agitating, delight, should be hers.
She soon resolved, equally as a duty and a pleasure, to
employ half an hour of this holiday of spirits in calling on
Miss Fairfax.— She ought to go—and she was longing to
see her; the resemblance of their present situations
increasing every other motive of goodwill. It would be a
secret satisfaction; but the consciousness of a similarity of
prospect would certainly add to the interest with which
she should attend to any thing Jane might communicate.
She went—she had driven once unsuccessfully to the
door, but had not been into the house since the morning
after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress as
had filled her with compassion, though all the worst of her
sufferings had been unsuspected.— The fear of being still
unwelcome, determined her, though assured of their being
at home, to wait in the passage, and send up her name.—
She heard Patty announcing it; but no such bustle
succeeded as poor Miss Bates had before made so happily
intelligible.—No; she heard nothing but the instant reply
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of, ‘Beg her to walk up;’—and a moment afterwards she
was met on the stairs by Jane herself, coming eagerly
forward, as if no other reception of her were felt
sufficient.— Emma had never seen her look so well, so
lovely, so engaging. There was consciousness, animation,
and warmth; there was every thing which her
countenance or manner could ever have wanted.— She
came forward with an offered hand; and said, in a low, but
very feeling tone,
‘This is most kind, indeed!—Miss Woodhouse, it is
impossible for me to express—I hope you will believe—
Excuse me for being so entirely without words.’
Emma was gratified, and would soon have shewn no
want of words, if the sound of Mrs. Elton’s voice from the
sitting-room had not checked her, and made it expedient
to compress all her friendly and all her congratulatory
sensations into a very, very earnest shake of the hand.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Elton were together. Miss Bates
was out, which accounted for the previous tranquillity.
Emma could have wished Mrs. Elton elsewhere; but she
was in a humour to have patience with every body; and as
Mrs. Elton met her with unusual graciousness, she hoped
the rencontre would do them no harm.

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She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s
thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in
happy spirits; it was being in Miss Fairfax’s confidence, and
fancying herself acquainted with what was still a secret to
other people. Emma saw symptoms of it immediately in
the expression of her face; and while paying her own
compliments to Mrs. Bates, and appearing to attend to the
good old lady’s replies, she saw her with a sort of anxious
parade of mystery fold up a letter which she had
apparently been reading aloud to Miss Fairfax, and return
it into the purple and gold reticule by her side, saying,
with significant nods,
‘We can finish this some other time, you know. You
and I shall not want opportunities. And, in fact, you have
heard all the essential already. I only wanted to prove to
you that Mrs. S. admits our apology, and is not offended.
You see how delightfully she writes. Oh! she is a sweet
creature! You would have doated on her, had you
gone.—But not a word more. Let us be discreet— quite
on our good behaviour.—Hush!—You remember those
lines— I forget the poem at this moment:
‘For when a lady’s in the case,
‘You know all other things give place.’

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Now I say, my dear, in our case, for lady, read——
mum! a word to the wise.—I am in a fine flow of spirits,
an’t I? But I want to set your heart at ease as to Mrs. S.—
My representation, you see, has quite appeased her.’
And again, on Emma’s merely turning her head to look
at Mrs. Bates’s knitting, she added, in a half whisper,
‘I mentioned no names, you will observe.—Oh! no;
cautious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely
well.’
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display,
repeated on every possible occasion. When they had all
talked a little while in harmony of the weather and Mrs.
Weston, she found herself abruptly addressed with,
‘Do not you think, Miss Woodhouse, our saucy little
friend here is charmingly recovered?—Do not you think
her cure does Perry the highest credit?—(here was a sideglance of great meaning at Jane.) Upon my word, Perry
has restored her in a wonderful short time!— Oh! if you
had seen her, as I did, when she was at the worst!’— And
when Mrs. Bates was saying something to Emma,
whispered farther, ‘We do not say a word of any assistance
that Perry might have; not a word of a certain young
physician from Windsor.—Oh! no; Perry shall have all the
credit.’
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‘I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss
Woodhouse,’ she shortly afterwards began, ‘since the party
to Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was
something wanting. Things did not seem—that is, there
seemed a little cloud upon the spirits of some.—So it
appeared to me at least, but I might be mistaken.
However, I think it answered so far as to tempt one to go
again. What say you both to our collecting the same party,
and exploring to Box Hill again, while the fine weather
lasts?— It must be the same party, you know, quite the
same party, not one exception.’
Soon after this Miss Bates came in, and Emma could
not help being diverted by the perplexity of her first
answer to herself, resulting, she supposed, from doubt of
what might be said, and impatience to say every thing.
‘Thank you, dear Miss Woodhouse, you are all
kindness.—It is impossible to say—Yes, indeed, I quite
understand—dearest Jane’s prospects— that is, I do not
mean.—But she is charmingly recovered.— How is Mr.
Woodhouse?—I am so glad.—Quite out of my power.—
Such a happy little circle as you find us here.—Yes,
indeed.— Charming young man!—that is—so very
friendly; I mean good Mr. Perry!— such attention to
Jane!’—And from her great, her more than commonly
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thankful delight towards Mrs. Elton for being there,
Emma guessed that there had been a little show of
resentment towards Jane, from the vicarage quarter, which
was now graciously overcome.— After a few whispers,
indeed, which placed it beyond a guess, Mrs. Elton,
speaking louder, said,
‘Yes, here I am, my good friend; and here I have been
so long, that anywhere else I should think it necessary to
apologise; but, the truth is, that I am waiting for my lord
and master. He promised to join me here, and pay his
respects to you.’
‘What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr.
Elton?— That will be a favour indeed! for I know
gentlemen do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s
time is so engaged.’
‘Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged
from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s
coming to him, on some pretence or other.—The
magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always
wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing
without him.—‘Upon my word, Mr. E.,’ I often say,
‘rather you than I.— I do not know what would become
of my crayons and my instrument, if I had half so many
applicants.’—Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect
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them both to an unpardonable degree.—I believe I have
not played a bar this fortnight.—However, he is coming, I
assure you: yes, indeed, on purpose to wait on you all.’
And putting up her hand to screen her words from
Emma—‘A congratulatory visit, you know.—Oh! yes,
quite indispensable.’
Miss Bates looked about her, so happily!—
‘He promised to come to me as soon as he could
disengage himself from Knightley; but he and Knightley
are shut up together in deep consultation.—Mr. E. is
Knightley’s right hand.’
Emma would not have smiled for the world, and only
said, ‘Is Mr. Elton gone on foot to Donwell?—He will
have a hot walk.’
‘Oh! no, it is a meeting at the Crown, a regular
meeting. Weston and Cole will be there too; but one is
apt to speak only of those who lead.—I fancy Mr. E. and
Knightley have every thing their own way.’
‘Have not you mistaken the day?’ said Emma. ‘I am
almost certain that the meeting at the Crown is not till tomorrow.—Mr. Knightley was at Hartfield yesterday, and
spoke of it as for Saturday.’
‘Oh! no, the meeting is certainly to-day,’ was the
abrupt answer, which denoted the impossibility of any
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blunder on Mrs. Elton’s side.— ‘I do believe,’ she
continued, ‘this is the most troublesome parish that ever
was. We never heard of such things at Maple Grove.’
‘Your parish there was small,’ said Jane.
‘Upon my word, my dear, I do not know, for I never
heard the subject talked of.’
‘But it is proved by the smallness of the school, which I
have heard you speak of, as under the patronage of your
sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school, and not more than
five-and-twenty children.’
‘Ah! you clever creature, that’s very true. What a
thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect
character you and I should make, if we could be shaken
together. My liveliness and your solidity would produce
perfection.—Not that I presume to insinuate, however,
that some people may not think you perfection already.—
But hush!— not a word, if you please.’
It seemed an unnecessary caution; Jane was wanting to
give her words, not to Mrs. Elton, but to Miss
Woodhouse, as the latter plainly saw. The wish of
distinguishing her, as far as civility permitted, was very
evident, though it could not often proceed beyond a look.
Mr. Elton made his appearance. His lady greeted him
with some of her sparkling vivacity.
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‘Very pretty, sir, upon my word; to send me on here,
to be an encumbrance to my friends, so long before you
vouchsafe to come!— But you knew what a dutiful
creature you had to deal with. You knew I should not stir
till my lord and master appeared.— Here have I been
sitting this hour, giving these young ladies a sample of true
conjugal obedience—for who can say, you know, how
soon it may be wanted?’
Mr. Elton was so hot and tired, that all this wit seemed
thrown away. His civilities to the other ladies must be
paid; but his subsequent object was to lament over himself
for the heat he was suffering, and the walk he had had for
nothing.
‘When I got to Donwell,’ said he, ‘Knightley could not
be found. Very odd! very unaccountable! after the note I
sent him this morning, and the message he returned, that
he should certainly be at home till one.’
‘Donwell!’ cried his wife.—‘My dear Mr. E., you have
not been to Donwell!—You mean the Crown; you come
from the meeting at the Crown.’
‘No, no, that’s to-morrow; and I particularly wanted to
see Knightley to-day on that very account.—Such a
dreadful broiling morning!— I went over the fields too—
(speaking in a tone of great ill-usage,) which made it so
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much the worse. And then not to find him at home! I
assure you I am not at all pleased. And no apology left, no
message for me. The housekeeper declared she knew
nothing of my being expected.— Very extraordinary!—
And nobody knew at all which way he was gone. Perhaps
to Hartfield, perhaps to the Abbey Mill, perhaps into his
woods.— Miss Woodhouse, this is not like our friend
Knightley!—Can you explain it?’
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was very
extraordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say
for him.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the
indignity as a wife ought to do,) ‘I cannot imagine how he
could do such a thing by you, of all people in the world!
The very last person whom one should expect to be
forgotten!—My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message
for you, I am sure he must.—Not even Knightley could
be so very eccentric;— and his servants forgot it. Depend
upon it, that was the case: and very likely to happen with
the Donwell servants, who are all, I have often observed,
extremely awkward and remiss.—I am sure I would not
have such a creature as his Harry stand at our sideboard for
any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright holds

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her very cheap indeed.—She promised Wright a receipt,
and never sent it.’
‘I met William Larkins,’ continued Mr. Elton, ‘as I got
near the house, and he told me I should not find his
master at home, but I did not believe him.—William
seemed rather out of humour. He did not know what was
come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever
get the speech of him. I have nothing to do with
William’s wants, but it really is of very great importance
that I should see Knightley to-day; and it becomes a
matter, therefore, of very serious inconvenience that I
should have had this hot walk to no purpose.’
Emma felt that she could not do better than go home
directly. In all probability she was at this very time waited
for there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from
sinking deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not
towards William Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax
determined to attend her out of the room, to go with her
even downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she
immediately made use of, to say,
‘It is as well, perhaps, that I have not had the
possibility. Had you not been surrounded by other friends,
I might have been tempted to introduce a subject, to ask
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questions, to speak more openly than might have been
strictly correct.—I feel that I should certainly have been
impertinent.’
‘Oh!’ cried Jane, with a blush and an hesitation which
Emma thought infinitely more becoming to her than all
the elegance of all her usual composure—‘there would
have been no danger. The danger would have been of my
wearying you. You could not have gratified me more than
by expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse,
(speaking more collectedly,) with the consciousness which
I have of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is
particularly consoling to me to know that those of my
friends, whose good opinion is most worth preserving, are
not disgusted to such a degree as to—I have not time for
half that I could wish to say. I long to make apologies,
excuses, to urge something for myself. I feel it so very due.
But, unfortunately—in short, if your compassion does not
stand my friend—‘
‘Oh! you are too scrupulous, indeed you are,’ cried
Emma warmly, and taking her hand. ‘You owe me no
apologies; and every body to whom you might be
supposed to owe them, is so perfectly satisfied, so
delighted even—‘

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‘You are very kind, but I know what my manners were
to you.— So cold and artificial!—I had always a part to
act.—It was a life of deceit!—I know that I must have
disgusted you.’
‘Pray say no more. I feel that all the apologies should be
on my side. Let us forgive each other at once. We must do
whatever is to be done quickest, and I think our feelings
will lose no time there. I hope you have pleasant accounts
from Windsor?’
‘Very.’
‘And the next news, I suppose, will be, that we are to
lose you— just as I begin to know you.’
‘Oh! as to all that, of course nothing can be thought of
yet. I am here till claimed by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell.’
‘Nothing can be actually settled yet, perhaps,’ replied
Emma, smiling—‘but, excuse me, it must be thought of.’
The smile was returned as Jane answered,
‘You are very right; it has been thought of. And I will
own to you, (I am sure it will be safe), that so far as our
living with Mr. Churchill at Enscombe, it is settled. There
must be three months, at least, of deep mourning; but
when they are over, I imagine there will be nothing more
to wait for.’

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‘Thank you, thank you.—This is just what I wanted to
be assured of.— Oh! if you knew how much I love every
thing that is decided and open!— Good-bye, good-bye.’

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Chapter XVII
Mrs. Weston’s friends were all made happy by her
safety; and if the satisfaction of her well-doing could be
increased to Emma, it was by knowing her to be the
mother of a little girl. She had been decided in wishing for
a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was
with any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with
either of Isabella’s sons; but she was convinced that a
daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would
be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew older— and
even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years
hence—to have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the
nonsense, the freaks and the fancies of a child never
banished from home; and Mrs. Weston— no one could
doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would
be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to
teach, should not have their powers in exercise again.
‘She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on
me,’ she continued—‘like La Baronne d’Almane on La
Comtesse d’Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis’ Adelaide and
Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide
educated on a more perfect plan.’

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‘That is,’ replied Mr. Knightley, ‘she will indulge her
even more than she did you, and believe that she does not
indulge her at all. It will be the only difference.’
‘Poor child!’ cried Emma; ‘at that rate, what will
become of her?’
‘Nothing very bad.—The fate of thousands. She will be
disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows
older. I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children,
my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to
you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be
severe on them?’
Emma laughed, and replied: ‘But I had the assistance of
all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other
people. I doubt whether my own sense would have
corrected me without it.’
‘Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you
understanding:— Miss Taylor gave you principles. You
must have done well. My interference was quite as likely
to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say,
what right has he to lecture me?— and I am afraid very
natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable
manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good
was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest
affection to me. I could not think about you so much
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without doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of
fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever
since you were thirteen at least.’
‘I am sure you were of use to me,’ cried Emma. ‘I was
very often influenced rightly by you—oftener than I
would own at the time. I am very sure you did me good.
And if poor little Anna Weston is to be spoiled, it will be
the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her as you
have done for me, except falling in love with her when
she is thirteen.’
‘How often, when you were a girl, have you said to
me, with one of your saucy looks—‘Mr. Knightley, I am
going to do so-and-so; papa says I may, or I have Miss
Taylor’s leave’—something which, you knew, I did not
approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two
bad feelings instead of one.’
‘What an amiable creature I was!—No wonder you
should hold my speeches in such affectionate
remembrance.’
‘‘Mr. Knightley.’—You always called me, ‘Mr.
Knightley;’ and, from habit, it has not so very formal a
sound.—And yet it is formal. I want you to call me
something else, but I do not know what.’

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‘I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my
amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought
it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I
never did it again.’
‘And cannot you call me ‘George’ now?’
‘Impossible!—I never can call you any thing but ‘Mr.
Knightley.’ I will not promise even to equal the elegant
terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K.—But I will
promise,’ she added presently, laughing and blushing—‘I
will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I
do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;—in
the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse.’
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just
to one important service which his better sense would
have rendered her, to the advice which would have saved
her from the worst of all her womanly follies—her wilful
intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
subject.—She could not enter on it.— Harriet was very
seldom mentioned between them. This, on his side, might
merely proceed from her not being thought of; but Emma
was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy, and a
suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship
were declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under
any other circumstances, they certainly should have
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corresponded more, and that her intelligence would not
have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on Isabella’s
letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very
little inferior to the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as
could be expected; on her first arrival she had thought her
out of spirits, which appeared perfectly natural, as there
was a dentist to be consulted; but, since that business had
been over, she did not appear to find Harriet different
from what she had known her before.— Isabella, to be
sure, was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not
been equal to playing with the children, it would not have
escaped her. Emma’s comforts and hopes were most
agreeably carried on, by Harriet’s being to stay longer; her
fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs.
John Knightley were to come down in August, and she
was invited to remain till they could bring her back.
‘John does not even mention your friend,’ said Mr.
Knightley. ‘Here is his answer, if you like to see it.’
It was the answer to the communication of his
intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager
hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would

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say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her
friend was unmentioned.
‘John enters like a brother into my happiness,’
continued Mr. Knightley, ‘but he is no complimenter; and
though I well know him to have, likewise, a most
brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making
flourishes, that any other young woman might think him
rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your
seeing what he writes.’
‘He writes like a sensible man,’ replied Emma, when
she had read the letter. ‘I honour his sincerity. It is very
plain that he considers the good fortune of the
engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without
hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection,
as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a
different construction, I should not have believed him.’
‘My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—
‘
‘He and I should differ very little in our estimation of
the two,’ interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile—
‘much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter
without ceremony or reserve on the subject.’
‘Emma, my dear Emma—‘

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‘Oh!’ she cried with more thorough gaiety, ‘if you
fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till
my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion.
Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you
justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage,
on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish
I may not sink into ‘poor Emma’ with him at once.— His
tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no
farther.’
‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I wish your father might be half as
easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right
that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am
amused by one part of John’s letter— did you notice it?—
where he says, that my information did not take him
wholly by surprize, that he was rather in expectation of
hearing something of the kind.’
‘If I understand your brother, he only means so far as
your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea
of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that.’
‘Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so
far into my feelings. What has he been judging by?—I am
not conscious of any difference in my spirits or
conversation that could prepare him at this time for my
marrying any more than at another.— But it was so, I
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suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was
staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play
with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one
evening the poor boys saying, ‘Uncle seems always tired
now.’’
The time was coming when the news must spread
farther, and other persons’ reception of it tried. As soon as
Mrs. Weston was sufficiently recovered to admit Mr.
Woodhouse’s visits, Emma having it in view that her
gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause,
resolved first to announce it at home, and then at
Randalls.— But how to break it to her father at last!—She
had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley’s absence, or when it came to the point her
heart would have failed her, and she must have put it off;
but Mr. Knightley was to come at such a time, and follow
up the beginning she was to make.—She was forced to
speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a
more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy
tone herself. She must not appear to think it a
misfortune.—With all the spirits she could command, she
prepared him first for something strange, and then, in a
few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could
be obtained—which, she trusted, would be attended with
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no difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness
of all— she and Mr. Knightley meant to marry; by which
means Hartfield would receive the constant addition of
that person’s company whom she knew he loved, next to
his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!—it was at first a considerable shock to him,
and he tried earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was
reminded, more than once, of having always said she
would never marry, and assured that it would be a great
deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor
Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor.—But it would not do.
Emma hung about him affectionately, and smiled, and said
it must be so; and that he must not class her with Isabella
and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them from
Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she
was not going from Hartfield; she should be always there;
she was introducing no change in their numbers or their
comforts but for the better; and she was very sure that he
would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.
Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to
the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knightley very much?—
He would not deny that he did, she was sure.—Whom
did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?—Who was so useful to him, who so ready to
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write his letters, who so glad to assist him?— Who so
cheerful, so attentive, so attached to him?—Would not he
like to have him always on the spot?—Yes. That was all
very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he
should be glad to see him every day;—but they did see
him every day as it was.—Why could not they go on as
they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the
worst was overcome, the idea was given; time and
continual repetition must do the rest.— To Emma’s
entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley’s,
whose fond praise of her gave the subject even a kind of
welcome; and he was soon used to be talked to by each,
on every fair occasion.— They had all the assistance which
Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest approbation;
and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to
consider the subject in the most serviceable light—first, as
a settled, and, secondly, as a good one— well aware of the
nearly equal importance of the two recommendations to
Mr. Woodhouse’s mind.—It was agreed upon, as what
was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be
guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and
having some feelings himself which almost admitted it, he
began to think that some time or other— in another year
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or two, perhaps—it might not be so very bad if the
marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in
all that she said to him in favour of the event.—She had
been extremely surprized, never more so, than when
Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw in it only
increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in urging
him to the utmost.—She had such a regard for Mr.
Knightley, as to think he deserved even her dearest Emma;
and it was in every respect so proper, suitable, and
unexceptionable a connexion, and in one respect, one
point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible, so
singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could
not safely have attached herself to any other creature, and
that she had herself been the stupidest of beings in not
having thought of it, and wished it long ago.—How very
few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma would
have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who
but Mr. Knightley could know and bear with Mr.
Woodhouse, so as to make such an arrangement
desirable!— The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband’s plans
and her own, for a marriage between Frank and Emma.
How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had
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been a continual impediment—less acknowledged by Mr.
Weston than by herself—but even he had never been able
to finish the subject better than by saying—‘Those matters
will take care of themselves; the young people will find a
way.’ But here there was nothing to be shifted off in a
wild speculation on the future. It was all right, all open, all
equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name. It was a
union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and
without one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in
such reflections as these, was one of the happiest women
in the world. If any thing could increase her delight, it was
perceiving that the baby would soon have outgrown its
first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread;
and Mr. Weston had his five minutes share of it; but five
minutes were enough to familiarise the idea to his
quickness of mind.— He saw the advantages of the match,
and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the
end of an hour he was not far from believing that he had
always foreseen it.
‘It is to be a secret, I conclude,’ said he. ‘These matters
are always a secret, till it is found out that every body
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knows them. Only let me be told when I may speak
out.—I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion.’
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied
himself on that point. He told her the news. Was not she
like a daughter, his eldest daughter?—he must tell her; and
Miss Bates being present, it passed, of course, to Mrs.
Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately afterwards.
It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at
Randalls, how soon it would be over Highbury; and were
thinking of themselves, as the evening wonder in many a
family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some
might think him, and others might think her, the most in
luck. One set might recommend their all removing to
Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;
and another might predict disagreements among their
servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious
objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—
There, the surprize was not softened by any satisfaction.
Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he
only hoped ‘the young lady’s pride would now be
contented;’ and supposed ‘she had always meant to catch
Knightley if she could;’ and, on the point of living at
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Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, ‘Rather he than I!’—
But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.—
‘Poor Knightley! poor fellow!—sad business for him.—She
was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he
had a thousand good qualities.— How could he be so
taken in?—Did not think him at all in love— not in the
least.—Poor Knightley!—There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been
to come and dine with them whenever they asked him!
But that would be all over now.— Poor fellow!—No
more exploring parties to Donwell made for her. Oh! no;
there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on
every thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at
all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other
day.—Shocking plan, living together. It would never do.
She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it,
and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
quarter.

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Chapter XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the
party from London would be arriving. It was an alarming
change; and Emma was thinking of it one morning, as
what must bring a great deal to agitate and grieve her,
when Mr. Knightley came in, and distressing thoughts
were put by. After the first chat of pleasure he was silent;
and then, in a graver tone, began with,
‘I have something to tell you, Emma; some news.’
‘Good or bad?’ said she, quickly, looking up in his face.
‘I do not know which it ought to be called.’
‘Oh! good I am sure.—I see it in your countenance.
You are trying not to smile.’
‘I am afraid,’ said he, composing his features, ‘I am very
much afraid, my dear Emma, that you will not smile when
you hear it.’
‘Indeed! but why so?—I can hardly imagine that any
thing which pleases or amuses you, should not please and
amuse me too.’
‘There is one subject,’ he replied, ‘I hope but one, on
which we do not think alike.’ He paused a moment, again

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smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Does nothing
occur to you?— Do not you recollect?—Harriet Smith.’
Her cheeks flushed at the name, and she felt afraid of
something, though she knew not what.
‘Have you heard from her yourself this morning?’ cried
he. ‘You have, I believe, and know the whole.’
‘No, I have not; I know nothing; pray tell me.’
‘You are prepared for the worst, I see—and very bad it
is. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin.’
Emma gave a start, which did not seem like being
prepared— and her eyes, in eager gaze, said, ‘No, this is
impossible!’ but her lips were closed.
‘It is so, indeed,’ continued Mr. Knightley; ‘I have it
from Robert Martin himself. He left me not half an hour
ago.’
She was still looking at him with the most speaking
amazement.
‘You like it, my Emma, as little as I feared.—I wish our
opinions were the same. But in time they will. Time, you
may be sure, will make one or the other of us think
differently; and, in the meanwhile, we need not talk much
on the subject.’
‘You mistake me, you quite mistake me,’ she replied,
exerting herself. ‘It is not that such a circumstance would
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now make me unhappy, but I cannot believe it. It seems
an impossibility!—You cannot mean to say, that Harriet
Smith has accepted Robert Martin. You cannot mean that
he has even proposed to her again—yet. You only mean,
that he intends it.’
‘I mean that he has done it,’ answered Mr. Knightley,
with smiling but determined decision, ‘and been
accepted.’
‘Good God!’ she cried.—‘Well!’—Then having
recourse to her workbasket, in excuse for leaning down
her face, and concealing all the exquisite feelings of delight
and entertainment which she knew she must be
expressing, she added, ‘Well, now tell me every thing;
make this intelligible to me. How, where, when?—Let me
know it all. I never was more surprized—but it does not
make me unhappy, I assure you.—How—how has it been
possible?’
‘It is a very simple story. He went to town on business
three days ago, and I got him to take charge of some
papers which I was wanting to send to John.—He
delivered these papers to John, at his chambers, and was
asked by him to join their party the same evening to
Astley’s. They were going to take the two eldest boys to
Astley’s. The party was to be our brother and sister,
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Henry, John—and Miss Smith. My friend Robert could
not resist. They called for him in their way; were all
extremely amused; and my brother asked him to dine with
them the next day—which he did—and in the course of
that visit (as I understand) he found an opportunity of
speaking to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain.—
She made him, by her acceptance, as happy even as he is
deserving. He came down by yesterday’s coach, and was
with me this morning immediately after breakfast, to
report his proceedings, first on my affairs, and then on his
own. This is all that I can relate of the how, where, and
when. Your friend Harriet will make a much longer
history when you see her.— She will give you all the
minute particulars, which only woman’s language can
make interesting.—In our communications we deal only
in the great.—However, I must say, that Robert Martin’s
heart seemed for him, and to me, very overflowing; and
that he did mention, without its being much to the
purpose, that on quitting their box at Astley’s, my brother
took charge of Mrs. John Knightley and little John, and he
followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that at one time
they were in such a crowd, as to make Miss Smith rather
uneasy.’

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He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate
reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most
unreasonable degree of happiness. She must wait a
moment, or he would think her mad. Her silence
disturbed him; and after observing her a little while, he
added,
‘Emma, my love, you said that this circumstance would
not now make you unhappy; but I am afraid it gives you
more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil—but
you must consider it as what satisfies your friend; and I
will answer for your thinking better and better of him as
you know him more. His good sense and good principles
would delight you.—As far as the man is concerned, you
could not wish your friend in better hands. His rank in
society I would alter if I could, which is saying a great deal
I assure you, Emma.—You laugh at me about William
Larkins; but I could quite as ill spare Robert Martin.’
He wanted her to look up and smile; and having now
brought herself not to smile too broadly—she did—
cheerfully answering,
‘You need not be at any pains to reconcile me to the
match. I think Harriet is doing extremely well. Her
connexions may be worse than his. In respectability of
character, there can be no doubt that they are. I have been
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silent from surprize merely, excessive surprize. You cannot
imagine how suddenly it has come on me! how peculiarly
unprepared I was!—for I had reason to believe her very
lately more determined against him, much more, than she
was before.’
‘You ought to know your friend best,’ replied Mr.
Knightley; ‘but I should say she was a good-tempered,
soft-hearted girl, not likely to be very, very determined
against any young man who told her he loved her.’
Emma could not help laughing as she answered, ‘Upon
my word, I believe you know her quite as well as I do.—
But, Mr. Knightley, are you perfectly sure that she has
absolutely and downright accepted him. I could suppose
she might in time—but can she already?— Did not you
misunderstand him?—You were both talking of other
things; of business, shows of cattle, or new drills—and
might not you, in the confusion of so many subjects,
mistake him?—It was not Harriet’s hand that he was
certain of—it was the dimensions of some famous ox.’
The contrast between the countenance and air of Mr.
Knightley and Robert Martin was, at this moment, so
strong to Emma’s feelings, and so strong was the
recollection of all that had so recently passed on Harriet’s
side, so fresh the sound of those words, spoken with such
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emphasis, ‘No, I hope I know better than to think of
Robert Martin,’ that she was really expecting the
intelligence to prove, in some measure, premature. It
could not be otherwise.
‘Do you dare say this?’ cried Mr. Knightley. ‘Do you
dare to suppose me so great a blockhead, as not to know
what a man is talking of?— What do you deserve?’
‘Oh! I always deserve the best treatment, because I
never put up with any other; and, therefore, you must
give me a plain, direct answer. Are you quite sure that you
understand the terms on which Mr. Martin and Harriet
now are?’
‘I am quite sure,’ he replied, speaking very distinctly,
‘that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was
no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and
I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked
my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no
one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for
information of her relations or friends. Could I mention
any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs.
Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he
would endeavour to see her in the course of this day.’
‘I am perfectly satisfied,’ replied Emma, with the
brightest smiles, ‘and most sincerely wish them happy.’
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‘You are materially changed since we talked on this
subject before.’
‘I hope so—for at that time I was a fool.’
‘And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to
grant you all Harriet’s good qualities. I have taken some
pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin’s sake, (whom
I have always had reason to believe as much in love with
her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often
talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did.
Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half
suspecting me of pleading poor Martin’s cause, which was
never the case; but, from all my observations, I am
convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very
good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing
her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic
life.— Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you
for.’
‘Me!’ cried Emma, shaking her head.—‘Ah! poor
Harriet!’
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to
a little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the
entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to
be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder,
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which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was
in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had
moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and
reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father’s business was to announce James’s being
gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now
daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an
immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her
sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy
thus removed in the prospect of Harriet’s welfare, she was
really in danger of becoming too happy for security.—
What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more
worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been
ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons
of her past folly might teach her humility and
circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in
her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh,
sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at
such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of
five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!

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Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every
thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to
know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt
felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of
concealment from Mr. Knightley would soon be over.
The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to
practise, might soon be over. She could now look forward
to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her
disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with
her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to
what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving
at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to
Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Weston would be
disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawingroom:— but hardly had they been told of the baby, and
Mr. Woodhouse received the thanks for coming, which
he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the
blind, of two figures passing near the window.
‘It is Frank and Miss Fairfax,’ said Mrs. Weston. ‘I was
just going to tell you of our agreeable surprize in seeing
him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss
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Fairfax has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—
They are coming in, I hope.’
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was
extremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of
confusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on
each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a
consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and
having all sat down again, there was for some time such a
blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether
the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing
Frank Churchill once more, and of seeing him with Jane,
would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Weston
joined the party, however, and when the baby was
fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or
animation— or of courage and opportunity for Frank
Churchill to draw near her and say,
‘I have to thank you, Miss Woodhouse, for a very kind
forgiving message in one of Mrs. Weston’s letters. I hope
time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you
do not retract what you then said.’
‘No, indeed,’ cried Emma, most happy to begin, ‘not
in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands
with you—and to give you joy in person.’

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He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some
time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and
happiness.
‘Is not she looking well?’ said he, turning his eyes
towards Jane. ‘Better than she ever used to do?—You see
how my father and Mrs. Weston doat upon her.’
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing
eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the
Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.—Emma
blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
‘I can never think of it,’ she cried, ‘without extreme
shame.’
‘The shame,’ he answered, ‘is all mine, or ought to be.
But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of
late. Early, I know, you had none.’
‘I never had the smallest, I assure you.’
‘That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—
and I wish I had— it would have been better. But though
I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad
wrong things, and such as did me no service.— It would
have been a much better transgression had I broken the
bond of secrecy and told you every thing.’
‘It is not now worth a regret,’ said Emma.

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‘I have some hope,’ resumed he, ‘of my uncle’s being
persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be
introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we
shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till
we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a
distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?—
Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of
reconciliation. Do not you pity me?’
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a
sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,
‘Ah! by the bye,’ then sinking his voice, and looking
demure for the moment—‘I hope Mr. Knightley is well?’
He paused.—She coloured and laughed.—‘I know you
saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in
your favour. Let me return your congratulations.— I
assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest
interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot
presume to praise.’
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in
the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his
own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words
were,
‘Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such
delicacy!— and yet without being actually fair.—One
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cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion,
with her dark eye-lashes and hair— a most distinguishing
complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.— Just colour
enough for beauty.’
‘I have always admired her complexion,’ replied Emma,
archly; ‘but do not I remember the time when you found
fault with her for being so pale?— When we first began to
talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?’
‘Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I
dare—‘
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that
Emma could not help saying,
‘I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at
that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us
all.—I am sure you had.— I am sure it was a consolation
to you.’
‘Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a
thing? I was the most miserable wretch!’
‘Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I
am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to
feel that you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the
readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it
might have been some amusement to myself in the same
situation. I think there is a little likeness between us.’
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He bowed.
‘If not in our dispositions,’ she presently added, with a
look of true sensibility, ‘there is a likeness in our destiny;
the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two
characters so much superior to our own.’
‘True, true,’ he answered, warmly. ‘No, not true on
your side. You can have no superior, but most true on
mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an
angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat.
Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.— You
will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering
seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt’s
jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have
some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful
in her dark hair?’
‘Very beautiful, indeed,’ replied Emma; and she spoke
so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
‘How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you
in such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this
meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at
Hartfield, had you failed to come.’
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Weston
giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the
evening before, from the infant’s appearing not quite well.
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She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her,
and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr.
Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Weston
had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes,
however, the child had been perfectly well again. This was
her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr.
Woodhouse, who commended her very much for
thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she
had not done it. ‘She should always send for Perry, if the
child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it
only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed,
nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he
had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well
now, very well considering, it would probably have been
better if Perry had seen it.’
Frank Churchill caught the name.
‘Perry!’ said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to
catch Miss Fairfax’s eye. ‘My friend Mr. Perry! What are
they saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this
morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has he set up
his carriage?’
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and
while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane’s

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countenance that she too was really hearing him, though
trying to seem deaf.
‘Such an extraordinary dream of mine!’ he cried. ‘I can
never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she
hears us, Miss Woodhouse. I see it in her cheek, her smile,
her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see
that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter,
which sent me the report, is passing under her eye— that
the whole blunder is spread before her—that she can
attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the
others?’
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and
the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and
said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
‘How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to
me!— They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can
court them!’
He had a great deal to say in return, and very
entertainingly; but Emma’s feelings were chiefly with Jane,
in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling
naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that
pleased as she had been to see Frank Churchill, and really
regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never
been more sensible of Mr. Knightley’s high superiority of
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character. The happiness of this most happy day, received
its completion, in the animated contemplation of his
worth which this comparison produced.

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Chapter XIX
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for
Harriet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to
be really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and
really able to accept another man from unbiased
inclination, it was not long that she had to suffer from the
recurrence of any such uncertainty. A very few days
brought the party from London, and she had no sooner an
opportunity of being one hour alone with Harriet, than
she became perfectly satisfied—unaccountable as it was!—
that Robert Martin had thoroughly supplanted Mr.
Knightley, and was now forming all her views of
happiness.
Harriet was a little distressed—did look a little foolish at
first: but having once owned that she had been
presumptuous and silly, and self-deceived, before, her pain
and confusion seemed to die away with the words, and
leave her without a care for the past, and with the fullest
exultation in the present and future; for, as to her friend’s
approbation, Emma had instantly removed every fear of
that nature, by meeting her with the most unqualified
congratulations.— Harriet was most happy to give every

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particular of the evening at Astley’s, and the dinner the
next day; she could dwell on it all with the utmost delight.
But what did such particulars explain?— The fact was, as
Emma could now acknowledge, that Harriet had always
liked Robert Martin; and that his continuing to love her
had been irresistible.—Beyond this, it must ever be
unintelligible to Emma.
The event, however, was most joyful; and every day
was giving her fresh reason for thinking so.—Harriet’s
parentage became known. She proved to be the daughter
of a tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable
maintenance which had ever been hers, and decent
enough to have always wished for concealment.—Such
was the blood of gentility which Emma had formerly been
so ready to vouch for!— It was likely to be as untainted,
perhaps, as the blood of many a gentleman: but what a
connexion had she been preparing for Mr. Knightley—or
for the Churchills—or even for Mr. Elton!— The stain of
illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would have
been a stain indeed.
No objection was raised on the father’s side; the young
man was treated liberally; it was all as it should be: and as
Emma became acquainted with Robert Martin, who was
now introduced at Hartfield, she fully acknowledged in
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him all the appearance of sense and worth which could bid
fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt of Harriet’s
happiness with any good-tempered man; but with him,
and in the home he offered, there would be the hope of
more, of security, stability, and improvement. She would
be placed in the midst of those who loved her, and who
had better sense than herself; retired enough for safety, and
occupied enough for cheerfulness. She would be never led
into temptation, nor left for it to find her out. She would
be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted her to be
the luckiest creature in the world, to have created so
steady and persevering an affection in such a man;—or, if
not quite the luckiest, to yield only to herself.
Harriet, necessarily drawn away by her engagements
with the Martins, was less and less at Hartfield; which was
not to be regretted.— The intimacy between her and
Emma must sink; their friendship must change into a
calmer sort of goodwill; and, fortunately, what ought to
be, and must be, seemed already beginning, and in the
most gradual, natural manner.
Before the end of September, Emma attended Harriet
to church, and saw her hand bestowed on Robert Martin
with so complete a satisfaction, as no remembrances, even
connected with Mr. Elton as he stood before them, could
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impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw
Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar
might next fall on herself.—Robert Martin and Harriet
Smith, the latest couple engaged of the three, were the
first to be married.
Jane Fairfax had already quitted Highbury, and was
restored to the comforts of her beloved home with the
Campbells.—The Mr. Churchills were also in town; and
they were only waiting for November.
The intermediate month was the one fixed on, as far as
they dared, by Emma and Mr. Knightley.—They had
determined that their marriage ought to be concluded
while John and Isabella were still at Hartfield, to allow
them the fortnight’s absence in a tour to the seaside,
which was the plan.—John and Isabella, and every other
friend, were agreed in approving it. But Mr.
Woodhouse—how was Mr. Woodhouse to be induced to
consent?—he, who had never yet alluded to their marriage
but as a distant event.
When first sounded on the subject, he was so
miserable, that they were almost hopeless.—A second
allusion, indeed, gave less pain.— He began to think it
was to be, and that he could not prevent it— a very
promising step of the mind on its way to resignation. Still,
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however, he was not happy. Nay, he appeared so much
otherwise, that his daughter’s courage failed. She could
not bear to see him suffering, to know him fancying
himself neglected; and though her understanding almost
acquiesced in the assurance of both the Mr. Knightleys,
that when once the event were over, his distress would be
soon over too, she hesitated—she could not proceed.
In this state of suspense they were befriended, not by
any sudden illumination of Mr. Woodhouse’s mind, or
any wonderful change of his nervous system, but by the
operation of the same system in another way.— Mrs.
Weston’s poultry-house was robbed one night of all her
turkeys— evidently by the ingenuity of man. Other
poultry-yards in the neighbourhood also suffered.—
Pilfering was housebreaking to Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—
He was very uneasy; and but for the sense of his son-inlaw’s protection, would have been under wretched alarm
every night of his life. The strength, resolution, and
presence of mind of the Mr. Knightleys, commanded his
fullest dependence. While either of them protected him
and his, Hartfield was safe.— But Mr. John Knightley
must be in London again by the end of the first week in
November.

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The result of this distress was, that, with a much more
voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever
presumed to hope for at the moment, she was able to fix
her wedding-day—and Mr. Elton was called on, within a
month from the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin,
to join the hands of Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse.
The wedding was very much like other weddings,
where the parties have no taste for finery or parade; and
Mrs. Elton, from the particulars detailed by her husband,
thought it all extremely shabby, and very inferior to her
own.—‘Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most
pitiful business!—Selina would stare when she heard of
it.’—But, in spite of these deficiencies, the wishes, the
hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small band of
true friends who witnessed the ceremony, were fully
answered in the perfect happiness of the union.
FINIS

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