Emma

Emma
By 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 af-
fectionate, indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her
sister’s marriage, been mistress of his house from a very ear-
ly 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 gov-
erness, 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 mild-
ness 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, and Emma doing just what
she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor’s judgment, but di-
rected chiefly by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma’s situation were the pow-
4 Emma
er of having rather too much her own way, and a disposition
to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvan-
tages 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 wed-
ding 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 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 affec-
tion 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 unre-

serve which had soon followed Isabella’s marriage, on their
being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recol-
lection. She had been a friend and companion such as few
possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, know-
ing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns,
and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, ev-
ery 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 Tay-
lor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and
domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from in-
tellectual 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 valetudi-
narian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was
a much older man in ways than in years; and though ev-
erywhere 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
6 Emma
and November evening must be struggled through at Hart-
field, 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 be-
long, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in
consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many
acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civ-
il, 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 impos-
sible 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 dis-
agreeable; 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 affec-
tion, 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,
‘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 com-
ing 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 dis-
tance. 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 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,
8 Emma
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 ser-
vant: 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 attacked by no
regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but
a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it un-
necessary.
Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-
and-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 Is-
abella’ 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.’
‘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 wed-
ding.’
‘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 can-
not possibly say ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for
you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of depen-
dence or independence!—At any rate, it must be better to
10 Emma
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 cer-
tainly say if my father were not by.’
‘I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,’ said Mr. Wood-
house, 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 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 al-
ways 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 par-
ticularly 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 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.’
‘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
12 Emma
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 occu-
pied 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, be-
cause 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.’
‘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 endeav-
ouring 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 Tay-
lor 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 ‘suc-
cess,’ 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 be-
tween the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted
Mr. Weston’s visits here, and given many little encourage-
ments, and smoothed many little matters, it 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 inter-
ference.’
‘Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to oth-
ers,’ 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. El-
ton! 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
14 Emma
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. 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 bet-
ter 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.’

Chapter II
Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a re-

spectable 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 pro-
portion 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 off with due deco-
rum. 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 tem-
per made him think every thing due to her in return for the
16 Emma
great goodness of being in love with him; but though she
had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had resolu-
tion 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 recon-
ciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, having no children of
their own, nor any other young creature of 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 im-
prove 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 High-
bury, 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 wom-
an 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 in-
fluence his schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence
of youth on youth, it had not shaken his 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 accom-
plished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and
obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of ex-
istence, 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 de-
lightful 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
18 Emma
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 apprehen-
sion 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, 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 com-
pliment was so little returned that he had never been there
in his life. His coming to visit his father had been often talk-
ed 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, 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 for-
tunate 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 compan-
ionableness: 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 dif-
ficulties and privations. And then there was such comfort in
the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so conve-
nient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr. Weston’s
disposition and circumstances, which would make the ap-
proaching season no hindrance to their spending half the
evenings in the week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of grati-
tude to Mrs. Weston, and of moments only of regret; and
20 Emma
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 hus-
band 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 likeli-
hood 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 nev-
er believe other people to be different from 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 mod-
erately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own,

Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the new-
ly 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 wedding-
cake in their hands: but Mr. Woodhouse would never
believe it.
22 Emma
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 Hart-
field, 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 in-
tercourse 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 him-
self 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 with-
out liking it, the privilege of exchanging any vacant evening
of his own blank solitude for the elegancies and society of
Mr. Woodhouse’s drawing-room, and the smiles of his love-
ly daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.

After these came a second set; among the most come-at-
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 qua-
drille. 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 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 content-
ed temper which worked such wonders. She loved every
body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksight-
ed to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate
creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excel-
lent mother, and so many good neighbours and friends, and
24 Emma
a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheer-
fulness 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 ex-
actly suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications
and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School—not of a sem-
inary, 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 at a rea-
sonable price, and where girls might be sent to be out of the
way, and scramble themselves into a little education, with-
out any danger of coming back prodigies. Mrs. Goddard’s
school was in high repute—and very deservedly; for High-
bury was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an
ample house and garden, gave the children plenty of whole-
some 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 con-
cerned, 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 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. God-
dard, 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 man-
sion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.
Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. God-
dard’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,
26 Emma
plump, and fair, with a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, reg-
ular 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 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 de-
tach her from her bad acquaintance, and introduce her into
good society; she would form her opinions and her man-

ners. 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 talk-
ing 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 par-
ties, 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.
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
28 Emma
these eggs. An egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome. Ser-
le 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 wa-
ter? I do not think it could disagree with you.’
Emma allowed her father to talk—but supplied her visi-
tors 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!

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 satisfac-
tion 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 ex-
ercise 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
her inclination for good company, and power of appreciat-
ing 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
30 Emma
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 dif-
ferent 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 noth-
ing 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 be-
lieve just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked
no farther.
Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the af-
fairs 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 hav-
ing 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 in-
deed; 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 hand-
some 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 be-
yond the immediate cause; but as she came to 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 hospi-
tality 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 or-
32 Emma
der 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 sing-
ing. He could sing a little himself. She believed he was very
clever, and 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 mar-
ried, 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 fin-
est 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 be-
yond 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 reads all
them to himself. But sometimes of an evening, before we

went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the El-
egant 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 deter-
mined 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 per-
son 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 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
34 Emma
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
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 mis-
fortune 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 degrad-
ing 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, Har-
riet; but I would have you so firmly established in good
society, as to be independent even of Hartfield and Miss
Woodhouse. I want to see you permanently well connect-
ed, 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
36 Emma
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 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 walk-
ing on the Donwell road. He was on foot, and after looking
very respectfully at her, looked with most unfeigned satis-
faction 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 suffi-
ciently 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 com-
pose.
‘Only think of our happening to meet him!—How very
odd! It was quite a chance, he said, that he had not 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 to-morrow. 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 differ-
ence in Mr. Martin. At Hartfield, you have had very good
specimens of well educated, well bred men. I should be sur-
prized if, after seeing them, you could be in company with
Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very infe-
rior creature—and rather wondering at 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
38 Emma
a fine air and way of walking as Mr. Knightley. I see the dif-
ference 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 speak-
ing; 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 and
disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or awkwardness be-
comes. 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 sol-
emnly.
‘But there may be pretty good guessing. He will be a
completely gross, vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to ap-
pearances, 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 Har-
riet’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,
‘In one respect, perhaps, Mr. Elton’s manners are supe-
rior 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, oblig-
ing, 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
40 Emma
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;
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 de-
sirable, 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 Har-
riet’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 with-
out 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 suf-
ficient 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,
well-meaning, respectable young man, without any defi-
ciency 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 meet-
ings at Hartfield, was foundation enough on his side; and
on Harriet’s there could be little doubt that the idea of be-
ing 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.
42 Emma
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 inti-
macy 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 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 alpha-
betically, 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 requir-
ing industry and patience, and a subjection of 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
44 Emma
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 seven-
teen. 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 moth-
er’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 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 com-
plete 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 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 flat-
tery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn
herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful infe-
riority? 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 her-
self 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!’
‘Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind,
46 Emma
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 fig-
ure?’
‘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! reg-
ular 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 com-
plete 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. Con-
sidering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little
occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. 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 bet-
ter 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 reason-
able 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 opin-
ions 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 excuse me; but suppos-
ing 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 acquain-
tance, 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
48 Emma
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 doubt of a re-
turn; 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 rec-
ommend 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 sus-
pected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley soon
afterwards made to ‘What does Weston think of the weath-
er; shall we have rain?’ convinced her that he had nothing
more to say or surmise about Hartfield.

Chapter VI
Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fan-

cy 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 admi-
ration 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 be-
ing 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 per-
ception 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 opinion, the at-
tractions you have added are infinitely superior to what she
received from nature.’
‘I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Har-
riet only wanted drawing out, and receiving a few, very few
hints. She had all the natural grace of sweetness of temper
50 Emma
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 charac-
ter, 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 pic-
ture.
‘Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?’ said
she: ‘did you ever sit for your picture?’
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 tak-
ing 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 draw-
ing. Don’t pretend to be in raptures about mine. 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 like-
ness 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 at-
tempt 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
52 Emma
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 there-
fore 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 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 rep-
utation 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 picture made

him so nervous, that I could only take him by stealth; nei-
ther 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 coars-
er 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 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
54 Emma
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 ev-
ery 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 hus-
bands and wives,’ with so interesting a consciousness, that
Emma began to consider whether she had not better 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 Knight-
ley’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, present-
ed 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 else-
where. 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 fre-
quently 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 progress,
and be charmed.—There was no being displeased with such
an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a like-
ness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his
eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexception-
able.
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 ev-
ery 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. El-
ton’s very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just
56 Emma
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
the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and hap-
py. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr. Elton was
in continual raptures, and defended it through every criti-
cism.
‘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 ex-
pression 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!’

‘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 plac-
ing 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 man-
ners—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 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
58 Emma
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 incom-
moding 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 ‘Ex-
actly 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.’

Chapter VII
The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a

fresh occasion for Emma’s services towards her friend. Har-
riet 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 extraor-
dinary 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 par-
ticularly 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 pro-
posal 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 Woodhouse what she should do.—‘ Emma was
half-ashamed of her friend for seeming so pleased and so
doubtful.
‘Upon my word,’ she cried, ‘the young man is determined
60 Emma
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 expec-
tation. 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 at-
tachment, 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 consid-
ered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him. I can
hardly imagine the young man whom I saw 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 ad-
vise 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 doubts or de-
murs: 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 sor-
row 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 cer-
tainly 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.’
62 Emma
‘No, I do not; that is, I do not mean—What shall I do?
What would you advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Wood-
house, tell me what I ought to do.’
‘I shall not give you any advice, Harriet. I will have noth-
ing 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
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 safe-
ly 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 in-
fluence 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? 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 sus-
pense 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 conse-
quence 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 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
64 Emma
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 Abbey-
Mill 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
to him, and have a great regard for— but that is quite a dif-
ferent thing from—and you know, though he may like me,
it does not follow that I should—and certainly I must con-
fess 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 agree-
able. 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 con-
sideration.’

‘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 deter-
mined 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 fan-
cy 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
66 Emma
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.
‘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 hap-
pened. I am sure Miss Nash would—for Miss Nash thinks
her own sister very well married, and it is only a linen-drap-
er.’
‘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 ex-
plained 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.

‘Now he has got my letter,’ said she softly. ‘I wonder what
they are all doing—whether his sisters know—if he is un-
happy, 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 Bond-street.’
‘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 preposses-
sion. How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how
busy their imaginations all are!’
Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.
68 Emma
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 per-
suaded 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 oth-
er.
‘Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if
you will not consider me as doing a very rude thing, I 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 my-
self; 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, in-
stead 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
of her disposition. Her character depends upon those she is
with; but in good hands she will turn out a valuable wom-
an.’
‘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 be-
70 Emma
lieve I had been of some use; but it is not every body who
will bestow praise where they may. You do not often over-
power 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 per-
haps.’
‘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,
‘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 unex-
ceptionable quarter:—Robert Martin is the man. Her visit
to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his busi-
ness. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.’
‘He is very obliging,’ said Emma; ‘but is he sure that Har-

riet 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 con-
sult 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 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 al-
together; 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 pro-
posed 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 be-
fore, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare
say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsel-
lor 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.’
72 Emma
‘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 be-
lieved; 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 incomprehen-
sible 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.’
‘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 Har-
riet’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 mo-
ments 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 sim-
ple to have acquired any thing herself. At her age she can
have no experience, and with 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 ratio-
nal 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 cry-out
74 Emma
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 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 state-
ment 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 mar-
ried 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 gentle-
man—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 indubi-
table to me; that she associates with gentlemen’s daughters,
no one, I apprehend, will deny.—She is superior to Mr. Rob-
ert Martin.’
‘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 in-
different 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 self-
ish 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.
‘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
76 Emma
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 beau-
ty than they are generally supposed; till they do fall in love
with well-informed minds instead of handsome faces, a girl,
with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of being ad-
mired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from
among many, consequently a claim to be nice. Her good-
nature, 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 tem-
per, the highest claims a woman could possess.’
‘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 unfortu-
nate 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 of-
fers 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 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 conse-
quence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at
Mrs. Goddard’s all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Har-
riet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,) till
she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing-
master’s son.’
‘We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knight-
ley, that there can be no use in canvassing it. We shall only
78 Emma
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 ap-
plication. 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 man-
ner so bad, that if she ever were disposed 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 un-
derstand.’
Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerful-
ly 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 judg-
ment 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 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 se-
cret 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 ac-
quainted 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 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 Har-
80 Emma
riet, 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 disappoint-
ment 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 ad-
versary’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 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 preten-
sions) 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 oth-
erwise to them; but 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. El-
ton. 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 actu-
ally on his road to London, and not meaning to return till
82 Emma
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 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 con-
scious 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. El-
ton 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.’

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 appear-
ances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon
after Mr. Elton’s return, and being hung over the mantel-
piece 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 form-
ing 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 re-
membered, 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 of go-
ing 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 com-
84 Emma
prehension 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 pa-
per, 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 Har-
riet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with
Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more. Emma as-
sisted 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 some-
thing 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 time.’ And it al-
ways 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 rid-
dle 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 recol-
lections; 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.—
made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had tran-

scribed 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 noth-
ing 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 inspi-
ration. 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 imme-
86 Emma
diately convinced must be his own.
‘I do not offer it for Miss Smith’s collection,’ said he. ‘Be-
ing 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
friend’s. He was gone the next moment:—after another mo-
ment’s pause,
‘Take it,’ said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper to-
wards 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 her-
self.
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.

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 smil-
ing, 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 cha-
rades. 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. Ap-
prove 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 this
would convince you. For once in your life you would be
obliged to own yourself mistaken. An excellent charade in-
deed! and very much to the purpose. Things must come to
a crisis soon now.’
She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant ob-
servations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great
88 Emma
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?
Can it be Neptune?
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
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;
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,
A very proper compliment!—and then follows the ap-

plication, 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 happi-
ness. 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
90 Emma
or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have re-
ally so equalled each other! I am very happy. I congratulate
you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attach-
ment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is
a connexion which offers nothing 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 inti-
macy 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 ar-
ticulate 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 be-
yond 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 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 an-
other 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 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
92 Emma
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; howev-
er, 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; 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 twelve-
month, I could never have made any thing like it.’
‘I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of de-
clining 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 sat-
isfactory 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.’
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 eve-
ning, 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 gal-
94 Emma
lant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it,
he would not like to have his charade 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 sepa-
rate 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 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 sub-
ject 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 ex-
planations 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 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 par-
ticular 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,
96 Emma
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 clev-

er 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.
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 sor-
ry 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 sur-
prized 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.’
‘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, ex-
cept 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 ac-
complish, 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 daughter’s
attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a
98 Emma
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 hand-
somest, 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 Hart-
field, 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. Hen-
ry 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 remark-
ably 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.’
‘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 fa-
ther. 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 conscious-
ness 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 whether Mr. Wood-
house’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 oth-
erwise 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 disap-
pointing 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
100 Emma
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 some-
thing about ‘honour,’—glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and
then seeing the book open on the table, took it up, and ex-
amined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an
awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,
‘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 hon-
oured 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 agree-
able 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.

Chapter X
Though now the middle of December, there had yet been

no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably reg-
ular 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—
‘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 hedg-
102 Emma
es, 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,
‘My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to in-
duce 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 mar-
ry. 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. For-
tune 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 im-
portant; so 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 undistin-
guishing 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 like-
ness, except in being unmarried.’
‘But still, you will be an old maid! and that’s so dread-
ful!’
‘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
104 Emma
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 gen-
erally very inferior, society, may well 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 no-
body 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 per-
ceive 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 re-
ally 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 probabil-
ity, to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can
need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear;
and though my attachment to none can equal that of a par-
ent, 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 acquaint-
ed?’
‘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 top-
ics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate; and
the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her per-
sonal attention and kindness, her counsel and her 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
106 Emma
the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,
‘These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How tri-
fling 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 totter-
ing 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 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 sta-
bility 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 gen-
tleman 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 ac-
company 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 won-
der 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 half-boot, and stooping down in com-
plete 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 natu-
ral 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, however,
108 Emma
involuntarily: the child’s pace was quick, and theirs rather
slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their be-
ing 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 inter-
esting 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 get-
ting Harriet into the house, made her again find something
very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange
it once more. She then broke the lace off short, and dex-
terously 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 ill-equipped. 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 con-
ducting 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 communi-
cated; 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 conver-
sation, she hoped to make 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;
110 Emma
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 him-
self secure.’
Still, however, though every thing had not been accom-
plished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter
herself that it had been the occasion of much present en-
joyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the
great event.

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 dur-
ing the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be
expected—she did not herself expect— that any thing be-
yond 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 rath-
er 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, or seen at all by Mr.
Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as Lon-
don, even for poor Isabella’s sake; and who consequently
was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in fore-
112 Emma
stalling 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 hap-
pily 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 un-
der any other cause, nor have endured much longer even
for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her fa-
ther 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 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 ami-
able 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 respect-
able 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-tem-
pered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve
such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfec-
tion; 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 feel-
ing 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 per-
sonal 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
114 Emma
he had not always the patience that could have been wished.
Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and fidgetiness were some-
times provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp
retort equally ill-bestowed. 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 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 griev-
ous 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 bet-
ter in my life— never looking so well. Papa is only speaking
his own regret.’

‘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 melan-
choly 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 tell-
ing you, my love, that I had no idea of the 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, certain-
ly—I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston,
does come and see us pretty often— but then—she is always
116 Emma
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 hus-
band, 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 understand-
ing only in part.— ‘Are you talking about me?—I am sure
nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for mat-
rimony 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 deserve. I believe he is
one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Ex-
cepting 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 con-
vinced 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 men-
tioned lately.’
‘But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,’ said her
father. ‘He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congrat-
ulate 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—‘
‘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
118 Emma
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 imag-
ine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up
Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tem-
pered 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 pos-
sible; 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 forbear-
ance.

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 consider-
ation 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 take the child out of
her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity.
Emma felt they were friends again; and the conviction giv-
ing her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness,
120 Emma
she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,
‘What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our neph-
ews 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 fan-
cy 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-and-twenty years
bring our understandings a good deal nearer?’
‘Yes—a good deal nearer.’
‘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’ experi-
ence, 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 seemed all but
indifference, the real attachment which would have led ei-
ther of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of
the other.
The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Wood-
house 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 join-
ing in one or the other.
The brothers talked of their own concerns and pur-
suits, 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
122 Emma
could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home
it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose at-
tachments 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 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. Wood-
house 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 rec-
ommend 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.’

‘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 per-
fectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before,
that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it al-
most 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 bil-
ious, 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 sup-
pose 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
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
124 Emma
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?’
‘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, no-
body 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 unwill-
ing, I own, to live in any other part of the town;— there is
hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my chil-
dren 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, ex-
cepting 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 com-
ing. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow;
for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not be-
lieve he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I
126 Emma
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.
‘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 fa-
tigued. 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 doctor-
ing 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 in-
quiry 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 Knight-
ley.— ‘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 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 an-
other 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 ex-
actly Emma’s age.’
This topic was discussed very happily, and others suc-
ceeded of similar moment, and passed away with similar
harmony; but the evening did not close without a little re-
turn of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal
to be said—much praise and many comments— undoubt-
ing 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 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
128 Emma
his eyes on her with tender concern.—The ejaculation in
Emma’s ear expressed, ‘Ah! there is no end of the sad conse-
quences 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 per-
fectly 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 de-
pended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the
air, and his own brother and family have been there repeat-
edly.’
‘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, noth-
ing 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 ill-judged measure.’
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 incon-
venience 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 inter-
position— ‘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
130 Emma
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 the path…. The only way of
proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see
you at the Abbey to-morrow 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 reflec-
tions 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 daugh-
ters gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate
alertness of one brother, and better recollections of the oth-
er, prevented any renewal of it.

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 per-
suaded 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 car-
riage 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 con-
vince him that they might in one of the carriages find room
for Harriet also.
Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own espe-
cial set, were the only persons invited to meet them;—the
hours were to be early, as well as the numbers few; Mr.
132 Emma
Woodhouse’s habits and inclination being consulted in ev-
ery 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 af-
fection, 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 de-
pressed 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 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 ru-
mour 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 describ-
ing 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 of-
ten 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 pu-
trid 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?’
Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tran-
quillised this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs.
Goddard’s experience and care; but as there must still re-
main 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 sub-
ject,
‘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 dis-
appointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But, upon my word,
Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself.
134 Emma
You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you con-
sider what demand of voice and what fatigues to-morrow
will bring, I think it would be no more than common pru-
dence 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 really the
least inclination to give up the visit;— but Emma, too ea-
ger 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 be-
ing ‘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 apolo-
gies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.’
But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her broth-
er was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather
were Mr. Elton’s only objection, and Mr. Elton actually ac-
cepting 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 mo-
ment; 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 dinner en-
gagement 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 un-
doubtedly, 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 part-
ing; 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 bal-
ance 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 agree-
able than Mr. Elton. It is downright labour to him where
ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and un-
affected, 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
136 Emma
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 sly-
ness, ‘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 consid-
er 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.’
‘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 pre-
tensions 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 car-

riage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than
either of the others; too full of the wonder of his own go-
ing, 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, how-
ever, 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 hap-
piest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such
weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were
evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knight-
ley 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 express-
ing his discontent.
‘A man,’ said he, ‘must have a very good opinion of him-
self 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 peo-
ple 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
138 Emma
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 dis-
mal weather, to 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 as-
sent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to
emulate the ‘Very true, my love,’ which must have been usu-
ally 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 quarrel-
some; 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 Har-
riet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing,
and the answer had been, ‘Much the same— not better.’
‘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 tell-
ing 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 ev-
ery moment.’
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 be-
gan 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;—impos-
sible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of
140 Emma
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 unpermit-
ted. 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 sea-
sonable; 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 meetings. At Christmas ev-
ery 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 par-
ties 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, un-
der 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, 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.’
142 Emma
Chapter XIV
Some change of countenance was necessary for each

gentleman as they walked into Mrs. Weston’s drawing-
room;—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 un-
derstood, 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 mat-
ters 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 pres-
ent half-hour; but the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile,
her touch, her voice was grateful to Emma, and she deter-
mined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton’s oddities, or
of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoy-

able 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 continu-
ally 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 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 lit-
tle 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 posi-
144 Emma
tively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was
going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering pe-
riod 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 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 con-
dition. 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 find-
ing 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 dread-

fully 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 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 sec-
ond 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.’
146 Emma
‘Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be an-
other put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so
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 our-
selves: 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 be-
ing 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 con-
fident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January, as
I am of being here myself: but your good friend there (nod-
ding 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.’
‘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, ex-

cept 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 draw-
ing-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 se-
cure 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?’
‘Yes—it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-hu-
mour 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 de-
pends entirely upon his aunt’s spirits and pleasure; in short,
upon her temper. To you—to my two daughters—I may ven-
ture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is
a very odd-tempered woman; and his coming now, depends
148 Emma
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 con-
stantly 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 speak to
her, with a degree of unreserve which she would not haz-
ard 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 knowl-
edge. 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 dis-
appointing 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. They are jeal-
ous 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 con-
ceive 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 un-
der 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, per-
haps, 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 ev-
ery 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,
she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom
150 Emma
she owes nothing at all.’
‘My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet tem-
per, 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 im-
possible for him to know beforehand when it will be.’
Emma listened, and then coolly said, ‘I shall not be satis-
fied, 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.’

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 satis-
fied 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 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 char-
152 Emma
ity 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 in-
fection in the complaint. He began with great earnestness to
entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick-chamber again,
for the present—to entreat her to promise him not to ven-
ture 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 in-
constancy, 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. God-
dard’s till 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 care-
less 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 com-
plain? 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 re-
proof, 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 snow-
ing fast, with a strong drifting wind; concluding with these
words to Mr. Woodhouse:
‘This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter en-
gagements, 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 ei-
ther 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
154 Emma
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 con-
fessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but
had not said a word, lest it should make Mr. 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 im-
passable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls;
and with the utmost good-will was sure that accommoda-
tion 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 ex-
cellence 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 set-

tled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls,
while she and her husband set forward 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 di-
rectly; 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 mo-
ment 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 pret-
tily 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 be-
ing the smallest difficulty in their getting home, whenever
they liked it, either now or an hour hence. He had gone be-
yond 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
156 Emma
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 be-
ing 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 rec-
ommending, 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.’
And the bell was rung, and the carriages spoken for. A
few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one trouble-
some 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, for-
getting that he did not belong to their party, stept in after
his wife very naturally; so that Emma found, on being es-
corted 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 not have been the
awkwardness of a moment, it would have been rather a plea-
sure, 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 rath-
er 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 man-
ners, 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—ador-
158 Emma
ing—ready to die if she refused him; but flattering himself
that his ardent attachment and unequalled love and unex-
ampled 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 professing himself her lover. She tried
to stop him; but vainly; he would go on, and say it all. An-
gry 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 as-
surance 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 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! Be-
lieve 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 mean-
ing 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 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 un-
steadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest
against having paid the smallest attention to any one else.
160 Emma
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 encour-
agement 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 under-
stood 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 moment.
As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giv-
ing way to any feelings— Nothing could be farther from my
wishes—your attachment to my friend Harriet—your pur-
suit 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 mak-
ing 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 re-
spectably 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 en-
couragement 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 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 swell-
ing 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 des-
perate awkwardness; but their straightforward emotions
left no room for the little zigzags of embarrassment. With-
out knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane,
or when it stopped, they found themselves, all at once, at
162 Emma
the door of his house; and he was out before another syl-
lable 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.
There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight, by her
father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a soli-
tary 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 be-
ing 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 cheer-
ful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of
quiet reflection.

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 Har-
riet, 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 pre-
sumption 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 un-
marked, 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 cir-
cumstances;— how clearly they had seemed to point at
164 Emma
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 re-
membered what Mr. Knightley had once said to her about
Mr. Elton, the caution he had given, the conviction he had
professed that Mr. Elton would never marry indiscreetly;
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, conceit-
ed; very full of his own claims, and little concerned about
the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of things, Mr. Elton’s want-
ing 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 ei-
ther 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.
But—that he should talk of encouragement, should con-
sider her as aware of his views, accepting his attentions,
meaning (in short), to marry him!—should suppose him-
self 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 con-
sequence 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 Hart-
166 Emma
field certainly was inconsiderable, being but a sort of notch
in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of High-
bury 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 Wood-
houses 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 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 fan-
cied 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 oblig-
ing, so full of courtesy and attention, as (supposing her real
motive unperceived) might warrant a man of ordinary ob-
servation and delicacy, like Mr. Elton, in fancying himself a
very decided favourite. If she had so misinterpreted his feel-
ings, 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 fool-
ish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any
two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming
too much, making light of what ought to be serious, a trick
of what ought to be simple. She was quite concerned and
ashamed, and resolved to do such things no more.
‘Here have I,’ said she, ‘actually talked poor Harriet into
being very much attached to this man. She might never have

thought of him but for me; and certainly never would have
thought of him with hope, if I had not assured her of his at-
tachment, 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 disap-
pointment 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 enough to occupy her in most un-
mirthful 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 cheer-
168 Emma
fulness 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 sensa-
tions 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 mo-
ment’s uneasiness about it.
These were very cheering thoughts; and the sight of a
great deal of snow on the ground did her further service, for
any thing was welcome that might justify their all three be-
ing quite asunder at present.
The weather was most favourable for her; though Christ-
mas 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 unpleas-
ant 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 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 seclu-
sion exactly suited her brother, whose feelings must always
be of great importance to his companions; and he had, be-
sides, 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 expla-
nation with Harriet, as made it impossible for Emma to be
ever perfectly at ease.
170 Emma
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, cer-
emonious 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 impossi-
bility he was under, from various circumstances of weather
and business, of taking a personal leave of Mr. Woodhouse,
of whose friendly civilities he should ever retain a grateful
sense— and had Mr. Woodhouse any commands, should be
happy to attend to them.’
Emma was most agreeably surprized.—Mr. Elton’s ab-
sence 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. Re-
sentment could not have been more plainly spoken than
in a civility to her father, from which she was so point-
edly 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 suspi-
cion.
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 ex-
traordinary in his language. It was a very useful note, for it
supplied them with fresh matter for thought and conversa-
tion during the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Woodhouse
talked over his alarms, and Emma was in spirits to persuade
them away with all her usual promptitude.
She now resolved to keep Harriet no longer in the dark.
She had reason to believe her nearly recovered from her
cold, and it was desirable that she should have as much time
as possible for getting the better of her other complaint be-
fore 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 industri-
ously 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 ob-
172 Emma
servations, 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 no-
body— 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 mod-
esty to the utmost; and all that was amiable, all that ought to
be attaching, seemed on Harriet’s side, not her own. Harriet
did not consider herself as having 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 art-
less, that no dignity could have made it more respectable
in Emma’s eyes— and she listened to her and tried to con-
sole 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 intelli-
gence 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 re-
pressing 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 affec-
tion in some better method than by match-making. She got
her to Hartfield, and shewed her the most unvarying kind-
ness, striving to occupy and amuse her, and by books and
conversation, to drive Mr. Elton from her thoughts.
Time, she knew, must be allowed for this being thorough-
ly 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 good-
ness—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 continu-
ing 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 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 pow-
174 Emma
er 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 com-
panions 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.

Chapter XVIII
Mr. Frank Churchill did not come. When the time pro-
posed 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 depen-
dence 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 pres-
ent failure, and begins to hope again. For half an hour Mr.
Weston was surprized and sorry; but then he began to per-
ceive 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 con-
siderably longer with them than if he had come sooner.
These feelings rapidly restored his comfort, while Mrs.
Weston, of a more apprehensive disposition, foresaw noth-
ing 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
176 Emma
really about Mr. Frank Churchill’s not coming, except as
a disappointment at Randalls. The acquaintance at pres-
ent 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 ex-
claimed 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 amuse-
ment, perceived that she was taking the other side of the
question from her real opinion, and making use of Mrs.
Weston’s arguments against herself.
‘The Churchills are very likely in fault,’ said Mr. Knight-
ley, coolly; ‘but I dare say he might come if he would.’
‘I do not know why you should say so. He wishes exceed-
ingly 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 con-
nexions, 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?—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 four-
and-twenty should not have liberty of mind or limb to that
amount. He cannot want money—he cannot want leisure.
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that
he is glad to get rid of them at the idlest haunts in the king-
dom. 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
178 Emma
an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has
not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficul-
ties of any individual of that family may be. We ought to be
acquainted with Enscombe, and with Mrs. Churchill’s tem-
per, before we pretend to decide upon what her nephew can
do. He may, at times, be able to do a great deal more than
he can at others.’
‘There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if
he chuses, and that is, his duty; not by manoeuvring and fi-
nessing, 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 immedi-
ately. I know he would be hurt by my failing in such a mark
of respect to him on the present occasion. I shall, therefore,
set off to-morrow.’— If he would say so to her at once, in the
tone of decision becoming a man, there would be no opposi-
tion 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 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 expedi-
ents 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 au-
thority, I think they have a knack of swelling out, till they
are quite as unmanageable as great ones. I can imagine, that
if you, as you are, Mr. Knightley, were to be transported and
placed all at once in Mr. Frank Churchill’s situation, you
would be able to say and do just what you have been recom-
mending 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 obser-
vance to break through. To him who has, it might not be so
180 Emma
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 circum-
stances, to act up to it.’
‘Then it would not be so strong a sense. If it failed to pro-
duce 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 resolu-
tion to do right against the will of others. It ought to have
been a habit with him by this time, of following his duty,
instead of consulting expediency. I can allow for the fears
of 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 be-
ing 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 dis-
position 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 fancy-
ing himself extremely expert in finding excuses for it. He
can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of pro-
fessions and falsehoods, and persuade himself that he has
hit upon the very best method in the world of preserving
peace at home and preventing his father’s having any right
to complain. His letters disgust me.’
‘Your feelings are singular. They seem to satisfy 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 ac-
knowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none,
182 Emma
except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and
good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.’
‘Well, if he have nothing else to recommend him, he
will be a treasure at Highbury. We do not often look upon
fine young men, well-bred and agreeable. We must not be
nice and ask for all the virtues into the bargain. Cannot
you imagine, Mr. Knightley, what a sensation his coming
will produce? There will be but one subject throughout the
parishes of 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.’
‘And mine,’ said Mr. Knightley warmly, ‘is, that if he
turn out any thing like it, he will be the most insuffer-
able fellow breathing! What! at three-and-twenty to be the
king of his company—the great man— the practised politi-
cian, 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.
To take a dislike to a young man, only because he ap-
peared 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 un-
just to the merit of another.
184 Emma
Volume II

Chapter I
Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morn-

ing, 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 suf-
fer 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 pre-
sumed 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 all
the horror of being in danger of falling in with the second-
rate and third-rate of Highbury, who were calling on them
186 Emma
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 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 Cer-

emonies’ 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 pre-
pared 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 danc-
ing— Mrs. Cole was telling me that dancing at the rooms at
Bath was— Mrs. Cole was so kind as to sit some time with
us, talking of Jane; for as soon as she came in, she began
inquiring after her, Jane is so very great a favourite there.
Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to
shew her kindness enough; and I must say that Jane deserves
it as much as any body can. And so she began inquiring af-
ter 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—
188 Emma
‘Have you heard from Miss Fairfax so lately? I am ex-
tremely 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 again to my moth-
er, 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 re-
ally 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.’’
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 grat-
ified; ‘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 mak-
ing her escape from Jane Fairfax’s letter, and had almost
resolved on hurrying away directly under some slight ex-
cuse, when Miss Bates turned to her again and seized her
attention.
‘My mother’s deafness is very trifling you see—just noth-
ing 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 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
190 Emma
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 oblig-
ing 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 Satur-
day; 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.’
‘So obliging of you! No, we should not have heard, if it
had not been for this particular circumstance, of her be-
ing 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 in-
tended 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—and as
Jane used to be very often walking out with them—for Col-
onel 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 ev-
ery 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 accom-
192 Emma
panying 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. 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 back-
ward 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 sud-
den 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 particu-
larly wish her to try her native air, as she has not been quite
so well as usual lately.’
‘I am concerned to hear of it. I think they judge wise-
ly. But Mrs. Dixon must be very much disappointed. Mrs.

Dixon, I understand, has no remarkable degree of person-
al 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 ele-
gant 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 cer-
tainly 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.’
‘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
194 Emma
an unlucky thing happened to me, as to that. I always make
a point of reading Jane’s letters through to myself first, be-
fore 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. How-
ever, 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 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 pow-
er 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.
196 Emma
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 in-
fantry, 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 ac-
tion 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 grandmoth-
er 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 un-
derstanding, and warm-hearted, well-meaning relations.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father
gave a change to her destiny. This was Colonel Campbell,
who had very highly regarded Fairfax, as an excellent offi-
cer 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 inherit-
ed 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 an education, he hoped
to be supplying the means of respectable subsistence here-
after.
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 constant-
ly with right-minded and well-informed people, her heart
and understanding had received every advantage of disci-
pline and culture; and Colonel Campbell’s residence being
in London, every lighter talent had been done full justice to,
198 Emma
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 daugh-
ter, in all the rational pleasures of an elegant society, and a
judicious mixture of home and amusement, with only the
drawback of the future, the sobering suggestions of her own
good understanding to remind her that all this might soon
be over.
The affection of the whole family, the warm attachment
of Miss Campbell in particular, was the more honourable
to each party from the circumstance of Jane’s decided su-
periority 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 re-
gard 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 set-
tled, 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 to-
wards 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 no-
vitiate, she had resolved at one-and-twenty to complete the
sacrifice, and retire from all the pleasures of life, of rational
intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, 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 relin-
quished. Still, however, affection was glad to catch at any
reasonable excuse for not hurrying on the wretched mo-
ment. She had never been quite well since the time of their
daughter’s marriage; and till she should have completely re-
covered her usual strength, they must forbid her engaging
in duties, which, so far from being compatible with a weak-
ened 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,
200 Emma
her account to her aunt contained nothing but truth, though
there might be some truths not told. It was her own choice
to give the time of their absence to 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 sanc-
tion, 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 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 rea-
sons— 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 particu-
larly 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 no-
body could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful;
her size a most becoming medium, between fat and thin,
though a slight appearance of ill-health seemed to point out
the likeliest evil of the two. Emma could not but feel all this;
and then, her face—her features— there was more beauty in
them altogether than she had remembered; it was not regu-
lar, 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 el-
egance 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
202 Emma
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 con-
sidered 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; es-
pecially, 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 start-
ed to herself. In that case, 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 se-
duced 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, char-
itable 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 eter-

nal 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 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 exhibi-
tions 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 can-
dour, 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 polite-
ness, 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 com-
pany, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all
general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated
or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her cau-
tion was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned
204 Emma
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 syl-
lable of real information could Emma procure as to what he
truly was. ‘Was he handsome?’—‘She believed he was reck-
oned 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.

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. Wood-
house 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 mu-
sic. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting
at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such
young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with
conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the
evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was
glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument
at her 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.’
206 Emma
‘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 over-
come, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises
from discretion must be honoured.’
‘You think her diffident. I do not see it.’
‘My dear Emma,’ said he, moving from his chair into one
close by her, ‘you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you
had not a pleasant evening.’
‘Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in ask-
ing 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, 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.’
208 Emma
‘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.’
‘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 syl-
lable 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.
‘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 salting-pan large enough. So
I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go
down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty
has been washing the kitchen.’—‘Oh! my dear,’ said I—well,
and just then came the note. 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 compli-
ments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you
really quite oppress her.’
‘We consider our Hartfield pork,’ replied Mr. Wood-
house—‘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 hav-
210 Emma
ing 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, exult-
ing, 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 Hawk-
ins. 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 obser-
vation. ‘He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me
very well off as he was. We were always glad to see him at
Hartfield.’
‘A new neighbour for us all, Miss Woodhouse!’ said Miss
Bates, joyfully; ‘my mother is so pleased!—she says she can-
not 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 fa-
ther 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. Per-
ry. Miss Hawkins,—I dare say, an excellent young woman.
His extreme attention to my mother— wanting her to sit
in the vicarage pew, that she might hear the better, for my
mother is a little deaf, you know—it is not much, but she
does not hear quite quick. Jane says that Colonel Campbell
is a little deaf. He fancied bathing might be good for it—
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 so-
ciety 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 ac-
quaintance. He has been gone only four weeks.’
212 Emma
Nobody had any information to give; and, after a few
more wonderings, Emma said,
‘You are silent, Miss Fairfax—but I hope you mean to
take an interest in this news. You, who have been hearing
and seeing so much of late on these subjects, who must have
been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account—
we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr. Elton
and Miss Hawkins.’
‘When I have seen Mr. Elton,’ replied Jane, ‘ I dare say I
shall be interested—but I believe it requires that with me.
And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the
impression may be a little worn off.’
‘Yes, he has been gone just four weeks, as you ob-
serve, 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.’
‘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 un-
easy. 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 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—
214 Emma
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 suf-
fered long; but she was sorry for Harriet: Harriet must feel
it—and all that she could hope was, by giving the first in-
formation 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 heat-
ed, agitated look which hurrying thither with a full heart
was likely to give; and the ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what do
you think has happened!’ which instantly burst forth, had
all the evidence of corresponding perturbation. As the blow
was given, Emma felt that she could not now shew greater
kindness than in listening; and Harriet, unchecked, ran ea-
gerly 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 woollen-draper, linen-draper, and haberdash-
er’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 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 di-
rectly, 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
216 Emma
more what I said—I was in such a tremble!—I remember
she said she was sorry we never met now; which I thought
almost too kind! Dear, Miss Woodhouse, I was absolutely
miserable! By that time, it was beginning to hold up, and
I was determined that nothing should stop me from get-
ting 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
young man’s conduct, and his sister’s, seemed the result
of real feeling, and she could not but pity them. As Har-

riet 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 peo-
ple 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. Am-
bition, as well as love, had probably been mortified. They
might all have hoped to rise by Harriet’s acquaintance: and
besides, what was the value of Harriet’s description?—So
easily pleased—so little discerning;— what signified her
praise?
She exerted herself, and did try to make her comfortable,
by considering all that had passed as a mere trifle, and quite
unworthy of being dwelt on,
‘It might be distressing, for the moment,’ said she; ‘but
you seem to have behaved extremely well; and it is over—
and may never— can never, as a first meeting, occur again,
and therefore you need not think about it.’
Harriet said, ‘very true,’ and she ‘would not think about
it;’ but still she talked of it—still she could talk of nothing
else; and Emma, at last, in order to put the Martins out of
her head, was obliged to hurry on the news, which she had
meant to give with so much tender caution; hardly know-
ing 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;
218 Emma
and before their first conversation was over, she had talked
herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and re-
gret, 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 seek-
ing 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.

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 recommenda-
tion 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 cir-
culate 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 san-
guine hope, after a series of what appeared to him strong
encouragement; and not only losing the right lady, but find-
ing himself debased to the level of a very wrong one. He had
gone away deeply offended—he came back engaged to an-
other—and to another as superior, of course, to the first, as
under such circumstances what is gained always is to what
is lost. He came back gay and self-satisfied, eager and busy,
caring nothing for Miss Woodhouse, and defying Miss
Smith.
The charming Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the
220 Emma
usual advantages of perfect beauty and merit, was in pos-
session 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 af-
fair 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 con-
tented.
He had caught both substance and shadow—both for-
tune and affection, and was just the happy man he ought to
be; talking only of himself and his own concerns—expect-
ing to be congratulated—ready to be laughed at—and, with
cordial, fearless smiles, now addressing all the young ladies
of the place, to whom, a few weeks ago, he would have been
more cautiously 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 les-
son, 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 satis-
faction.
The pain of his continued residence in Highbury, how-
ever, 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 vaunt-
ed 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
222 Emma
aside the 10,000 l., it did not appear that she was at all Har-
riet’s superior. She brought no name, no blood, no alliance.
Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a
Bristol— merchant, of course, he must be called; but, as the
whole of the profits of his mercantile life appeared so very
moderate, it was not unfair to guess the dignity of his line of
trade had been very moderate also. Part of every winter she
had been used to spend in Bath; but Bristol was her home,
the very heart of Bristol; for though the father and mother
had died some years ago, 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 eas-
ily to be talked out of it. The charm of an object to occupy
the many vacancies of Harriet’s mind was not to be talk-
ed away. He might be superseded by another; he certainly
would indeed; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Mar-
tin 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. El-
ton. She was always having a glimpse of him somewhere

or other. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times
every day Harriet was sure just to meet with him, or just
to miss him, 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, except-
ing 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 in-
come, 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 irritat-
ed 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 vari-
ations. Sometimes Mr. Elton predominated, sometimes the
Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a check to the
other. Mr. Elton’s engagement had been the cure of the agi-
tation 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
224 Emma
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 ingrati-
tude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of the
acquaintance!—
After much thinking, she could determine on nothing
better, than Harriet’s returning the visit; but in a way that,
if they had understanding, should convince them that it was
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?

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 coach-
es 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 grav-
el 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,
was with her without delay, and unattended by any alarm-
ing young man. She came solitarily down the gravel walk—a
Miss Martin just appearing at the door, and parting with
226 Emma
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 cool-
ly; and nothing beyond the merest commonplace had been
talked almost all the time— till just at last, when Mrs. Mar-
tin’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 mea-
sured 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 con-
sciousness, 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 car-
riage reappeared, and all was over. The style of the visit, and
the shortness of it, were then felt to be decisive. Fourteen
minutes to be given to those with whom she had thankfully
passed six weeks not six months ago!—Emma could not but
picture it all, and feel how justly they might resent, how nat-
urally 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 reason them away;
probably a little of both— such being the commonest pro-
cess 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-mor-
row—I had a letter this morning—we see him to-morrow
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
228 Emma
has turned out exactly as we could wish.’
There was no resisting such news, no possibility of avoid-
ing the influence of such a happy face as Mr. Weston’s,
confirmed as it all was by the words and the countenance
of his wife, fewer and quieter, but not less to the purpose.
To know that she thought his coming certain was enough to
make Emma consider it so, and sincerely did she rejoice in
their joy. It was a most delightful reanimation of exhausted
spirits. The worn-out past was sunk in the freshness of what
was coming; and in the rapidity of half a moment’s thought,
she hoped Mr. Elton would now be talked of no more.
Mr. Weston gave her the history of the engagements at
Enscombe, which allowed his son to answer for having an
entire fortnight at his command, as well as the route and 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 convic-
tion.
Emma could look perfectly unconscious and innocent,

and answer in a manner that appropriated nothing.
‘Think of me to-morrow, my dear Emma, about four
o’clock,’ 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 Har-
riet, 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 so-
liloquy, while walking downstairs from her own room,
‘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
230 Emma
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 be-
fore 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 inter-
est, was actually before her—he was presented to her, and
she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he
was a very good looking young man; height, air, address, all
were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal
of the spirit and liveliness of his father’s; he looked quick
and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him;
and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to
talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be ac-
quainted 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 Ran-
dalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would
hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation,
the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more,
and professed himself to have always felt the sort of inter-
est 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 open-
ing 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 so-
ciety?’
But when satisfied on all these points, and their ac-
232 Emma
quaintance 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 ad-
miration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured
to his father, and her very kind reception of 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, undoubt-
edly 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, ev-
ery friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he
had received such a blessing must be ever considered as hav-
ing conferred the highest obligation on him.’
He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Tay-
lor’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 ex-
pected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a
certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young
woman in Mrs. Weston.’

‘You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for
my feelings,’ said Emma; ‘were you to guess her to be eigh-
teen, I should listen with pleasure; but she would be ready to
quarrel with you for using such words. Don’t let her imag-
ine 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 dan-
ger 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 pen-
etration 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 sup-
234 Emma
pose they meant to marry till it were proved against them.
She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, with-
out 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 in-
quiries 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, how-
ever, 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,
‘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, 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 be-
fore,’ 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
236 Emma
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.’
‘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 gen-
tlemen 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.

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 Hart-
field; 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 he were deficient there,
nothing should make amends for it. But on seeing them to-
gether, 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
238 Emma
whole manner to her—nothing could more agreeably de-
note 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 Hart-
field, and afterwards in Highbury. He was delighted with
every thing; admired Hartfield sufficiently for Mr. Wood-
house’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 cot-
tage from one end of the street to the other; and though in
some points of pursuit or observation there was no positive
merit, they shewed, altogether, a good-will towards High-
bury 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 profes-
sions; 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 want-
ed was to accommodate a whist club established among the
gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was imme-
diately interested. Its character as a ball-room caught 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 satis-
fied. 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
240 Emma
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 consti-
tution of the Weston prevail so 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, in-
deed, 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 had been actually sitting

with them very nearly three-quarters of an hour. The good
lady had not given me the possibility of escape before.’
‘And how did you think Miss Fairfax looking?’
‘Ill, very ill—that is, if a young lady can ever be allowed
to look ill. But the expression is hardly admissible, Mrs.
Weston, is it? Ladies can never look ill. And, seriously, Miss
Fairfax is naturally so pale, as almost always to give the
appearance of ill health.— A most deplorable want of com-
plexion.’
Emma would not agree to this, and began a warm de-
fence 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 con-
fess, 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.’
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
242 Emma
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 in-
convenient 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 free-
dom.— I dare say they sell gloves.’
‘Oh! yes, gloves and every thing. I do admire your pa-
triotism. 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 popular-
ity 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 say-
ing something at the very moment of this burst of my amor
patriae. Do not let me lose it. I assure you the 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 pro-
nounce 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-heart-
ed woman. I like them all.’
‘You know Miss Fairfax’s situation in life, I conclude;
what she is destined to be?’
‘Yes—(rather hesitatingly)—I believe I do.’
‘You get upon delicate subjects, Emma,’ said Mrs. Weston
smiling; ‘remember that I am here.—Mr. Frank Churchill
hardly knows what to say when you speak of Miss Fairfax’s
situation in life. I will move a little farther off.’
‘I certainly do forget to think of her,’ said Emma, ‘as
having ever been 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
244 Emma
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 admired; and
I remember one proof of her being thought to play well:—a
man, a very musical man, and in love with another wom-
an—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 misery of
having a very particular friend always at hand, to do ev-
ery 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 Camp-
bell; 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 dis-
tinction.’
‘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. Dix-
on, 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 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, per-
haps, from that wickedness on my side which was prone to
246 Emma
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. ‘Often-
times very convenient, no doubt, but never pleasing. There
is safety in reserve, but no attraction. One cannot love a re-
served 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 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 mod-
erate— 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 accom-
modations were attached to its size, he could be no judge
of the privations inevitably belonging to a small one. But
Emma, in her own mind, determined that he did know
what he was talking about, and that he shewed a very ami-
able 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 when-
ever he were attached, he would willingly give up much of
wealth to be allowed an early establishment.
248 Emma
Chapter VII
Emma’s very good opinion of Frank Churchill was a lit-

tle 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 quick-
ly as possible, 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 be-
ing 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 un-
fortunate 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 nev-
er marrying)—the honour, in short, of being marked out for
her by all their joint acquaintance.
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 beau-
tiful 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
250 Emma
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 ob-
servation convinced her that it was really said only to relieve
his own feelings, and not meant to provoke; and therefore she
let it pass.
Although in one instance the bearers of not good tidings,
Mr. and Mrs. Weston’s visit this morning was in another re-
spect 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 ad-
vice 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 pro-
portion 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 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 presump-
tion 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 account-
ing 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 refus-
al; and afterwards, as the idea of the party to be assembled
there, consisting precisely of those whose society was dear-
est to her, occurred again and again, she did not know that
she might not have been tempted to accept. Harriet was to be
there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had been speak-
ing of it as they walked about Highbury the day before, and
Frank Churchill had most earnestly lamented her absence.
252 Emma
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 sup-
posing 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 abso-
lutely 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. ‘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 depend-
ed 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 sor-
ry Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be
much better if they would come in one afternoon next sum-
mer, 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 eve-
ning. 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
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 la-
dies knew better how to allay it. Mr. Weston must be quiet,
and every thing deliberately arranged.
With this treatment, Mr. Woodhouse was soon com-
posed 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 possi-
254 Emma
ble. You will say that I am quite an invalid, and go no where,
and therefore must decline their obliging invitation; begin-
ning 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 the carriage will be want-
ed 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 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, in-
stead 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.’
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.
256 Emma
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 him-
self 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 wick-
edness, 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 achieve-
ment, or been ashamed of it. There would have been either
the ostentation of a coxcomb, or the evasions 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 fan-
cying 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 be-
ing laid at Mr. Cole’s; and without being able to forget that
among the failings of Mr. Elton, even in the days of his fa-
vour, 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 pleas-
ing duty, before she left the house, was to pay her respects
to them as they sat together after dinner; and while her fa-
ther 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 whatev-
er 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; 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. Knight-
ley 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
258 Emma
while warm from her heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
‘This is coming as you should do,’ said she; ‘like a gentle-
man.— 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 whenever I
meet you under those circumstances. Now you have noth-
ing 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 fam-

ily, a proper unobjectionable country family, whom the
Coles had the advantage of naming among their acquain-
tance, and the male part of Mr. Cox’s family, the lawyer of
Highbury. The less worthy females were to come in the eve-
ning, with Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax, and Miss Smith; but
already, at dinner, they were too numerous for any subject
of conversation to be general; and, while politics and Mr.
Elton were talked over, Emma could fairly surrender all her
attention to the pleasantness of her neighbour. The first re-
mote 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 sup-
ply. 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 instru-
ment—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 her-
self 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
260 Emma
was only surprized that there could ever have been a 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 sur-
prize 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 lis-
ten 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, espe-
cially considering how many houses there are where fine
instruments are absolutely thrown away. This is like giv-
ing 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 mu-
sic, has not any thing of the nature of an instrument, 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 mu-
sic that he could not help indulging himself in the purchase,

hoping that some of our good neighbours might be so oblig-
ing 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 Camp-
bell’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.’
‘Or that he did not give her the use of their own instru-
ment— 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 sus-
262 Emma
pect; 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.’
‘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 re-
flect upon the good intentions of either Mr. Dixon or Miss
Fairfax, but I cannot help suspecting either that, after mak-
ing his proposals to her friend, he had the misfortune to
fall in love with her, or that he became conscious of a lit-
tle 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 try-
ing 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 a profession of doing it, but I
honestly tell you what they are.’
‘And, upon my word, they have an air of great probabil-
ity. 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 ves-
sel 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 be-
tween the courses, and obliged to be as formal and as orderly
as the others; but when the table was again safely covered,
264 Emma
when every corner dish was placed exactly right, and occu-
pation and ease were generally restored, Emma said,
‘The arrival of this pianoforte is decisive with me. I want-
ed 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 Fair-
fax 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 per-
haps, 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 en-
tirely. 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 proba-
ble that it should be the tribute of warm 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 din-
ner 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 repeti-
tions, 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, unsen-
timental disposition which allowed her so many alleviations
of pleasure, in the midst of the pangs of disappointed af-
fection. 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 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 hus-
band 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 pi-
anoforte, 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,
266 Emma
the blush of guilt which accompanied the name of ‘my ex-
cellent friend Colonel Campbell.’
Mrs. Weston, kind-hearted and musical, was particu-
larly 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.
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 compli-
ments 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 gentle-
man on first glancing towards Miss Fairfax; but it was most
prudent to avoid speech. He told her that he had been im-
patient 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 found them in general
a set of gentlemanlike, sensible men; and spoke so hand-
somely 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 neigh-
bourhood about Enscombe, and the sort; and could make
out from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was con-
cerned, 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 engage-
ments, it was not without difficulty, without considerable
address at times, that he could get away, or introduce an ac-
quaintance for a night.
She saw that Enscombe could not satisfy, and that High-
bury, taken at its best, might reasonably please a young man
who had more retirement at home than he liked. His impor-
tance 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 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 men-
tioned. He had wanted very much to go abroad—had been
268 Emma
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 to-morrow!—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 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 be-
lieve 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 Fair-
fax, 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 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 advan-
tage, 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
270 Emma
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 occa-
sion to trouble us, for Mr. Knightley’s carriage had brought,
and was to take them home again.’ I was quite 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, consid-
erate, 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

appears. In short, I have made a match between Mr. Knight-
ley 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 like-
ly. 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 circum-
stances; 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 supplant-
ed.— 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.’
‘But the imprudence of such a match!’
‘I am not speaking of its prudence; merely its probabil-
ity.’
‘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
272 Emma
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 in-
equality 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—‘
‘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 great-
est 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. Lit-
tle things do not irritate him. She might talk on; and if he
wanted to say any thing himself, he would only talk loud-
er, and drown her voice. But the question is not, whether it
would be a bad connexion for him, but 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 pi-
anoforte 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
274 Emma
repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circum-
stance 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.’
‘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
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 mu-
sic; 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 her-
self, 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 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 deduc-
tion 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
276 Emma
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 pur-
pose.’
‘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 piano-
forte is very kindly given.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, and without the smallest apparent em-
barrassment.— ‘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 in-

strument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar
attachment—whether there were no actual preference—re-
mained 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 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 min-
utes) 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
278 Emma
Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to
Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top.
While waiting till the other young people could pair
themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compli-
ments 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 some-
thing. 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 mus-
tered; 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 al-
lowed. 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 attend-
ed Emma to her carriage. ‘I must have asked Miss Fairfax,
and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me,
after your’s.’

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 wom-
an 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 pen-
etration, 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 Fair-
fax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and
unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own 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
280 Emma
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 rath-
er 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.’
‘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 hesitating-
ly;’ 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.’
‘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 letter-boy 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
282 Emma
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 gin-
gerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and 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 son-in-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.—Im-
mediately 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 in-
formed 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 absolute-
ly 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.’
‘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 shop-
ping. 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 un-
derstood 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 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 at-
tention! 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
284 Emma
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 trou-
ble of two parcels.’
‘No more it is.’
‘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—‘
‘Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is de-
lightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is
Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good ac-
count. 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 moth-
er 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 instru-
ment 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 Saun-
ders 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
286 Emma
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 ex-
tremely 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 shock-
ing 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 ask-
ing Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that
I had any doubt before— I have so often heard Mr. Wood-
house recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way
that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly whole-
some. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty
makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, 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 de-
lay 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 yester-

day. 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 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
288 Emma
year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple any-
where 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. 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 Wil-
liam 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 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 turn-
ing. 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.’
290 Emma
Chapter X
The appearance of the little sitting-room as they entered,

was tranquillity itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usu-
al 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 sil-
versmith 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 uneven-
ness in the floor, I believe. You see we have been wedging
one leg with paper. This was very kind of you to be per-
suaded 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 pi-
anoforte 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 ex-
pose them to her neighbour again.
At last Jane began, and though the first bars were fee-
bly 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 pro-
nounced to be altogether of the highest promise.
‘Whoever Colonel Campbell might employ,’ said Frank
Churchill, with a smile at Emma, ‘the person has not cho-
sen 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 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 ran-
dom 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,
292 Emma
‘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,
‘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 restor-
ing 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.
‘What felicity it is to hear a tune again which has made
one happy!— If I mistake not that was danced at Wey-
mouth.’
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 appar-
ently cherishing very reprehensible feelings.
He brought all the music to her, and they looked it over
294 Emma
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 tak-
en 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 pos-
sible, 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!’
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 conversa-
tion 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 de-
termined 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 be-
fore 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 scepti-
cism.
‘So obliged to you!—so very much obliged to you for the
carriage,’ resumed Miss Bates.
He cut her short with,
‘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 min-
utes, 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.
296 Emma
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 delight-
ful party last night; how extremely pleasant.—Did you ever
see such dancing?— Was not it delightful?—Miss Wood-
house and Mr. Frank Churchill; I never saw any thing equal
to it.’
‘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 men-
tioned 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 grati-
tude, 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 suc-
ceed. Mr. Knightley cannot stop. He is going to Kingston.
He asked me if he could do any thing….’
‘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 them-
selves only to walk with the two young ladies to Hartfield
gates, before they set off for Randalls.
298 Emma
Chapter XI
It may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instanc-

es have been known of young people passing many, many
months successively, without being at any ball of any de-
scription, and no material injury accrue either to body or
mind;—but when a beginning is made— when the felici-
ties 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 great-
est 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 shew-
ing 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—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 discover-
ing, 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 will-
ingly 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 in-
dispensable 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,
‘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
300 Emma
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 specula-
tion in what possible manner they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were just opposite each oth-
er. ‘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 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 impru-
dence. I could not bear it for Emma!—Emma is not strong.
She would catch a dreadful cold. So would poor little Har-
riet. 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.
‘We were too magnificent,’ said he. ‘We allowed unnec-
essary 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 ex-
actly. 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 disappoint-
ment 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 compli-
ment, 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 ac-
302 Emma
quaintance, 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 fa-
ther’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 Ran-
dalls, 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 prom-
ise them, and not a less grateful welcome than at Randalls.
It is his own idea. Mrs. Weston sees no objection to it, pro-
vided 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 rep-
resentations 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.’
‘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
304 Emma
could be so imprudent! I never heard of such a thing. Danc-
ing 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 sash, with-
out its being suspected. I have often known it done myself.’
‘Have you indeed, sir?—Bless me! I never could have sup-
posed 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 re-
solve 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 conve-
nient 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 thor-
oughly aired—but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I
do not know her, even by sight.’
‘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 re-

member 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 mo-
ment,’ said Frank Churchill, ‘examining the capabilities of
the house. I left them there and came on to Hartfield, impa-
tient for your opinion, and hoping you might be persuaded
to join them and give your advice on the spot. I was de-
sired to say so from both. It would be the greatest 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 wain-
306 Emma
scot 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 candle-
light. 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 gen-
tlemen 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 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 un-
necessary 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 pros-
pect of being miserably crowded at supper.
Mrs. Weston proposed having no regular supper; mere-
ly 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 expedi-
ency, and looking into the doubtful room, observed,
‘I do not think it is so very small. We shall not be many,
you know.’
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 ar-
rangement 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 ques-
tions. I see no advantage in consulting Miss Bates.’
‘But she is so amusing, so extremely amusing! I am very
fond of hearing Miss Bates talk. And I need not bring the
308 Emma
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 recol-
lect. 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 ex-
amined 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 speculation at least, was perfectly smooth. All the mi-
nor 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 re-

fused. 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 wel-
come. 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 with-
out 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!’
310 Emma
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 fort-
night. 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 an-
other, 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 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 plea-
sures 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 some-
thing 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 guid-
ed 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;—
‘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
312 Emma
him; she had been in a very suffering state (so said her hus-
band) 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 re-
pugnance. 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 break-
fast. 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 ap-
peared; 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 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 un-
cle 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 de-
stroyed 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 fa-
ther depends on it. Do not forget your engagement.’
Emma looked graciously.
‘Such a fortnight as it has been!’ he continued; ‘every day
314 Emma
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, laugh-
ing, ‘I will venture to ask, whether you did not come a little
doubtfully at first? Do not we rather surpass your expecta-
tions? 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 to-
gether, 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 power-
ful, 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 min-
utes, and was detained by Miss Bates’s being absent. She was
out; and I felt it impossible not to wait till she 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. Forc-
ing 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; proba-
bly 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’—
He stopt again, rose again, and seemed quite embar-
rassed.— 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 com-
posed.
A very few minutes more, however, completed the pres-
ent 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 con-
solation. I shall hear of every thing that is going on among
316 Emma
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 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 ev-
ery 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 recom-
mendation, 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 prefer-
ence 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. 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 happi-
ness. 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 kind-
ness 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 particu-
larly 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.
318 Emma
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 amus-
ing schemes for the progress and close of their attachment,
fancying interesting dialogues, and inventing elegant let-
ters; 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 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 strug-
gle than she could foresee in her own feelings.
‘I do not find myself making any use of the word sac-
rifice,’ 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 de-
notes 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 other-
wise, 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 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
320 Emma
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 par-
ticulars 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 preci-
sion. 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
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, ei-
ther 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 gal-
lantry, she yet could discern the effect of her influence and
acknowledge the greatest compliment perhaps of all con-
veyed. 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 an-
ticipated; 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 was
folded up and returned to Mrs. Weston, that it had not added
any lasting warmth, that she could still do without the writ-
er, 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 Har-
riet, 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 confirm-
ing 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,
322 Emma
though it might be wise to let the fancy touch it seldom;
for evil in that quarter was at hand. As Frank Churchill’s
arrival had succeeded Mr. Elton’s engagement in the con-
versation of Highbury, as the latest interest had entirely
borne down the first, so now upon Frank Churchill’s dis-
appearance, 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 at-
tained 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 same. Har-
riet 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 un-
happy about Mr. Elton’s marrying, Harriet, is the strongest
reproach you can make me. You could not give me a great-
er 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 dan-
ger 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 restore your tranquil-
lity. These are the motives which I have been pressing on
you. They are very important—and sorry I am that you can-
not 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
324 Emma
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.
‘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 affection-
ate, 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 Har-
riet!’

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 pro-
priety, 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 recol-
lecting 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 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
326 Emma
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 nei-
ther 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 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 pret-
ty 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 mar-
ry the woman who loves him best. Miss Hawkins perhaps
wanted a home, and thought this the best offer she was like-
ly 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 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, in-
deed, 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 pres-
ent 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
328 Emma
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
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 alli-
ance, 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 Hart-
field 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 fa-
vourite 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 as-
sure you, Miss Woodhouse, it is very delightful to me, to
be reminded of a place I am so extremely partial to as Ma-
ple Grove. I have spent so many happy months there! (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 ful-
ly 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 al-
ways 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 them-
selves cared very little for the extensive grounds of 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 Eng-
land, you know. Surry is the garden of England.’
‘Yes; but we must not rest our claims on that distinction.
330 Emma
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 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’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most de-
lightfully, 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 com-

fort. Nobody can be more devoted to home than I am. I was
quite a proverb for it at Maple Grove. Many a time has Seli-
na 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-lan-
dau 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 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 fa-
ther’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 Wood-
house, 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 be-
ing of use to Mr. Woodhouse’s spirits, which, I understand,
are sometimes much depressed. And as to its recommenda-
tions to you, I fancy I need not take much pains to dwell on
332 Emma
them. The advantages of Bath to the young are pretty gen-
erally understood. It would be a charming introduction for
you, who have lived so secluded a life; and I could immedi-
ately 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 im-
polite. 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 vul-
gar, 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 out-
rage 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 her;
and Highbury has long known that you are a superior per-
former.’
‘Oh! no, indeed; I must protest against any such idea. A
superior performer!—very far from it, I assure you. Con-
sider 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 de-
lightfully. 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 whol-
ly 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 was not nec-
essary 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 descrip-
tion. 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 apart-
ments. ‘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
334 Emma
me.’’
‘We cannot suppose,’ said Emma, smiling, ‘that Mr.
Elton would hesitate to assure you of there being a very mu-
sical 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 de-
lighted to find myself in such a circle. I hope we shall have
many sweet little concerts together. I think, Miss Wood-
house, 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 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 enu-
merate. 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.
‘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 some-
thing 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 gentle-
woman.’
‘Mrs. Weston’s manners,’ said Emma, ‘were always par-
ticularly 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 ac-
quaintance— 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
336 Emma
particular a friend of Mr. E.’s, I had a great 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. De-
cidedly, 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 exclama-
tion. ‘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 be-
ing, 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 pro-
pose 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. 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 tol-
erably 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-be-
haved 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 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 en-
couraging 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 la-
dy—and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is
338 Emma
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 noth-
ing 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. El-
ton’s offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her.

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 conse-
quence 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 hab-
it 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 from one mouth to anoth-
er 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
340 Emma
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 be-
gin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which 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 solicita-
tion, 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 mu-
sic 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 suf-
fered to remain 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 Fair-

fax.’
‘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 re-
tirement, 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
342 Emma
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 ex-
tremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure you, Jane Fairfax is 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 her wherever I can, shall have musi-
cal 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 some-
thing 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 some-
times find a seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of
our exploring parties.’
‘Poor Jane Fairfax!’—thought Emma.—‘You have not de-
served 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 Woodhouse-ing 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 deco-
rated with a ‘dear Miss Woodhouse.’ The change on 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 ac-
tive patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others
in a general way, in knowing what was felt, what was medi-
344 Emma
tated, 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 toler-
ate 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 be-
lieved 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 no-
tice and the penury of her conversation, rather than 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 ap-
pears, 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 cau-
tion, 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.
‘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 con-
stant 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 warm-
ly, ‘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 re-
proachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs.
Elton, which nobody else pays her.’
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momen-
tary 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.’
346 Emma
‘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 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 af-
ter 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 man-
ner; 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.’
‘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 Fair-
fax, I dare say, would not have me if I were to ask her—and
I am very sure I shall never ask her.’
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 after-
wards said,
‘So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fair-
fax?’
‘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
348 Emma
those sort of things, of course, without any idea of a seri-
ous 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 ad-
miration for her will ever take me by surprize.—I never had
a thought of her in that way, I assure you.’ And soon after-
wards, ‘Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but
not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a 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 sup-
pose?’
‘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 vulgar-
ity? 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 acknowledg-

ing 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 con-
tinually insulting her visitor with praise, encouragement,
and offers of service; that she will not be continually de-
tailing 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 forbear-
ance, 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 sup-
posed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane
Fairfax and conversed with her, with admiration and plea-
sure 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 marry-
ing 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.’
350 Emma
Chapter XVI
Every body in and about Highbury who had ever visited

Mr. Elton, was disposed to pay him attention on his mar-
riage. 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 dissipat-
ed. 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 card-
parties. 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
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 wait-
ers 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 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 pre-
cisely what Emma would have wished, had she deemed it
possible enough for wishing. She was delighted with the for-
titude 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
352 Emma
to make the eighth, Jane Fairfax.— Since her last conver-
sation 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 disen-
gaged and all happy.— The preparatory interest of this
dinner, however, was not yet over. A circumstance 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 fa-
ther 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 com-

fort herself, by representing that though he certainly would
make them nine, yet he always said so little, that the in-
crease 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 unex-
pectedly summoned to town and must be absent on the very
day. He might be able to join them in the evening, but cer-
tainly 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 talk-
ing 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 Fair-
fax was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could
talk to her. He had met her before breakfast as he was re-
turning 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 morn-
ing, or I am sure you must have been wet.—We scarcely got
home in time. I hope you turned directly.’
354 Emma
‘I went only to the post-office,’ said she, ‘and reached
home before the rain was much. It is my daily errand. I al-
ways fetch the letters when I am here. It saves trouble, 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 post-office 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 indiffer-
ent about letters.’
‘Indifferent! Oh! no—I never conceived you could be-
come 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.’
‘I have often thought them the worst of the two,’ re-
plied he coolly. ‘Business, you know, may bring money, but
friendship hardly ever does.’
‘Ah! you are not serious now. I know Mr. John Knight-

ley too well— I am very sure he understands the value of
friendship as well as any body. I can easily believe that let-
ters 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 consid-
er 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
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
356 Emma
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 sat-
isfaction 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.
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 post-
office 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 post-office
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, in-
deed 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 re-
joined Mrs. Elton. ‘We will not allow her to do such a 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 deter-
mined, 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 cau-
tious 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
358 Emma
consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome
to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it
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 astonish-
ing!’
‘It is certainly very well regulated.’
‘So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears! So
seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constant-
ly 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 be-
gin with some quickness of sight and hand, and exercise
improves them. If you want any farther explanation,’ con-
tinued he, smiling, ‘they are paid for it. That is the key 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 be-
gan, 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 in-
troduce 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 friend— your corre-
spondent 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
360 Emma
him against the base aspersion. ‘No, it by no means wanted
strength— it was not a large hand, but very clear and cer-
tainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to
produce?’ No, she had heard from him very lately, but hav-
ing 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, employ-
ing 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 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 expecta-
tion of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not
been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happi-
ness than usual—a glow both of complexion and spirits.

She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the ex-
pedition 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.
362 Emma
Chapter XVII
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after din-

ner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making
two distinct parties;— with so much perseverance in judg-
ing and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and
slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be al-
most 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 half-whisper, especially on Mrs.
Elton’s side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their
principal subjects: The post-office—catching cold—fetch-
ing 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. El-
ton’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.’
‘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. El-
ton, 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 neighbour-
hood 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 de-
sirable! 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.’
‘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
364 Emma
business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience real-
ly 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 pro-
duce something—Offices for the sale— not quite of human
flesh—but of human intellect.’
‘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 vic-
tims, 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 in-
ferior, 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 indif-
ferent; 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.’
‘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 supe-
rior 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 com-
fortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest.’
‘You may well class the delight, the honour, and the com-
fort 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 exceed-
ingly 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
employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really un-
exceptionable may pass us.’
366 Emma
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!—On-
ly 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 polite-
ness; 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 be-
ing 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 pref-
erable to finery. But I am quite in the minority, I believe; few
people seem to value simplicity of dress,—show and finery
are every thing. I have some notion of putting such a trim-
ming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it
will look well?’
The whole party were but just reassembled in the draw-
ing-room when Mr. Weston made his appearance among
them. He had returned to a late dinner, and walked to Hart-
field 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 busi-
ness in London, should set off again, and walk half a mile to
another man’s house, for the sake of being in mixed compa-
ny 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
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 in-
dignation 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 agree-
able 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 proceed-
368 Emma
ing 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.’
The two ladies looked over it together; and he sat smiling
and talking to them the whole time, in a voice a little sub-
dued, 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 oc-
casion. 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 a little occupied
in weighing her own feelings, and trying to understand the
degree of her agitation, which she rather thought was con-
siderable.
Mr. Weston, however, too eager to be very observant, too
communicative to want others to talk, was very well satis-
fied 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.
370 Emma
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 compli-
ment 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 Vic-
arage.’
‘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 pro-
test 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 south-
ward without loss of time.’
‘Indeed!—from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in York-
shire?’
‘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 dis-
tance, Mr. Weston, to people of large fortune?—You would
be amazed to hear how my brother, Mr. Suckling, some-
times 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.’
‘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 con-
servatory 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.’
372 Emma
‘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 won-
der 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’—
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 dis-
claiming 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 con-
sidering 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 En-
scombe is too cold for her. The fact is, I suppose, that she is
tired of Enscombe. She has now been a longer time station-
ary there, than she ever was before, and she 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.
374 Emma
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 dread-
fully 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 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 be-
fore, 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;
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
376 Emma
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 con-
nexion 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, in-
dolent, 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 gen-
tleman; 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 fam-
ily 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 direct-
ly. 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 Bir-

mingham, which is not a place to promise much, you know,
Mr. Weston. One has not great hopes from Birmingham. I
always say there is something direful in the sound: but noth-
ing 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 near-
est neighbours. It is infinitely too bad. Mr. Suckling, who has
been eleven years a resident at Maple Grove, and whose fa-
ther 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 oppor-
tunity 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 con-
versation; 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 broth-
er. He was to leave them early the next day; and he soon
began with—
‘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
378 Emma
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 in-
dulgence 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 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 conse-
quence. 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 engage-
ments 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 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, de-
lights 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 se-
ries 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 ei-
ther reading to himself or settling his accounts.’
Mr. Knightley seemed to be trying not to smile; and suc-
ceeded without difficulty, upon Mrs. Elton’s beginning to
talk to him.
380 Emma
Volume III

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 senti-
ment 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 abso-
lute 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.
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
382 Emma
family were not in town quite so soon as had been imag-
ined, 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 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 trust-
ing 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 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 com-
plaints 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 con-
tinual 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 en-
384 Emma
gaged, 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, al-
most as often as he could even wish.
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 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 light-
ened 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.
386 Emma
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 certain-
ty 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 com-
fort of the rooms before any other persons came, that she
could not refuse him, and must therefore spend some qui-
et 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 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 ex-
claim; 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 close-
ly followed by another carriage of cousins, who had been
entreated to come early with the same distinguishing ear-
nestness, 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 inti-
mates and confidantes, was not the very first distinction in
the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a lit-
tle less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher
character.—General benevolence, but not general friend-
ship, 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, 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 look-
ing 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.
388 Emma
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.
‘But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!’ said Mr. Weston, look-
ing 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 de-
tained 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 hear-
ing.
‘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 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 cut-
ting 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 recol-
lect 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 coach-
man 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 gen-
tlemen, 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 finished her speech under
390 Emma
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 sig-
nify. 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!—Excellent-
ly 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 stand-
ing 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!— see-
ing 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.— 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 Camp-
bell 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 ex-
treme 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 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. Nev-
er better.— Don’t I hear another carriage?—Who can this
392 Emma
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 neces-
sarily overhearing the discourse of Mrs. Elton and 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 tak-
en, 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 occa-
sion 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 forward.—Mr.
Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
‘Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclu-
sion?— 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 sur-
prize 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 quick-
ly 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 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
394 Emma
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 consid-
ered 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 respect-
able 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 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 shoul-
ders 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 look-
ing grave. She wished he could love a ballroom better, and
could like Frank Churchill better.— He seemed often ob-
serving 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 Frank Churchill thought less of
her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the in-
cessant attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away.
Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a de-
lightful 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 record-
able 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 be-
gun, and Harriet had no partner;—the only young lady
sitting down;— and so equal had been hitherto the num-
ber of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged
was the wonder!—But Emma’s wonder lessened soon after-
wards, 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
396 Emma
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 omit be-
ing 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 turn-
ing 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 encourag-
ing 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 my-
self. 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 my-
self 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.’
‘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 return-
ing 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 in-
stant. 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.
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
398 Emma
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 ev-
ery thing has been done—One door nailed up—Quantities
of matting—My dear Jane, indeed you must. Mr. Churchill,
oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!—so grati-
fied! 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 her-
self 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 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 disappoint-
ment.— The baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their
way, you know; but there was a delicate fricassee of sweet-
bread 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 grand-
mama 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 sup-
posed 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 rec-
ollect half the dishes for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me!
I should not be helped so soon, but it smells most excellent,
400 Emma
and I cannot help beginning.’
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knight-
ley 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. El-
ton’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 reflec-
tions.’
‘Can you trust me with such flatterers?—Does my vain
spirit ever tell me I am wrong?’
‘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 discov-
ered, 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— in-
finitely 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.’
‘Whom are you going to dance with?’ asked Mr. Knight-
ley.
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.’
402 Emma
Chapter III
This little explanation with Mr. Knightley gave Emma

considerable pleasure. It was one of the agreeable recollec-
tions 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 anoth-
er 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 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 stop-
ping 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 lit-
tle 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
long. A few minutes made Emma acquainted with the
whole.
Miss Smith, and Miss Bickerton, another parlour board-
er 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
404 Emma
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 fol-
low. 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 re-
main.
How the trampers might have behaved, had the young
ladies been more courageous, must be doubtful; but such
an invitation for attack could not be resisted; and Harri-
et was soon assailed by half a dozen children, headed by
a stout woman and a great boy, all clamorous, and imper-
tinent 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 fol-
lowed, or rather surrounded, by the whole gang, demanding
more.
In this state Frank Churchill had found her, she trem-
bling 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 ter-
ror which the 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 commu-
nication 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
406 Emma
heard their history of it, without feeling that circumstanc-
es had been at work to make them peculiarly interesting to
each other?—How much more must an imaginist, like her-
self, 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 rec-
ommending 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 abomi-
nable folly of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Every
thing was to take its natural course, however, neither im-
pelled 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 pro-
ceed.
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 ser-
vants 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 promis-
ing 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 in-
quired 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, 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 High-
bury might have walked again in safety before their panic
began, and the whole history dwindled soon into a matter
408 Emma
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.

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 be-
gan:
‘Miss Woodhouse—if you are at leisure—I have some-
thing 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 hap-
pily 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 under-
stand 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 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
410 Emma
him—but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither ad-
mire 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 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 court-plaister,

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.’
‘My dearest Harriet!’ cried Emma, putting her hand be-
fore 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-
412 Emma
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.’
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 re-
member 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 noth-
ing. 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 re-
solved 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.’—

‘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 be-
hind the fire, and I wish you to see me do it.’
‘My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found hap-
piness 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 remem-
brances, 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 court-plaister?—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 dis-
agreeable 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 be-
ginning 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 the alarm,
they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite undesign-
edly. 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, Har-
riet, whenever you marry I would advise you to do so and
so’—and thought no more of it, till after a minute’s silence
414 Emma
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 pro-
ceed 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 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 de-
termined how far she would proceed, on any application of
the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the judi-
cious 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 marry-
ing, 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 pre-
sumption 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.’
‘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. Con-
sider 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 supe-
416 Emma
rior, 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, 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 at-
tachment 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.

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 vis-
it from the Sucklings, and of the use to be made of their
barouche-landau; and Jane Fairfax was still at her grand-
mother’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 him-
self, had certainly taken an early dislike to Frank Churchill,
was only growing to dislike him more. He began to sus-
pect 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 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 Fair-
fax. He could not understand it; but there were symptoms
of intelligence between them—he thought so at least—
418 Emma
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 remem-
bering 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 Harri-
et were going to walk; he joined them; and, on returning,
they fell in with a larger party, who, like themselves, judged
it wisest to take their exercise early, as the weather threat-
ened 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 fa-
ther, 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 pres-
ently, ‘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!’
‘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 ow-
ing 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 En-
scombe, many weeks ago, with all these particulars—but as
420 Emma
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.’
‘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 High-
bury 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 acknowl-
edge 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 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 par-
ticularly 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 sup-
pressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned 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 suspect-
ed 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
422 Emma
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 ta-
ble 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 Pem-
broke, 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 exam-
ining 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.’
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 mel-
ancholy, 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 ob-
servation. 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. 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 other-
wise 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 con-
ceal 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 blind-
ed 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 entertain-
ing, though it was something which she judged it proper to
appear to censure; for she said, ‘Nonsense! for shame!’ He
424 Emma
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.’
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 curios-
ity 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 per-
ception 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 ev-
idently 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 al-
lowed,’ 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 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 want-

ing to quit the table; but so many were also moving, that she
could not get away; and Mr. Knightley thought he saw an-
other collection of letters anxiously pushed towards her, and
resolutely swept away by her unexamined. She was after-
wards 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.’
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 hav-
ing 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
426 Emma
mind. Interference— fruitless interference. Emma’s confu-
sion, 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 in-
terference, 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 ac-
quaintance 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?’
‘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 attach-
ment 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 be-
tween them, I do assure you; and the appearances which
have caught you, have arisen from some peculiar circum-
stances—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 com-
municated, which is sense, is, that they are as far from any
attachment or admiration for one another, as any two be-
ings 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.’
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, want-
ing 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 irritat-
ed 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.
428 Emma
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 pos-
sibly 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 was settled that they should go to Box
Hill. That there was to be such a party had been long gen-
erally 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 prepara-
tion, 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 dis-
pleasure, 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 noth-
ing 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 re-
proof to him, which would be giving pain to his wife; and
she found herself therefore obliged to consent to an arrange-
ment which she would 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
430 Emma
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 set-
tle 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 re-
sources were inadequate to such an attack.
‘Is not this most vexations, Knightley?’ she cried.—‘And
such weather for exploring!—These delays and disappoint-
ments 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 par-
ty from Maple Grove to Kings Weston.’
‘You had better explore to Donwell,’ replied Mr. Knight-
ley. ‘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 straw-
berry-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 often-
er 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?’
‘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 carte-blanche.—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 trou-
ble 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 in-
vite 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, rath-
er 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
432 Emma
Jane with me— Jane and her aunt.—The rest I leave to you.
I have no objections at all to meeting the 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,—prob-
ably 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 pro-
vide, 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 gar-
den, there shall be cold meat in the house.’
‘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 house-

keeper is extremely clever.’
‘I will answer for it, that mine thinks herself full as clev-
er, 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 purchas-
ing 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 High-
bury. 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.’
‘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.
434 Emma
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 morn-
ing, 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 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
in one of the most comfortable rooms in the Abbey, espe-
cially 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 oth-
ers 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 fair-
ly warrant, as she viewed the respectable size and style of
the building, its suitable, becoming, characteristic situa-
tion, 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.—The house was
larger than Hartfield, and totally unlike it, covering a good
deal of ground, rambling and irregular, with many com-
436 Emma
fortable, 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 nei-
ther men, nor names, nor places, that could raise a blush.
These were pleasant feelings, and she walked about and in-
dulged 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 ex-
pected 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, ac-
cepting, or talking—strawberries, and only strawberries,
could now be thought or spoken of.—‘The best fruit in Eng-
land— 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
hardly eatable—hautboys very scarce—Chili preferred—
white wood finest flavour of all—price of strawberries in
London— abundance about Bristol—Maple Grove—cul-
tivation—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 re-
freshing—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, 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 autho-
rised 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
438 Emma
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 pil-
lars, which seemed intended, in their 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, gradu-
ally 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. Eng-
lish 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, quiet-
ly 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 see Harriet in a spot so fa-
vourable for the Abbey Mill Farm; but now she feared it not.
It might be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosper-
ity 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, however, as many were
ready to remind her, was liable to such sudden variation as
might disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable depen-
dence—and Mrs. Weston was at last persuaded to believe,
440 Emma
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 Ab-
bey 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. Wood-
house, 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. Wood-
house’s entertainment. Books of engravings, drawers of
medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family col-
lection within his cabinets, had been prepared for his old
friend, to while away the morning; and the kindness 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 ap-

peared, 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 deter-
mined 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?’
‘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 car-
riage. 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
442 Emma
Woodhouse, we all know at times what it is to be wearied
in spirits. Mine, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kind-
ness 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 parting
words, ‘Oh! Miss Woodhouse, the comfort of being some-
times 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, Ven-
ice, 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 bear any degree of cold, etc., but
heat was intolerable—and he sat down, at the greatest pos-
sible 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 ex-
pressive phrase of being out of humour. Some people were
always cross when they were hot. Such might be his consti-
tution; 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 point-
ed 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—
‘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 morn-
ing. Harriet’s sweet easy temper will not mind it.’
444 Emma
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 per-
suasion, this morning, that I shall soon be abroad. I 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 mis-
taken. 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 eve-
ning.’
‘But you may come again in the cool of to-morrow morn-
ing.’
‘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 Fair-
446 Emma
fax’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 in-
creased so much, that his last words to Emma were,
‘Well;—if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.’
She smiled her acceptance; and nothing less than a sum-
mons from Richmond was to take him back before the
following evening.

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 Hart-
field 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 bet-
ter. 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 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 colla-
tion, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove.
448 Emma
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 with-
out 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, mak-
ing her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that
could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agree-
able 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 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 an-
other. 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 disappoint-
ed; 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 cer-
tainly 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.’
‘You are comfortable because you are under command.’
‘Your command?—Yes.’
‘Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-
command. 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 self-command
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 influ-
ence 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
450 Emma
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
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 com-
panions 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, wher-
ever 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 party— I never

was in any circle—exploring parties—young ladies—mar-
ried women—‘
Her mutterings were chiefly to her husband; and he mur-
mured, 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. La-
dies 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, origi-
nal 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 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 man-
452 Emma
ner, 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, (turn-
ing 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 co-
nundrum 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 co-
nundrum of Mr. Weston’s shall clear him and his next
neighbour. Come, sir, pray let me hear it.’
‘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. Knight-

ley 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 things are
very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire;
but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is explor-
ing 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 al-
lowed 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 en-
tertain Miss Woodhouse, or any other young lady. An old
married man— quite good for nothing. Shall we walk, Au-
gusta?’
‘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
454 Emma
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 ac-
quaintance 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 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 unfortu-
nate 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 general-
ly 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 acquaintance to be an in-
convenience, an oppression for ever.’
He made no answer; merely looked, and bowed in sub-

mission; 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 commis-
sion 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 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.
456 Emma
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 de-
part, 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. 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, per-
haps, 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.’
‘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 preva-
lence 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;
458 Emma
satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful
counsel, and 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 car-
riage; 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 be-
yond 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!
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 Har-

riet, 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.
460 Emma
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 com-
pletely 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 plea-
sure, 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 es-
teem, she could not, in her general conduct, be open to any
severe reproach. As a daughter, she hoped she was not with-
out 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, 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 un-
likely, 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 subse-
quent ridicule.
There was a bustle on her approach; a good deal of mov-
ing and talking. She heard Miss Bates’s voice, something was
to be done in a hurry; the maid looked frightened and awk-
ward; 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 room. Jane she had a dis-
tinct 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
462 Emma
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 con-
science 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 im-
mediate.
‘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 a tear
or two)—but it will be very trying for us to part with her, af-
ter 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 wom-
an 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, no-
body 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 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 un-
generous 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 natu-
rally 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
464 Emma
the circumstances which she collected from 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 de-
layed 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 supe-
rior—to have the charge of her three little girls—delightful
children. Impossible that any situation could be more re-
plete 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 be-
fore yesterday, the very morning we were at Donwell,) when
Jane first heard of it, she was quite decided against accept-
ing 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 far-
ther 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 sit-
uation, 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 set-
tled so, upon the hill, while we were walking about 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 Wood-
house, one must always find agreeable, though every body
seemed rather fagged after the morning’s party. Even plea-
sure, you know, is fatiguing—and I cannot say that any of
them seemed very much to have enjoyed it. However, I shall
466 Emma
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. Ex-
cept 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 sala-
ry!— 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 per-
son 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.’
‘Her friends must all be sorry to lose her; and will not
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell be sorry to find that she has en-
gaged 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 declin-
ing. 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 be-
fore 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 re-
gard 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 been telling him, and then it came out
468 Emma
about the chaise having been sent to Randalls to take Mr.
Frank Churchill to Richmond. That was what happened be-
fore 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 sub-
ject, 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, how-
ever, 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 re-
solved to go home directly, without waiting at all, and his
horse seeming to have got a cold, Tom had been sent off im-
mediately for the Crown chaise, and the ostler had stood
out and seen it pass by, the boy going a good pace, and driv-
ing very steady.
There was nothing in all this either to astonish or inter-
est, 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 talk-
ing 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 con-
jectures was so little pleasing, that she soon allowed herself
to believe her visit had been long enough; and, with a repeti-
tion of every thing that she could venture to say of the good
wishes which she really felt, took leave.
470 Emma
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 Isa-
bella. 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 mean-
ing 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 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 in-
stantaneous 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 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 per-
fect 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
472 Emma
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 mean-
ing 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
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 justi-
fied; it supplied a very useful check,— interested, without
disturbing him. He had long made up his mind to Jane Fair-
fax’s going out as governess, and could talk of it cheerfully,
but Mr. Knightley’s going to London had been an unexpect-
ed 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 ob-
ject, 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 ar-
rived 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 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 rea-
sonable 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 clear-
er 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 ac-
quitted 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 in-
deed. Mr. Churchill would never get over it.’— Even Mr.
474 Emma
Weston shook his head, and looked solemn, and said, ‘Ah!
poor woman, who would have 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 good-
will 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 maintenance.
They spoke, therefore, of Mrs. Churchill’s death with mu-
tual forbearance.
Short letters from Frank were received at Randalls, com-
municating 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 prom-
ising 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 neglect-
ing, 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 invitation was refused, and by a verbal message. ‘Miss
Fairfax was not well enough to write;’ and when Mr. Per-
ry 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 suffer-
ing 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
476 Emma
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 compan-
ion 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 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 morn-
ing 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 un-
equal 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 un-
willingness 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 ev-
ery thing that message could do was 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 re-
ally 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 her-
self— 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 nourish-
ing food; but every thing they could command (and never
had any body such good neighbours) was distasteful.
Emma, on reaching home, called the housekeeper di-
rectly, to an examination of her stores; and some arrowroot
478 Emma
of very superior quality was speedily despatched to Miss
Bates with a most friendly note. In half an hour the arrow-
root 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 pow-
ers; 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 to all her attempts of assist-
ing Jane Fairfax, could he even have seen into her heart, he
would not, on this occasion, have found any thing to re-
prove.

Chapter X
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill’s de-

cease, 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 hard-
ly 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 mat-
ter?— 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!’
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
480 Emma
take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the
house together and on their way at a quick pace for Ran-
dalls.
‘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 at-
tempt concealment.’
‘Upon my word, Emma.’—
‘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 be-
ing 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 em-
ployed 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 circum-
stances of the family,—something which the late event at
Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active.
Half a dozen natural children, perhaps—and poor Frank
cut off!— This, though very undesirable, would be no mat-
ter 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.’
482 Emma
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.’
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 unpleas-
ant nature, I find, has occurred;—do let me know directly
what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete sus-
pense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue
longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, what-
ever it may be.’
‘Have you indeed no idea?’ said Mrs. Weston in a trem-
bling 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 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, horror-struck,
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 them-
selves—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 di-
vided 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 confirma-
tion, repeated confirmation.
‘Well,’ said she at last, trying to recover herself; ‘this is a
circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, be-
fore 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
484 Emma
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 far-
ther 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.’
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 mat-
ter 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 dis-
engaged? 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 in-
deed.’
‘From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather
imagine—‘
‘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 com-
prehend 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 misun-
derstandings he decidedly said. The present crisis, indeed,
seemed to be brought on by them; and those misunder-
standings 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 can-
not say how it has sunk him in my opinion. So unlike what a
man should be!— None of that upright integrity, that strict
486 Emma
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 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 gov-
erness! 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 par-
ticulars that could not be given now. Let us wait, therefore,
for this letter. It may bring many extenuations. 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 mate-
rial 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 conceal-
ment.’
‘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,
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
488 Emma
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 car-
rying 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 lit-
tle 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 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 conse-
quence, 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 opin-
ion 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 com-
ing 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 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 steadi-
ness 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 situa-
tion 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,
490 Emma
‘A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my
word! This was a device, I suppose, to sport with my cu-
riosity, 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 prospect of hav-
ing 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 man-
ner 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 to-
gether, and he had talked it all over again with Emma, in
their walk back to Hartfield, he was become perfectly rec-
onciled, and not far from thinking it the very best thing that
Frank could possibly have done.

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 sec-
ond 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 oth-
erwise 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 have prevented the indul-
gence 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.
492 Emma
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 ac-
count. 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 equal-
ly under cure.—Her days of insignificance and evil were
over.—She would soon be well, and happy, and prosper-
ous.— 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 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 it-
self from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she
acknowledged that Jane Fairfax would have neither eleva-
tion 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 af-
fair 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 dis-
tressing and delicate office to perform by Harriet, which
Mrs. Weston had just gone through by herself. The intel-
ligence, 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 ap-
proaching 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
494 Emma
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 per-
plexed.
‘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 ex-
tremely 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 pe-
culiar 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, wheth-
er 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.’
‘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 sub-
ject,’ 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?—Mis-
take 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 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
496 Emma
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 al-
ways 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 differ-
ent person. I could almost assert that you had named 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 ren-
dered you, it was extremely natural:—and you agreed to it,
expressing yourself very warmly as to your sense of that ser-
vice, and mentioning even what your sensations had been
in seeing him come forward to your rescue.—The impres-
sion 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 benevo-
lence and generosity; that was the service which made me
begin to feel how superior he was to every other being upon
earth.’
‘Good God!’ cried Emma, ‘this has been a most unfortu-
nate— most deplorable mistake!—What is to be done?’
‘You would not have encouraged me, then, if you had un-
derstood 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 mil-
lion times more above me than the other. But I hope, Miss
Woodhouse, that supposing—that if— strange as it may ap-
pear—. But you know they were your own words, that more
wonderful things had happened, matches of greater dis-
parity 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 for-
tunate, beyond expression, as to— if Mr. Knightley should
really—if he does not mind the disparity, I hope, dear Miss
498 Emma
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.’
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 af-
fection?’
‘Yes,’ replied Harriet modestly, but not fearfully—‘I must
say that I have.’
Emma’s eyes were instantly withdrawn; and she sat si-
lently 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 ac-
knowledged 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 in-
creased 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 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 calm-
ness, 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, re-
newed 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 encour-
aging manner of such a judge, and such a friend as 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
500 Emma
with great outward patience, to Harriet’s detail.—Method-
ical, 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 circum-
stances, 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 behav-
iour 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, Har-
riet 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 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 repeat-
ed 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 recommen-
dations 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 with her apart from the others,
in the lime-walk at Donwell, where they had been walk-
ing some time before Emma came, and he had taken pains
(as she was convinced) to draw her from the rest to him-
self—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 talk-
ing 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
502 Emma
did, after a little reflection, venture the following question.
‘Might he not?—Is not it possible, that when enquiring, as
you thought, into the state of your affections, he might be
alluding to Mr. Martin— he might have Mr. Martin’s inter-
est 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. Mar-
tin, 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 Em-
ma’s side, to enable her to say on reply,
‘Harriet, I will only venture to declare, that Mr. Knight-
ley 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.’
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 agitat-
ed 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 ev-
ery 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 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 ev-
ery 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
504 Emma
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 persuad-
ing herself, in fancying, in acting to the contrary, she had
been entirely under a delusion, totally ignorant of her own
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 dis-
gusting.
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,
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 ele-
vation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible
to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opin-
ion, 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 belong— all would have been
safe; none of this dreadful sequel would have been.
How Harriet could ever have had the presumption
506 Emma
to raise her thoughts to Mr. Knightley!—How she could
dare to fancy herself the chosen of such a man till actual-
ly 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 sen-
sible 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 establish-
ment?— If Harriet, from being humble, were grown vain, it
was her doing too.

Chapter XII
Till now that she was threatened with its loss, Emma
had never known how much of her happiness depend-
ed 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 quarrel-
ling with him because he would not acknowledge her false
and insolent estimate of her own—but still, from family at-
tachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he
had loved her, and watched over her from a girl, with an en-
deavour to improve her, and an anxiety for her doing right,
which no other creature had at all shared. In spite of all her
faults, 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 pre-
sume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might think herself
508 Emma
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 clear-sighted goodwill.— She had no hope, noth-
ing 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 overrat-
ing his regard for her.—Wish it she must, for his sake—be
the consequence nothing to herself, but his remaining sin-
gle 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 world;
let Donwell and Hartfield lose none of their precious inter-
course 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 disap-
pointed; and she hoped, that when able to see them together
again, she might at least be able to ascertain what the chanc-

es for it were.—She should see them henceforward with the
closest observance; and wretchedly as she had hitherto mis-
understood even those she was watching, she did not know
how to admit that she could be blinded here.— He was ex-
pected 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, there-
fore, kindly, but decisively, to beg that she would not, at
present, come to Hartfield; acknowledging it to be her con-
viction, 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 com-
pany of others—she objected only to a tete-a-tete—they
might be able to act as if they had forgotten the conversa-
tion 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 twenty-
four 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
510 Emma
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 encum-
brance of awkward feelings, could have afforded.
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 ceremo-
nious 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 disinterest-

ed 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 be-
ing 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 un-
gracious 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 engage-
ment. 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 con-
cealment 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 never
known the blessing of one tranquil hour:’— and the quiver-
ing 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
512 Emma
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 con-
tinued, ‘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 ap-
pear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to
Colonel Campbell.’’
‘Poor girl!’ said Emma again. ‘She loves him then exces-
sively, 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.’
‘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 un-
reasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had
exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her cap-

tious 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 playful-
ness 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
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 ac-
count 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 great-
est 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 de-
fence was, therefore, earnest. She talked with a great deal of
reason, and at least equal affection— but she had too much
514 Emma
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 let-
ter 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 random, before she could at all rec-
ollect 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 to-
wards Miss Fairfax. She bitterly regretted not having sought
a closer acquaintance with her, and blushed for the envi-
ous 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 proba-
bility, have been spared from every pain which pressed on
her now.—Birth, abilities, and education, had been equal-
ly 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 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 im-
proper 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 delica-
cy of Jane’s feelings, by the levity or carelessness of Frank
Churchill’s. Of all the sources of evil surrounding the for-
mer, 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 to-
gether, 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 at-
tention on his daughter’s side, and by exertions which 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
516 Emma
she had then drawn of the privations of the approach-
ing winter, had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted
them, no pleasures had been lost.—But her present forebod-
ings 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 compar-
atively 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, prob-
ably, 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 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 find-
ing 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 re-

flection 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 walk-
ing 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.
518 Emma
Chapter XIII
The weather continued much the same all the following

morning; and the same loneliness, and the same melan-
choly, 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 intro-
duce; and on Mr. Perry’s coming in soon after dinner, with
a disengaged hour to give her father, she lost no time ill hur-
rying 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 together. The ‘How d’ye do’s’ were quiet and con-
strained 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 be-
ing 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 attach-
ment 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.’
‘Have I?’ said he quietly, and looking at her; ‘of what na-
ture?’
‘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
520 Emma
this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief ac-
count 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 un-
suspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she
found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his
heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensi-
bility, 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—Indigna-
tion—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 bet-
ter fate.’
Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover
from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consid-
eration, 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 fool-
ishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay
me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other rea-
son to regret that I was not in the secret earlier.’
‘Emma!’ cried he, looking eagerly at her, ‘are you, in-
deed?’— but checking himself—‘No, no, I understand
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 can-
not let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since
my manners gave such an impression, I have as much rea-
son 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 re-
verse.— 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,
522 Emma
however.
‘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 assist-
ed 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 behav-
iour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind
to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his ob-
ject 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.’
She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to
say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was si-
lent; 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 mo-
tive 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 sin-
cerely attached.’
‘He is a most fortunate man!’ returned Mr. Knightley,
with energy. ‘So early in life—at three-and-twenty—a pe-
riod 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 disin-
terested 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 hab-
its 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 for-
tune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a
young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, can-
not even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and
524 Emma
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 ob-
ject 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 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 intoler-

able 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 to take an-
other 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 contem-
plation—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 dear-
est, 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.’
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of
this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happi-
est dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.
526 Emma
‘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 wom-
an 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 indif-
ferent 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 what she had been say-
ing 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 se-
cret 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 vouch-
safing 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 feel-
ings, 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 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 refus-
ing to hear him.—The change had perhaps been somewhat
sudden;—her proposal of taking another turn, her renew-
ing 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
528 Emma
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 in-
fluence. 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 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 enchant-
ing.— 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 sen-
timent having probably enlightened him as to the 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 infe-
riorities, 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 histo-
ry of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness which must be
felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never be-
lieved 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 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.
530 Emma
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 ob-
served 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 cor-
dially 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 thing extraordinary in the
looks or ways of either, he repeated to them very comfort-
ably all the articles of news he had received from Mr. Perry,
and talked on with much self-contentment, totally unsuspi-

cious 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 al-
loy. 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 sol-
emn 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 be-
come an increase of comfort to him.— How to do her best
by Harriet, was of more difficult decision;— how to spare
her from any unnecessary pain; how to make her any pos-
sible 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 surround-
ed 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
532 Emma
it might be practicable to get an invitation for her to Bruns-
wick Square.—Isabella had been pleased with Harriet; and
a few weeks spent in London must give her some amuse-
ment.— 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 em-
ployment 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 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 depre-
cated 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 forward-

ing 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 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 be-
lieve there will be need of even all your goodness to allow
for some parts of my past conduct.— But I have been for-
given 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 appli-
cations 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 endeav-
our to comprehend the exact nature of my situation when I
534 Emma
first arrived at 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 con-
cealment, 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 up-
right 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 sick-
ness. 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 circumstances, arriv-
ing 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 reprehen-
sion, excepting on one point. And now I come to the
principal, the only important part of my conduct while be-
longing 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 yes-
terday spoke his opinion, and some censure I acknowledge
myself liable to.—My behaviour to Miss Woodhouse indi-
cated, 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 Wood-
house was my ostensible 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 Wood-
house 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 con-
viction 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
536 Emma
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 de-
gree.— 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 sur-
prize. 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 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 con-
sidered 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 suspi-
cion. 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 absolute-
ly 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 mad-
am, 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 crea-
ture who would so designedly suppress her own merit.—Since
I began this 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 fa-
vour 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 sudden-
ness, 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 circum-
stances, which left me not an hour to lose. I should myself
have shrunk from any thing so hasty, and she would have
538 Emma
felt every scruple of mine with multiplied strength and re-
finement.— 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 unrea-
sonably 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 judg-
ment, 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 dissatisfac-
tion that had occurred before came to a crisis. I was late; I
met her walking home by herself, and wanted to walk with
her, but she would not suffer it. She absolutely refused to al-
low 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 en-
gagement, 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 previ-
ous 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 devo-
tion 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, abomi-
nable 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 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 treat-
ment 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, oth-
erwise, 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
540 Emma
in hearing it bandied between the Eltons with all the vul-
garity 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 it within an hour; but from the
confusion of my mind, and the multiplicity of business fall-
ing on me at once, my answer, instead of being sent with all
the many other letters of that day, was locked up in my writ-
ing-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 after-
wards 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 desir-
able 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 do-
ing. It was perfectly accordant with 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 cer-
tain 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,
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.
542 Emma
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 un-
doubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,
Your obliged and affectionate Son,
F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL.

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 sub-
ject 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. Knight-
ley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of
Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated; 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.’
544 Emma
But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the eve-
ning, 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 let-
ters 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 complimen-
tary 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 alac-
rity.
‘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 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 ex-
planation of.
‘You had better go on,’ said she.
He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, ‘the piano-
forte! 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,
546 Emma
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.’
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 diffi-
culty 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 re-
member 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, at-
tentively, and without the smallest remark; and, 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 repen-
tance 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 suf-
fers.’
‘I hope he does,’ replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and re-
suming 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.’
‘Well, there is feeling here.—He does seem to have suf-
fered 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 thou-
sands and tens of thousands.—‘Happier than I deserve.’
548 Emma
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
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, gentle-
manlike 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 hazard-
ed. Mr. Woodhouse taken from Hartfield!—No, he felt that
it ought not to be attempted. But the plan which had arisen
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 happi-
ness 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 sac-
rificing 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;
550 Emma
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.’
She promised, however, to think of it; and pretty near-
ly 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 heir-expectant had for-
merly 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 dis-
like of Mr. Knightley’s marrying Jane Fairfax, or any body
else, which at the time she had wholly imputed to the ami-
able solicitude of the sister and the aunt.
This proposal of his, this plan of marrying and continu-
ing at Hartfield— the more she contemplated it, the more
pleasing it became. His evils seemed to lessen, her own ad-
vantages 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 in-
crease of melancholy!
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 chari-
table caution, be kept at a distance from. She would be a
loser in every way. Emma could not deplore her future ab-
sence as any deduction from her own enjoyment. In such
a party, Harriet would be rather a dead weight than oth-
erwise; 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, al-
ways 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.
552 Emma
Chapter XVI
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as de-

sirous 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 sup-
posed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage;
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 ask-
ing 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 recommenda-
tion 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 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 Lon-
don, made perhaps an unreasonable difference in Emma’s
sensations; but she could not think of her in London with-
out 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 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 ap-
pointed 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
554 Emma
every other motive of goodwill. It would be a secret satisfac-
tion; 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 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 oth-
er reception of her were felt sufficient.— Emma had never
seen her look so well, so lovely, so engaging. There was con-
sciousness, animation, and warmth; there was every thing
which her countenance or manner could ever have want-
ed.— 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 im-
possible 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 sensa-

tions 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.
She soon believed herself to penetrate Mrs. Elton’s
thoughts, and understand why she was, like herself, in hap-
py 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 compli-
ments 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,
556 Emma
‘You know all other things give place.’
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 representa-
tion, 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; cau-
tious as a minister of state. I managed it extremely well.’
Emma could not doubt. It was a palpable display, repeat-
ed 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 side-glance
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.’
‘I have scarce had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Wood-
house,’ she shortly afterwards began, ‘since the party to Box
Hill. Very pleasant party. But yet I think there was some-
thing 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 an-
swered 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 thankful delight towards
Mrs. Elton for being there, Emma guessed that there had
been a little show of resentment towards Jane, from the vic-
arage 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 re-
spects to you.’
‘What! are we to have the pleasure of a call from Mr. El-
558 Emma
ton?— That will be a favour indeed! for I know gentlemen
do not like morning visits, and Mr. Elton’s time is so en-
gaged.’
‘Upon my word it is, Miss Bates.—He really is engaged
from morning to night.—There is no end of people’s com-
ing 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 in-
strument, if I had half so many applicants.’—Bad enough as
it is, for I absolutely neglect 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 disen-
gage 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 to-
morrow.—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 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 think-
ing brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you
and I should make, if we could be shaken together. My live-
liness 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
560 Emma
with some of her sparkling vivacity.
‘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 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 ex-
traordinary, indeed, and that she had not a syllable to say
for him.
‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mrs. Elton, (feeling the indig-
nity 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 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 mas-
ter lately, he said, but he could hardly ever get the speech of
him. I have nothing to do with William’s wants, but it re-
ally 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 di-
rectly. In all probability she was at this very time waited for
562 Emma
there; and Mr. Knightley might be preserved from sinking
deeper in aggression towards Mr. Elton, if not towards Wil-
liam Larkins.
She was pleased, on taking leave, to find Miss Fairfax de-
termined to attend her out of the room, to go with her even
downstairs; it gave her an opportunity which she immedi-
ately 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 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 wea-
rying you. You could not have gratified me more than by
expressing an interest—. Indeed, Miss Woodhouse, (speak-
ing more collectedly,) with the consciousness which I have
of misconduct, very great misconduct, it is particularly con-
soling 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—‘
‘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.’
‘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.’
564 Emma
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 grow-
ing 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 edu-
cated on a more perfect plan.’
‘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 correct-
ed me without it.’
‘Do you?—I have no doubt. Nature gave you understand-
ing:— 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 lec-
ture 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 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 great-
est 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,
566 Emma
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.’
‘I remember once calling you ‘George,’ in one of my ami-
able 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 appear-
ances, that their friendship were declining. She was aware
herself, that, parting under any other circumstances, they
certainly should have corresponded more, and that her in-
telligence 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 Har-
riet 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 say about it,
568 Emma
and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was un-
mentioned.
‘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 grow-
ing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me
already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construc-
tion, 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—‘
‘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 compas-
sion towards oppressed worth can go no farther.’

‘Ah!’ he cried, ‘I wish your father might be half as eas-
ily 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 conversa-
tion that could prepare him at this time for my marrying
any more than at another.— But it was so, I 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 say-
ing, ‘Uncle seems always tired now.’’
The time was coming when the news must spread far-
ther, 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
570 Emma
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
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 re-
minded, 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 hap-
pier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand, when he were
once got used to the idea.—Did he not love Mr. Knight-
ley 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
write his letters, who so glad to assist him?— Who so cheer-
ful, 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 as-
surances 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 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
572 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 im-
portance, so peculiarly eligible, so singularly fortunate, that
now it seemed as if Emma could not safely have attached her-
self 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 arrange-
ment 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 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 specula-
tion 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, ra-
tional 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 quick-
ness 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 fore-
seen 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 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
574 Emma
might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,
upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, ex-
cept 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 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 ec-
centric, 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.—Ex-
tremely 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.

Chapter XVIII
Time passed on. A few more to-morrows, and the par-

ty 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
smiling, with his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Does nothing oc-
cur 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.
576 Emma
‘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 im-
possible!’ 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 differ-
ently; 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
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 en-

tertainment 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 go-
ing to take the two eldest boys to Astley’s. The party was to
be our brother and sister, 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 oppor-
tunity 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
578 Emma
at Astley’s, my brother took charge of Mrs. John Knight-
ley 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.’
He stopped.—Emma dared not attempt any immediate
reply. To speak, she was sure would be to betray a most un-
reasonable 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—cheer-
fully 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 silent from sur-
prize 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 deter-
mined against him, much more, than she was before.’
‘You ought to know your friend best,’ replied Mr. Knight-
ley; ‘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 dimen-
sions 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 emphasis, ‘No, I
hope I know better than to think of Robert Martin,’ that she
was really expecting the intelligence to prove, in some mea-
sure, 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
580 Emma
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 bright-
est smiles, ‘and most sincerely wish them happy.’
‘You are materially changed since we talked on this sub-
ject 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. Some-
times, 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 be-
ing 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 Har-
riet!’
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a
little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the en-
trance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be
alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which
made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in danc-
ing, 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 ex-
cuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensa-
tions 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!
582 Emma
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 fe-
licities, 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 disap-
pointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Weston was alone in the drawing-
room:— 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 Fair-
fax 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 con-
fusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each

side. They met readily and smiling, but with a conscious-
ness 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 in-
dulged, 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 par-
ty, 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.’
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some
time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and hap-
piness.
‘Is not she looking well?’ said he, turning his eyes to-
wards 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 Camp-
bells, 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.’
584 Emma
‘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 secre-
cy and told you every thing.’
‘It is not now worth a regret,’ said Emma.
‘I have some hope,’ resumed he, ‘of my uncle’s being
persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be intro-
duced 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 dis-
tance from her—is not it hard, Miss Woodhouse?— Till this
morning, we have not once met since the day of reconcilia-
tion. 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 de-
mure 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 fa-
vour. 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 can-
not call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with
her dark eye-lashes and hair— a most distinguishing com-
plexion! 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.’
586 Emma
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 meet-
ing 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.
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 Per-
ry, 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 counte-
nance 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
588 Emma
to me!— They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can
court them!’
He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertain-
ingly; 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 character.
The happiness of this most happy day, received its comple-
tion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this
comparison produced.

Chapter XIX
If Emma had still, at intervals, an anxious feeling for Har-

riet, a momentary doubt of its being possible for her to be
really cured of her attachment to Mr. Knightley, and real-
ly 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 be-
ing 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 presump-
tuous 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 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 ac-
knowledge, that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin;
590 Emma
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 par-
entage became known. She proved to be the daughter of a
tradesman, rich enough to afford her the comfortable main-
tenance 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
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 temp-
tation, nor left for it to find her out. She would be respectable
and happy; and Emma admitted her to be the luckiest crea-
ture 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, nat-
ural 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
impair.—Perhaps, indeed, at that time she scarcely saw
Mr. Elton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the al-
tar 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 de-
termined 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.
592 Emma
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, 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. Knight-
leys, 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 won-
derful 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 neigh-
bourhood also suffered.—Pilfering was housebreaking to
Mr. Woodhouse’s fears.—He was very uneasy; and but for
the sense of his son-in-law’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.
The result of this distress was, that, with a much more

voluntary, cheerful consent than his daughter had ever pre-
sumed 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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Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a re-

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Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He

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Harriet Smith’s intimacy at Hartfield was soon a settled

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‘I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,’

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Emma could not feel a doubt of having given Harriet’s fan-

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The very day of Mr. Elton’s going to London produced a

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Harriet slept at Hartfield that night. For some weeks

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Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could

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My first doth affliction denote,

made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had tran-

My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,

But ah! united, what reverse we have!

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May its approval beam in that soft eye!