Volume 1 Chapter 9 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. 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 showed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days. The picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return. And being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it and sighed out his half-sentences of admiration just as he ought, and as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into a strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton of the utmost advantage to the latter. Her views of improving her little friend's mind by a great deal of useful reading and conversation had never yet led to more than a few first chapters and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study, much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune than to be laboring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts, and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with into a thin quartet of hot-pressed paper made up by her friend and ornamented with ciphers and trophies. In this age of literature such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Snatch, head teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred, and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory, and taste, and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity. Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young he wondered he could not remember them, but he hoped he should in time, and it always ended in kiddie affair but frozen maid. His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did not at present recollect anything of the riddle kind. But he had desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much, something he thought might come from that quarter. It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury in general should be put under requisition. Mr. Elton was the only one whose assistance, she asked. He was invited to contribute any really good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect, and she had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his recollections, and at the same time, as she could perceive, most earnestly careful that nothing un-gallant, nothing that did not breed 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 destined to feel, and my whole is the best antidote, that affliction to soften and heal, made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some pages ago already. Why will you not write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton? said she. That is the only security for its freshness, and nothing could be easier to you. Oh, no! He had never written, hardly ever, anything of the kind in his life. The stupidest fellow. He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse. He stopped a moment, or Miss Smith could inspire him. The very next day, however, produced some proof of inspiration. He called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own. I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection, said he, being my friends 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 friends. He was gone the next moment. After another moment's pause, take it, said Emma, smiling and pushing the paper towards Harriet. It is for you. Take your own. But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it, and Emma, never lothed to be first, was obliged to examine it herself. To Miss... Charade. My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings. Lords of the earth, their luxury and ease. Another view of man, my second brings, behold him there, the monarch of the seas. But ah, united what reverse we have, man's boasted power and freedom all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, and woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. Thy ready wit the word will soon supply. May its approval beam in that soft eye. She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then, passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling and saying to herself, while Harriet was puzzling over the paper and all the confusion of hope and dullness, very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed. I have read worse charades, courtship, a very good hint. I give you credit for it. This is feeling your way. This is saying very plainly, pray, Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you. May its approval beam in that soft eye. Harriet, exactly. Soft is the very word for her eye, of all epithets, the justice that could be given. Thy ready wit the word will soon supply. Hm. 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 indeed, and very much to the purpose. Things must come to a crisis soon now. She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations, which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions. What can it be, Miss Woodhouse? What can it be? I have not an idea. I cannot guess it in the least. What could it possibly be? Do try to find out, Miss Woodhouse, to help me. I never saw anything so hard. Is it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was, and who could be the young lady? Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman? And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. Can it be Neptune? Behold him there, the monarch of the seas. Or a trident? Or 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 charade made by a friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper, and listen. For Miss Blank, read Miss Smith. My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings. Lords of the earth, their luxury and ease. That is court. Another view of man my second brings. Behold him there, the monarch of the seas. That is ship, plain as it can be, now for the cream. But ah, united, courtship, you know, what reverse we have. Man's boasted power and freedom all are flown. Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave, and woman, lovely woman, reigns alone. A very proper compliment. And then follows the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in comprehending. Read it in comfort to yourself. There can be no doubt of its being written for you and to you. Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion. She read the concluding lines, and was all flutter in happiness. She could not speak. But she was not wanted to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her. There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment, said she, that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions. You are his object, and you will soon receive the completeest 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 clear and decided, as my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, just so long I have been wanting the very circumstance to happen what has happened. I could never tell whether an attachment between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural. Its probability and its eligibility have really so equaled each other. I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart. This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating. This is a connection which offers nothing but good.  It will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy forever. This Harriet is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us. Dear Miss Woodhouse, and dear Miss Woodhouse was all that Harriet, with many tender embraces, could articulate at first, but when they did arrive at something more like conversation it was sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered just as she ought. Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample acknowledgement. Whatever you say is always right, cried Harriet, and therefore I suppose and believe, and hope it must be so, but otherwise I could not have imagined it. It is so much beyond anything I deserve. Mr. Elton, who might marry anybody. There cannot be two opinions about him. He is so very superior. Only think of those sweet verses to Miss Blank. 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. Elton's get acquainted, they do indeed, and really it is strange. It is out of a common course what is so evident, so palpably desirable, what courts the pre-arrangement of other people should so immediately shape itself into the proper form. You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together. You belong to one another by every circumstance of your respective homes. Your marrying will be equal to the match at Randall's. There does seem to be a something in the air of heart-field 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 heart-field 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 Mikkelmus. And he, the very hensymest man that ever was, and a man that everybody looks up to, quite like Mr. Knightley. His company so sought after that everybody says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not choose 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 text he has ever preached from since he came to Highbury. Dear me, when I look back to the first time I saw him, how little did I think. The two abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and stayed to look through herself. However, she called me back presently and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought he looked. He was arm in arm with Mr. Cole. This is an alliance which, whoever whatever your friends may be, must be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense, and we are not to be addressing our conduct to fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, there 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 everything. You and Mr. Elton are one, as clever as the other. This charade, if I had studied a twelve-month, I could never made anything like it. I thought he meant to try his skill by his manner of declining it yesterday. I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read. I never read one more to the purpose, certainly. It is as long again as almost all that we have had before. I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour. Such things, in general, cannot be too short. Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear. The most satisfactory comparisons were rising in her mind. It is one thing, said she presently, her cheeks in a glow, to have very good sense in a common way, like everybody else, and if there is anything to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in 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, those two last. But how shall I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out? Oh, Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that? Leave it to me. You do nothing. He will be here this evening, I dare say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will pass between us, and you shall not be committed. Your soft eyes shall choose their own time for beaming. Trust to me.  I am sure I have not got one half so good. Leave out the last two lines, and there is no reason why you should not write it into your book. Oh, but those two lines are, the best of all, granted, for private enjoyment, and for private enjoyment keep them. They are not at all the less written, you know, because you divide them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation ceases, and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection. Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slided 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. It is submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so as to feel quite sure 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 anything of the sort, and especially anything 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 subject again, by the recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of, Well, my dears, how does your book go on? Have you got anything fresh? Yes, papa. We have something to read you, something quite fresh. A piece of paper was found on the table this morning, dropped, 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 anything read, slowly and distinctly, and two or three times over with explanations of every part as she proceeded, and he was very much pleased, and as she had foreseen, especially struck with a complementary 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.  If I had but her memory, but I can remember nothing, not even that particular riddle which you have heard me mention, I can only recollect the first stanza, and there are several. Kitty, a fair but frozen maid, kindled a flame I yet deplore. The hoodwinked boy I called to aid, though of his near approach afraid, so fatal to my suit before. And that is all I can recollect of it, but it is very clever all the way through. But I think, my dear, you said you had got it. Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page. We copied it from the elegant extracts. It was Garrick's, you know. I, 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 grand-mama. 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 Knightleys, being a lawyer, is very inconvenient. Poor Isabella! She is sadly taken away from us all. And how sorry she will be when she comes not to see Miss Taylor here. She will not be surprised, papa, at least. I do not know, my dear. I am sure I was very much surprised 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 only for one week. There will not be time for anything. It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer, but it seems a case of necessity. Mr. John Knightleys must be in town again on the twenty-eighth, 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 taken out for the abbey. Mr. Knightleys promises to give up his claims 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. Knightleys' claims on his brother, or anybody's claims on Isabella, except his own. He sat musing a little while and then said, But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so soon, though he does. I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to stay longer with us. She and the children might stay very well. Ah, papa, that is what you have never been able to accomplish, and I do not think you ever will. Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her husband. This was too true for contradiction. Unwelcome as it was, Mr. Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh, and as Emma saw his spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must raise them. Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be pleased with the children. We are very proud of the children, are we not, papa? I wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John. I, I wonder which she will.  They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet. I daresay they are, sir. I am sure I do not know who is not. Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mamma. Henry is the eldest. He was named after me, not after his father. John the second is named after his father. Some people are surprised, I believe, that the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I thought very pretty of her. And he is a very clever boy, indeed. They are all remarkably clever, and they have so many pretty ways. They will come and stand by my chair and say, Grand-papa, 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 Grand-papas. 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 hearty, and if they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then. But he is an affectionate father, certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate father. The children are all fond of him. And then their uncle comes in and tosses them up to the ceiling in a very frightful way. But they like it, papa. There is nothing they like so much. It is such enjoyment to them that if their uncle did not lay down the rule of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the other. Well, I cannot understand it. That is the case with us all, papa. One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other. Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade walked in again. Harriet turned away, but Emma could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push, of having thrown a die, and she imagined that he was come to see how it might turn up. His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield. If he were, everything else must give way, but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying so much about his dining with him had made such a point of it that he had promised him conditionally to come. Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend on their account. Her father was sure of his rubber. He re-urged, she re-declined, and he seemed then about to make his bow when taking the paper from the table she returned it. Oh! Here is the charade you were so obliging us to leave with us. Thank you for the sight of it. We admired it so much that I have ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection. Your friend will not take it amiss, I hope. Of course I have not transcribed beyond the first eight lines. Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say. He looked rather doubtingly, rather confused, said something about honor, glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book open on the table took it up and examined it very attentively. With the view of passing off an awkward moment Emma, smilingly, said, 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 it all as I do, I have not the smallest doubt that could he see his little effusion honored 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. Through this speech he was gone as soon as possible. Emma could not think it too soon, for with all his good and agreeable qualities there was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her to laugh. She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share. End of Volume 1 Chapter 9 Read by Cibela Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 1 Chapter 10 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Though now the middle of December there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise, and on the morrow Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor, sick family who lived a little way out of Highbury. The road to this detached cottage was down Vickridge 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 road rose the Vickridge, and 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.  How very beautiful! There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much. I do not often walk this way now, said Emma, as they proceeded, but then there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools, and pollards of this part of Highbury. Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within sight of the Vickridge, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that considering exteriors and probabilities, Emma could class it as a proof of love, with Mr. Elton seeing ready wit in her. I wish we could condrive it, said she, but I cannot think of any tolerable pretense 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 induce me to marry. I must find other people charming, one other person at least, and I am not only not going to be married at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all. Ah, so you say, but I cannot believe it. I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet to be tempted. Mr. Elton, you know, recollecting herself, is out of the question, and I do not wish to see any such person. I would rather not be married. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to marry, I must expect to repent it. Dear me, it is so odd to hear a woman talk so. I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Where I to fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing. But I never have been in love. It is not my way or my nature, and I do not think I ever shall. And without love I am sure I should be a fool to change such a situation as mine. Fortune I do not want, employment I do not want, consequence I do not want. I believe few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield, and never, never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important, so always first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's. But then to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates. That is, as formidable an image as you could present Harriet, and if I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates, so silly, so satisfied, so smiling, so prosing, so undistinguishing, and unfestidious, and so apt to tell everything relative to everybody about me, I would marry to-morrow. But between us I am convinced there can never be any likeness except in being unmarried. But still you will be an old maid, and that's so dreadful. Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid, and it is poverty only which makes celibacy contemptible to a general 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 anybody else. And the distinction is not quite so much against the candor and common sense of the world as appears at first, for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind and sour the temper. Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very small, and generally very inferior society, may well 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 everybody, 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 six pence of it, and nobody is afraid of her. That is a great charm. Dear me, but what shall you do? How shall you employ yourself when you grow old? If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with the great many independent resources, and I do not perceive why I should be more in want of employment at forty or fifty than one and twenty. Woman's usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they are now, or with no important variation. If I draw less, I shall read more. If I give up music, I shall take to carpet work. And as for objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is, in truth, the great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil to be avoided in not marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the children of a sister I love so much to care about. There will be enough of them in all probability to supply every sort of sensation that declining life can need. There will be enough for every hope and every fear, and though my attachment to none can equal that of a parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and blinder. My nephews and nieces, I shall often have a niece with me. Do you know Miss Bates's niece?  Oh, yes, we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to Highbury. By the by, that is almost enough to put one out of conceit with a niece. Heaven forbid! At least, then I should ever bore people half so much about all the nightlies together than she does about Jane Fairfax. One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax. Every letter from her is read forty times over. Her compliments to all friends go round and round again, and if she does but send her aunt the pattern of a stomacher or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother, one hears of nothing else for a month. I wish Jane Fairfax very well, but she tires me to death. They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were superseded. Emma was very compassionate, and the distresses of the poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness, her counsel and her patience as from her purse. She understood their ways, could allow for their ignorance in 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 goodwill. In the present instance it was sickness and poverty together which she came to visit, and after remaining there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet as they walked away. These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good. How trifling they make everything else appear. I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day, and yet who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind? Very true, said Harriet, poor creatures, one can think of nothing else. And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over, said Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden and brought them into the lane again. I do not think it will, stopping to look, once more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still-greater with him. Oh, dear, no, said her companion. They walked on. The lane made a slight bend, and when that bend was past Mr. Elton was immediately in sight, and so near as to give Emma time only to say farther, ah, Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability and good thoughts. Well, smiling, I hope it may be allowed that if compassion has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that is truly important. If we feel for the wretched enough to do all we can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to ourselves. Harriet could just answer, oh, dear, yes, before the gentleman joined them. The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the first subject on meeting. He had been going to call on them. His visit he would defer now, but they had a very interesting parley about what could be done and should be done. Mr. Elton then turned back to accompany them. "'To fall in with each other on such an errand is this,' thought Emma. "'To meet in a charitable scheme, this will bring a great increase of love on each side. I should not wonder if it were to bring on the declaration. It must, if I were not here. I wish I were anywhere else.' Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one side of the lane, leaving them together on 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 soon be after her. This would not do. She immediately stopped, under pretense of having some alteration to make in the lacing of her half-boot, and stooping down in complete occupation of the footpath begged them to have the goodness to walk on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did as they were desired, and by the time she judged it reasonable to have done with her boot, she had the comfort of farther delay in her power, being overtaken by a child from the cottage, setting out, according to orders, with her pitcher, to fetch broth from Hartfield. To walk by the side of this child, and to talk and question her, was the most natural thing in the world. Or would have been the most natural had she been acting just then without design, and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead without any obligation of waiting for her. She gained on them, however, involuntarily the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather slow, and she was the more concerned at it from there being evidently in 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 round and she was obliged to join them. Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail, and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at his friend Coles, and that she was come in herself for the stilt-and-cheese, the North Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beetroot, and all the dessert. This would soon have led to something better, of course, was her consoling reflection, anything interest between those who love, and anything will serve as introduction to what is near the heart, if I could but have kept longer away. They now walked on together quietly till within view of the vicarage pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot, and fall behind to arrange it once more. She then broke the lace off short and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself to rights, so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort. Part of my laces 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 so often ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribbon or string, or anything just to keep my boot on. Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition, and nothing could exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house, and endeavouring to make everything appear to advantage. The room they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking forwards, behind it, was another with which it immediately communicated. The door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner. She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it, but she fully intended that Mr. Elton should close it. It was not closed, however, it still remained ajar, but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant conversation she hoped to make it practicable for him to choose 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 purposefully followed them. Other little gallantries and illusions had been dropped, but nothing serious. Cautious, very cautious, thought Emma, he advances inch by inch, and will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure. Still, however, though everything had not been accomplished by her ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event. End of Volume 1, Chapter 10, read by Cibela Denton. For more information please visit LibriVox.org. Volume 1, Chapter 11 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mr. Elton must now be left to himself. It was no longer Nema's power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures. The coming of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime object of interest, and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield it was not to be expected, she did not herself expect, that anything beyond occasional fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to the lovers. They might advance rapidly if they would, however they must advance somehow or other whether they would or know. 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 rather longer than usual absent from Surrey, were exciting, of course, rather more than the usual interest. Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey, but all the holidays of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by their Surrey connections, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake, and who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in forestalling this too short visit. He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little of the fatigues of his own horses and coachmen, who were to bring some of the party the last half of the way, but his alarms were needless, the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, their five children and a competent number of nursery-maids all reaching Hartfield in safety. The bustle and joy of such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have endured much longer even for this, but the ways of Hartfield and the feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley that in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and attendance, all the eating and drinking and sleeping and playing, which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the children were never allowed to be along 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 amiable and affectionate, wrapped up in her family, a devoted wife, a doting 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, and 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 general benevolence of temper and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance. Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like and a very clever man, rising in his profession, domestic and respectable in his private character, but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing and capable of being sometimes out of humor. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach, but his temper was not his great perfection, and indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious or, say, a severe thing. He was not a great favorite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness, but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally 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 properst feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in an unsullied cordiality. They had not been long-seeded and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last. Ah, my dear, said he, poor Miss Taylor, it is a grievous business. Oh, yes, sir, she cried with ready sympathy. How you must miss her! And dear Emma, too! What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so grieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her. It is a sad change indeed. But I hope she is pretty well, sir. Pretty well, my dear, I hope pretty well. I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably. Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls. Oh, no, none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life. Never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret. 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 so often, my dear, as I could wish. Oh, Papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Here in the morning or evening of every day, accepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here, and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Everybody must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but everybody 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 showing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended. And now you have Emma's account. I hope you will be satisfied. Why, to be sure, said Mr. Woodhouse, yes, certainly, I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often, but then she is always obliged to go away again. It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, Papa. You quite forget poor Mr. Weston. I think, indeed, said John Knightley pleasantly, that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Weston's aside as much as she can. Me, my love, cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part, are you talking about me? I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am. And if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world. And as disliding 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. Accepting 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 twelve-month, in writing that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence. If anybody 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, replied Emma. There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing, and I have not heard him mentioned lately. But you should tell them of the letter, my dear, said her father. He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She showed 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 exceedingly good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated September 28th, and began, My dear Madam, but I forget how it went on, and it was signed F. C. Weston Churchill. I remember that perfectly. How very pleasing and proper of him, cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man, but how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father. There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his parents and natural home. I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one's child I really never could think well of anybody who proposed such a thing to anybody else. Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy, observed Mr. John Knightley Cooley. But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings. He takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, playing wist with his neighbors five times a week, than upon family affection or anything that home affords. Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up. But she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible, and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all sufficiency of home to himself, once resulted her brother's disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important. It had a high claim to forbearance. End of Volume 1 Chapter 12 of Emma by Jane Austen. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Mr. Knightley was to dine with them, rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella's first day. Emma's sense of right, however, had decided it, and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation. She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making up indeed would not do. She certainly had not been in the wrong, and he would never own that he had. Confession must be out of the question, but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarreled, 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 let 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 enmity. Emma felt they were friends again, and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction, and then a little sauciness she could not help saying as he was admiring the baby, what a comfort it is that we think alike about our nephews and nieces, as to men and women our opinions are sometimes very different, but with regards to these children I observe we never disagree. If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike. To be sure, our discordancies must always arise for my being in the wrong. Yes," said he, smiling, and reasoned 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 in 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.  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 clever and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I've 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 do you 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 either of them, if requisite, to do everything for the good of the other. The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions. On one side he and his daughter, and on the other the two Mr. Knightleys, their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing, and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other. The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greatest talker. As a magistrate he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or at least some curious anecdote to give, and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John as his cooler manners rendered possible, and if his willing brother ever left him anything to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "'My poor dear Isabella,' said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labors for some one of her five children, how long it is, how terribly long since she were here, and how tired you must be after your journey.  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. Knightley's were as unpersuadable on that article as herself, and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse and praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by everybody, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "'It was such 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 perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to anybody. I am sure it almost killed me once.' "'Come, come,' cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable. I, who have never seen it, south end is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet, and he never forgets you.' "'Oh, good Mr. Perry! How is he, sir?' "'Why, pretty well, but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself. He tells me he has not time to take care of himself, which is very sad, but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man anywhere.' "'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 little Bellas 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 has to be attributed to an excellent embrication of Mr. Winkfields, which we have been applying at times ever since August. It is not very lightly, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her. And if I had known you were wanting an embrication, 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. Winkfield 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. Winkfield considers it very sickly, except—' "'Ah, my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London. Nobody can be. It is such 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 bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others. You must not confuse us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy. I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town. There is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in, but we are so remarkably airy. Mr. Winkfield 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 weak 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 the present. I am sorry to hear you say so, sir, but I assure you, accepting those little nervous headaches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself, and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual from their journey and the happiness of coming. I think you will think better of their looks tomorrow, for I assure you, Mr. Winkfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether in such good case. I trust at least that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill, turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. Middling, my dear, I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley 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 fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Winkfield before you left home. My dear Isabella, exclaimed he hastily, pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose. I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother, cried Emma, about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland to look after his new estate. What will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong? And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax, and Jane Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that moment very happy to assist in praising. That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax, said Mrs. John Knightley, it is so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment accidentally in town. What happiness it must be to her good old grandmother and excellent aunt when she comes to visit them. I always read excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at Highbury, but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will not be able to part with her at all. She would be such a delightful companion for Emma. Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added, Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty kind of young person. You will like Harriet. Emma could not have a better companion than Harriet. I am most happy to hear it, but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so very accomplished and superior and exactly Emma's age. This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded at a similar moment, and passed away with similar harmony, but the evening did not close without a little return of agitation. The gruel came and supplied a great deal to be said, much praise and many comments, undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and pretty severe Philipsics on 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 had never 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 anything tolerable. Here was a dangerous opening.  The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, Ah! there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End. It does not bear talking of. And for a little while she hoped he would not talk of it, and that a silent remuneration 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 surprised 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 perfectly well there, and 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 dependent upon, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly. You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere. Perry was a weak 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 considered how great it would have been, a hundred miles perhaps instead of forty. Ah, my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake nothing else should be considered, and if one is to travel there is not much to choose 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 him a very ill-judged measure. Emma's attempts to stop her father had been in 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 at a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with no greater expense or inconvenience than a distance of forty, I should be as willing to prefer Cromer to South End as he could himself. True, true, cried Mr. Knightley, with most ready interposition, very true. That's a consideration indeed. But, John, as to what I was telling you of my idea of moving the path to Langham, of turning it more to the right that it may not cut through the home meadows, I cannot conceive any difficulty. I should not attempt it, if it were to be the means of inconvenience to the Highbury people. But if you call to mind exactly the present line of the path, the only way of proving it, however, will be to turn to our maps. I shall see you at the Abbey tomorrow morning, I hope, and then we will look them over, and you shall give me your opinion. Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been attributing many of his own feelings and expressions. But the soothing attentions of his daughter gradually removed the present evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother and better recollections of the other prevented any renewal of it. CHAPTER XIII of Emma by Jane Austen. 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, perhaps, 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? Mr. Weston would take no denial. They must all dine at Randalls one day. Even Mr. Woodhouse was persuaded to think at a possible thing, in preference to a division of the party. How they were all to be conveyed he would have made a difficulty if he could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on that head. It hardly amounted to a doubt, nor did it occupy Emma Long to convince him that they might, in one of the carriages, find room for Harriet also. Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own a special set, were the only persons invited to meet them. The hours was to be early, as well as the numbers few. Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being consultant in everything. The evening before this great event, for it was a very great event that Mr. Woodhouse should dine out on the twenty-fourth of December, had been spent by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with a cold that 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 very full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of, and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not speak of her loss without many tears. Emma sat with her as long as she could to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state, and left her at last tolerably comfortable in the sweet dependence of his having a most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her 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 rumor 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 showed all the benefit of a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for. They joined company and proceeded together. Emma was just describing the nature of her friend's complaint, a throat very much inflamed, with a great deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, etc., and she was sorry to find, for Mrs. Goddard, that Harriet was liable to very bad sore throats, and had often alarmed her with them. Mr. Elton looked all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed, A sore throat, I hope not infectious, I hope not of a putrid infectious sort, has perishing her, indeed you should take care of yourself as well as of your friend. Let me entreat you to run no risk. Why does not Perry see her? Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquilized this excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care, but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness, which she could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist than not, she added, soon afterwards, as if quite another subject, it is so cold, so very cold, and looks and feels so very much like snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I should really try not to go out to-day, and dissuade my father from venturing. But as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be a great disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But upon my word, Mr. Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself. You appear to me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demands of voice and what fatigues tomorrow will bring, I think it would be no more than common prudence to stay home and take care of yourself tonight. 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 hers, he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit. But Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being very cold, certainly very cold, and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after Harriet every hour of the evening. You do quite right, said she, we will make your apologies to Mr. and Mrs. Weston. But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a done thing. Mr.  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 choose 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 engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures, their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that anything gives way to it, and this must be the case with Mr. Elton, a most valuable, amiable, pleasing young man, undoubtedly, and very much in love with Harriet. But still he cannot refuse an invitation. He must dine out whenever he is asked.  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 a parting, in the tone of his voice while assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report. And he sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of approbation much in his favor. After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley began with, I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr. Elton. It is downright labor to him where ladies are concerned. With men he can be rational and unaffected. But when he has ladies to please, every feature works. Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect, replied Emma, but where there is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a great deal. Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he will have the advantage over negligent superiority. There is such perfect good temper and good will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value. Yes, said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slowness, 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 meet Mr. Elton's object? Such an imagination has crossed me, I own Emma, and if it never occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now. Mr. Elton, in love with me, what an idea! I do not say it is so, but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly. I think your manners to him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You had better look about you and ascertain what you do and what you mean to do. I thank you, but I assure you you are quite mistaken. Mr. Elton and I are very good friends and nothing more, and she walked on, amusing herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of high pretensions to judgment are forever falling into, and not very well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and in want of counsel. He said no more. Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit that in spite of the increasing coldness he seemed to have no idea of shrinking from it, and set forward, at last, most punctually, with his eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness of the weather than either of the others. Too full of the wonder of his own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randall's to see that it was cold, and too well wrapped up to feel it. The cold, however, was severe, and by the time the second carriage was in motion a few flakes of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very white world in a very short time. Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour. The preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least, which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like. He anticipated nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase, and the whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his discontent. A man said he must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as this for the sake of coming to see him. He must think himself a most agreeable fellow. I could not do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity, actually snowing at this moment. The folly of not allowing people to be comfortable at home, and the folly of people not staying comfortably at home when they can. If we were obliged to go out, such an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we should deem it. And here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of the voice of nature, which tells man in everything 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 be said and heard again to-morrow, going in dismal weather to return, probably in worse, four horses and four servants taking out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering creatures into colder rooms in worse company than they might have had at home. Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the very true my love, which must have been usually administered by his traveling companion, but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any answer at all. She could not be complying, she dreaded being quarrelsome, her heroism reached only to silence. She allowed him to talk, and arranged the glasses and wrapped herself up without opening her lips. They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr. Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly. Emma thought with pleasure of some change of subject. Mr. Elton was all obligation and cheerfulness, he was so very cheerful in his civility as indeed that she began to think he must have received a very different account of Harriet from what had reached her. She had sent while dressing, and the answer had been much the same, not better. My report for Mrs. Goddard, she said presently, was not so pleasant as I had hoped. Not better was my answer. His face lengthened immediately, and his voice was the voice of sentiment as he answered, Oh, no, I am grieved to find I was on the point of telling you that when I called 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. Mary 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 tomorrow morning will bring us both a more comfortable report. But it is impossible not to feel uneasiness, such a sad lost our party to-day. Dreadful, exactly so indeed, she will be missed at every moment. This was very proper, the sigh which accompanied it was really estimable, but it should have lasted longer. Dreadful was rather in dismay when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things, and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment. What an excellent device, said he, the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How very comfortable they make it, impossible to feel cold with such precautions. The contrivances of modern days, indeed, have rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete. One is so fenced and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way unpermitted. Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence. It is a very cold afternoon, but in this carriage we know nothing of the matter. Ha! Snow is a little icy. Yes, said John Eidlie, I think we shall have a good deal of it. Christmas-weather, observed Mr. Elton, quite seasonable and extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been much snow on the ground. But now it is of no consequence. This is quite the season indeed for friendly meetings. At Christmas everybody 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's sunlight. Mr. John Eidlie 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 everything in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so hospitable and so fond of society. It will be a small party, but where small parties are select they are perhaps the most agreeable of any. Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten comfortably, and for my part I would rather, under such circumstances, fall short by two than exceed by two. I think you will agree with me, turning with a soft air to Emma. I think I shall certainly have your approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, 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 anybody. 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. CHAPTER XIV of Emma by Jane Austen. 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 dispersed 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 show herself just as happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Weston's. Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the world to whom she spoke with such unreserve as to his wife, not any one to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible. The little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston had not a lively concern, and half an hour's uninterrupted communication of all those little manners 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 present half-hour. But the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice, was grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr. Elton's oddities, or of anything else unpleasant, and enjoy all that was enjoyable to the utmost. The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough to give the history of it. Besides all the history of his own and Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and indeed had just got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his daughter when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and welcome her dear Emma. Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her. The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards Harriet from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal suggestion of, Can it really be, as my brother imagined? Can it be possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from Harriet to me? Absurd and insufferable, yet he would be so anxious for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father, and so delighted with Mrs. Weston, and at last would begin admiring her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude, and for Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn outright. She was even positively civil, but it was an effort, especially as something was going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son. She heard the words, My son, and Frank, and My son, repeated several times over, and from a few other half-syllables very much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son, but before she could quiet Mr. Elton the subject was so completely past that any reviving question from her would have been awkward. Now it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently thought, especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor, that if she were to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age, character, and condition. He seemed, by this connection between the families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be a match that everybody 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 anybody else to give up a situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and a sort of pleasure in the idea of there being coupled together in their friend's imaginations. With such sensations Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed, but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very cross, and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston. So it proved, for when happily released from Mr. Elton and seated by Mr. Weston at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the carers of hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of Mutton to say to her, We only want two more to be just the right number. I should like to see two more here. Your pretty little friend, Ms. 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 Ms. 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 good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January. What a very great pleasure it will be to you, too, and Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him that she must be almost as happy as yourself. Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off. She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do, but she does not know the party so well as I do. The case you see is—but this is quite between ourselves—I did not mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know. The case is that a party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January, and that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family that a certain lady of some consequence at Enscombe has a particular dislike to, and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in two or three years, they are always put off when it comes to the point. I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing Frank here before the middle of January as I am of being here myself. But your good friends there, nodding towards the upper end of the table, has so few vagaries herself and has been so little used to them at Hartfield that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been long in the practice of doing. I am sorry there should be anything like doubt in the case, replied Emma, but I am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think it 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 anybody except herself, but she has always been kind to him, in her way, allowing for little whims and caprices and expecting everything 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 anybody 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 they are moving into the drawing-room, wishing her joy, yet observing that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming. Mrs. Weston agreed to it, but added that she should be very glad to be secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked of, for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr. Weston, I daresay, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands. Yes, it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs. Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world. My Emma, replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, what is the certainty of Caprice? Then, turning to Isabella, who had not been attending before, you must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasures, in short upon her temper. To you, to my two daughters, I may venture on the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe and is a very odd-tempered woman, and his coming now depends on her being willing to spare him. Oh, Mrs. Churchill! Everybody knows Mrs. Churchill, replied Isabella, and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person must be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known anything of, but it must be a life of misery.  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 hazard with Isabella, and she really believed, would scarcely try to conceal anything relative to the Churchill's from her, accepting those views on the young man of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after dinner was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor conversation was anything 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 by any means certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant whenever it takes place, and the sooner it could be over the better. Yes, and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine any reluctance on his side, but I am sure there is a great wish on the Churchill's to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine. He ought to come, said Emma, if he could stay only a couple of days he ought to come, and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having it in his power to do as much as that. A young woman, if she fall into bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants to be with, but one cannot comprehend a young man's being under such restraint as not to be able to spend a week with his father if he likes it. One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family before one decides upon what he can do, replied Mrs. Weston. One ought to use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one individual, of any one family, but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must not be judged by general rules. She is so very unreasonable, and everything gives way to her. But she is so fond of the nephew. He is so very great a favorite. 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 everything, while she exercises incessant caprice towards him, she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all. My dearest Emma, do not pretend with your sweet temper to understand a bad one, or to lay down rules for it. You must let it go its own way. I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence, but it must be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand when it will be. Emma listened, and then Cooley said, I shall not be satisfied unless he comes. He may have a great deal of influence on some points, continuing Mrs. Weston, and on others very little, and among these, 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. End of Volume 1 Chapter 14 Read for LibriVox.org Volume 1 Chapter 15 of Emma by Jane Austen Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. 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 gentleman appeared. Mr. Weston was chatty and convivial, and no friend to early separations of any sort, but at last the drawing-room party did receive an augmentation. Mr. Elton, in very good spirits, was one of the first to walk in. Mrs. Weston and Emma were sitting together on a sofa. He joined them immediately, and with scarcely an invitation, seated himself between them. Emma, in good spirits, too, from the amusement afforded her mind by the expectation of Mr. Frank Churchill, was willing to forget his late improprieties, and be as well satisfied with him as before, and on his making-herry at 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 anything about her since there 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 charity with him. But at last there seemed a more perverse turn. It seemed all at once as if he were more afraid of its being a bad sore throat on her account than on Harriet's, more anxious that she should escape the infection than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great eagerness to entreat her to refrain from visiting the sick chamber again, for the present, to entreat her to promise him not to venture into such hazard till he had seen Mr. Perry and learnt his opinion, and though she tried to laugh it off and bring the subject back to 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 pretense of being in love with her instead of of Harriet, and 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 she not give him her support? Would not she add her persuasions to his to induce Ms. Woodhouse not to go to Mrs. Goddard's till it were certain that Ms. Smith's disorder had no infection? He could not be satisfied without a promise. Would she not give him her influence in procuring it? So scrupulous for others, he continued, and yet so careless for herself. She wanted me to nurse my cold by saying at home to-day, and yet will not promise to avoid the danger of catching an ulcerated sore throat herself. Is this fair, Mrs. Weston? Judge between us. Have not I some right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and aid. Emma saw Mrs. Weston's surprise, 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 anything to the purpose. She could only give him a look, but it was such a look as she thought must restore him to his senses, and then left the sofa, removing to a seat by her sister, and giving her all her attention. She had not time to know how Mr. Elton took the reproof, so rapidly did another subject succeed, for Mr. John Knightley now came into the room from examining the weather, and opened on them with all the information of the ground being covered with snow, and of its still snowing fast with a strong drifting wind, concluding with these words to Mr. Woodhouse, This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagement, sir, something new for your coachmen and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow. Poor Mr. Woodhouse was silent from consternation, but everybody else had something to say. Everybody was either surprised or not surprised, 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, venturing out in such weather, for, of course, you saw there would be snow very soon. Everybody must have seen the snow coming on. I admired your spirit, and I dare say we shall get home very well. Another hour or two's snow can hardly make the road impassable, and we are two carriages. If one is blown over in the bleak part of the common field there will be another at hand. I dare say we shall all be safe at Hartfield before midnight. Mr. Weston, with a triumph of a different sort, was confessing that he had known it to be snowing some time, but had not said a word lest it should make Mr. Woodhouse uncomfortable and be an excuse for his hurrying away. As to there being any quantity of snow fallen or likely to fall to impede their return, that was a mere joke. He was afraid they would find no difficulty. He wished the road might be impassable, that he might be able to keep them all at Randalls, and with the utmost goodwill was sure that accommodation might be found for everybody, calling on his wife to agree with him, that with a little contrivance everybody might be lodged, which she hardly knew how to do, from the consciousness of there being but two spare rooms in the house. What is to be done, my dear Emma, what is to be done, was Mr. Woodhouse's first exclamation, and all that he could say for some time. To her he looked for comfort, and her assurances of safety, her representation of the excellence of the horses, and of James, and of their having so many friends about them, revived him a little. His eldest daughter's alarm was equal to his own. The horror of being blocked up at Randalls, while her children were at Hartfield, was full in her imagination, and fancying the road to be just now passable for adventurous people, but in a state that admitted no delay, she was eager to have it settled, that her father and Emma should remain at Randalls, while she and her husband set forward 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 daresay we shall be able to get along if we set off directly, and if we do come to anything very bad I can get out and walk. I am not at all afraid. I should not mind walking half the way. I could change my shoes, you know, the moment I got home, and it is not the sort of thing that gives me cold. "'Indeed,' replied he, then, my dear Isabella, it is the most extraordinary sort of thing in the world, for in general everything does give you cold. Walk home! You are prettily shod for walking home, I daresay. 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 there being all able to get away, and they were still discussing the point when Mr. Knightley, who had left their 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 being not the smallest difficulty in there getting home, whenever they liked, either now or an hour hence. He had gone beyond the sweep, some way along the hybrid road. The snow was nowhere above a half an inch deep. In many places hardly enough to whiten the ground. A very few flakes were falling at present, but the clouds were parting, and there was every appearance of his being soon over. He had seen the coachmen, and they both agreed with him in there being nothing to apprehend. To Isabella the relief of such tidings was very great, and they were scarcely less acceptable to Emma on her father's account, who was immediately set as much at ease on the subject as his nervous constitution allowed. But the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased, so as to admit of any comfort for him while he continued at Randall's. He was satisfied of there being no present danger in returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay, and while the others were variously urging and recommending, Mr. Knightley and Emma settled it in a few brief sentences, thus. Your father will not be easy. Why do you not go? I am ready if the others are. Shall I ring the bell? Yes, do. And the bell was rung, and the carriage is spoken for. A few minutes more, and Emma hoped to see one troublesome companion deposited in his own house, to get sober and cool, and the other recover his temper and happiness when this visit of hardship were over. The carriage came, and Mr. Woodhouse, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully attended to his own by Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston, but not all that either could say could prevent some renewal of alarm at the sight of the snow which had actually fallen, and the discovery of a much darker night than he had been prepared for. He was afraid they should have a very bad drive. He was afraid poor Isabella would not like it, and there would be poor Emma in the carriage behind. He did not know what they had best do. They must keep as much together as they could, and James was talked to and given a charge to go very slow and wait for the other carriage. Isabella stepped in after her father, John Knightley, forgetting that he did not belong to their party, stepped in after his wife very naturally, so that Emma found, on being escorted and followed into the second carriage by Mr. Elton, that the door was to be lawfully shut on them, and that they were to have a teta-tet drive. It would not have been the awkwardness of a moment. It would have been rather a pleasure, previous to the suspicions of this very day. She could have talked to him of Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed but one. But now she would rather it had not happened.  She restrained him as much as might be, by her own manners. She was immediately preparing to speak with exquisite calmness and gravity of the weather in the night. But scarcely had she begun, scarcely had they passed the sweep-gate and joined the other carriage, then 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, being fearing, adoring, ready to die if she refused him, but flattering himself that his ardent attachment and unequaled love and unexampled passion could not fail of having some effect, and in short, very much resolved on being seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was so, without scruple, without apology, without much apparent diffidence, Mr. Elton, the lover of Harriet, was professing himself her lover. She tried to stop him but vainly. He would go on and say it all. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her resolve to restrain herself when she did speak. She felt that half this folly must be drunkenness, and therefore could hope that it might belong only to the passing hour. Accordingly, with a mixture of the serious and the playful, which she hoped would best suit his half and half state, she replied, I am very much astonished, Mr. Elton. This, to me! You forget yourself. You take me for my friend. Any message to Miss Smith I shall be happy to deliver, but no more of this to me, if you please. Miss Smith? Message to Miss Smith? What could she possibly mean? And he repeated her words with such an assurance of accent, such boastful pretense 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. Change yourself enough to say no more, and I will endeavor 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 acknowledged 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 inebriity, 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 anything 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. Forgive me, sir, I am far, very far, from gratified in being the object of such professions. Good Heaven! cried Mr. Elton. What can be the meaning of this? Miss Smith! I never thought of Miss Smith in the whole course of my existence, never paid her any attentions but as your friend. Never cared whether she were dead or alive but as your friend. If she is 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 unsteadiness of character. I have thought only of you. I protest against having paid the smallest attention to anyone else. Everything that I have said or done, for many weeks past, has been with the sole view of marking my adoration of yourself. You cannot really, seriously doubt it. No! In an accent meant to be insinuating, I am sure you have seen and understood me. It would be impossible to say what Emma felt on hearing this, which of all her unpleasant sensations was uppermost. She was too completely overpowered to be immediately able to reply, and two moments of silence being ample encouragement for Mr. Elton's sanguine state of mind he tried to take her hand again, as he joyously exclaimed, Charming, Miss Woodhouse, allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me. No, sir, cried Emma, it confesses no such thing. So far from having long understood you, I have been in a most complete error with respect to your views till this moment. As to myself, I am very sorry that you should have been giving way to any feelings. Nothing could be farther from my wishes. Your attachment to my friend Harriet, your pursuit of her—pursuit, it appeared—gave me great pleasure, and I have been very earnestly wishing you success. But had I supposed that she were not your attraction to Hartfield, I should certainly have thought you judged ill in making your visit 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.  Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl, and I should be happy to see her respectively settled. I wish her extremely well, and no doubt there are men who might not object to—everybody has their level. But as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not so totally despair of an equal alliance, as to be addressing myself to Miss Smith. No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been for yourself only, and the encouragement I received—encouragement—I gave you no 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 behavior continued, Miss Smith might have been led into a misconception of your views, not being aware, probably, any more than myself, of the very great inequality which you are so sensible of. But, as it is, the disappointment is single, and I trust will not be lasting. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present. He was too angry to say another word. Her manner too decided to invite supplication, and in this state of swelling resentment and mutual deep mortification they had to continue together a few minutes longer, for the fears of Mr. Woodhouse had confined them to a foot-pace. If there had not been so much anger there would have been desperate awkwardness, but their straightforward emotions left no room for the little zig-zags of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into vicarage lane or when it stopped they found themselves all at once at the door of his house, and he was out before another syllable passed. Emma then felt it indispensable to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned, coldly and proudly, and under indescribable irritation of spirits she was then conveyed to Hartfield. There she was welcomed, with the utmost delight by her father, who had been trembling for the dangers of a solitary drive from vicarage lane, turning a corner which he could never bear to think of, and in strange hands a mere common coachman, no James, and there it seemed as if her return were only wanted to make everything go well. For Mr. John Knightley, ashamed of his ill-humour, was now all kindness and attention, and so particularly solicitous for the comfort of her father as to seem, if not quite ready to join him in a basin of gruel, perfectly sensible of its being exceedingly wholesome, and the day was concluded in peace and comfort to all their little party except herself. But her mind had never been in such perturbation, and it needed a very strong effort to appear attentive and cheerful till the usual hour of separating allowed her the relief of quiet reflection. End of Volume 1, Chapter 15. Read by Cibella Denton. For more information, please visit LibriVox.org.