EMMA

BY

JANE AUSTEN




VOLUME I



CHAPTER I


Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and
happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of
existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very
little to distress or vex her.

She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most affectionate,
indulgent father; and had, in consequence of her sister's marriage,
been mistress of his house from a very early period.  Her mother had
died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance
of her caresses; and her place had been supplied by an excellent woman
as governess, who had fallen little short of a mother in affection.

Sixteen years had Miss Taylor been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a
governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly
of Emma.  Between _them_ it was more the intimacy of sisters.  Even
before Miss Taylor had ceased to hold the nominal office of governess,
the mildness of her temper had hardly allowed her to impose any
restraint; and the shadow of authority being now long passed away, they
had been living together as friend and friend very mutually attached,
and Emma doing just what she liked; highly esteeming Miss Taylor's
judgment, but directed chiefly by her own.

The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too
well of herself; these were the disadvantages which threatened alloy to
her many enjoyments.  The danger, however, was at present so
unperceived, that they did not by any means rank as misfortunes with
her.

Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow--but not at all in the shape of any
disagreeable consciousness.--Miss Taylor married.  It was Miss Taylor's
loss which first brought grief.  It was on the wedding-day of this
beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any
continuance.  The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father
and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to
cheer a long evening.  Her father composed himself to sleep after
dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she
had lost.

The event had every promise of happiness for her friend.  Mr. Weston
was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and
pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with
what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and
promoted the match; but it was a black morning's work for her.  The
want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day.  She
recalled her past kindness--the kindness, the affection of sixteen
years--how she had taught and how she had played with her from five
years old--how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her
in health--and how nursed her through the various illnesses of
childhood.  A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the
intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect
unreserve which had soon followed Isabella's marriage, on their being
left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection.  She had
been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent,
well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family,
interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself,
in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could speak
every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as
could never find fault.

How was she to bear the change?--It was true that her friend was going
only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the
difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a
Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and
domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual
solitude.  She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for
her.  He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.

The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had
not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits;
for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind
or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though
everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.

Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being
settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled
through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from
Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house,
and give her pleasant society again.

Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town,
to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and
name, did really belong, afforded her no equals.  The Woodhouses were
first in consequence there.  All looked up to them.  She had many
acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but
not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for
even half a day.  It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but
sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke,
and made it necessary to be cheerful.  His spirits required support.
He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was
used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was
by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter's marrying, nor could
ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a
match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor
too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able
to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he
was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for
herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she
had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield.  Emma smiled and
chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but
when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had
said at dinner,

"Poor Miss Taylor!--I wish she were here again.  What a pity it is that
Mr. Weston ever thought of her!"

"I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot.  Mr. Weston is such
a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a
good wife;--and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us for
ever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her
own?"

"A house of her own!--But where is the advantage of a house of her own?
This is three times as large.--And you have never any odd humours, my
dear."

"How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see
us!--We shall be always meeting! _We_ must begin; we must go and pay
wedding visit very soon."

"My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance.  I could
not walk half so far."

"No, papa, nobody thought of your walking.  We must go in the carriage,
to be sure."

"The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a
little way;--and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying
our visit?"

"They are to be put into Mr. Weston's stable, papa.  You know we have
settled all that already.  We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last
night.  And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like
going to Randalls, because of his daughter's being housemaid there.  I
only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else.  That was your
doing, papa.  You got Hannah that good place.  Nobody thought of Hannah
till you mentioned her--James is so obliged to you!"

"I am very glad I did think of her.  It was very lucky, for I would not
have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am
sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken
girl; I have a great opinion of her.  Whenever I see her, she always
curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you
have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock
of the door the right way and never bangs it.  I am sure she will be an
excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor
to have somebody about her that she is used to see.  Whenever James
goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us.  He
will be able to tell her how we all are."

Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and
hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through
the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own.  The
backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards
walked in and made it unnecessary.

Mr. Knightley, a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty, was not
only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly
connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella's husband.  He
lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always
welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly
from their mutual connexions in London.  He had returned to a late
dinner, after some days' absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say
that all were well in Brunswick Square.  It was a happy circumstance,
and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time.  Mr. Knightley had a cheerful
manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after "poor
Isabella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily.  When
this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, "It is very kind of
you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us.  I
am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."

"Not at all, sir.  It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that
I must draw back from your great fire."

"But you must have found it very damp and dirty.  I wish you may not
catch cold."

"Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes.  Not a speck on them."

"Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain
here.  It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at
breakfast.  I wanted them to put off the wedding."

"By the bye--I have not wished you joy.  Being pretty well aware of
what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with
my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well.  How did
you all behave? Who cried most?"

"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! 'Tis a sad business."

"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say
'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it
comes to the question of dependence or independence!--At any rate, it
must be better to have only one to please than two."

"Especially when _one_ of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome
creature!" said Emma playfully.  "That is what you have in your head, I
know--and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."

"I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed," said Mr. Woodhouse, with
a sigh.  "I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome."

"My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean _you_, or suppose Mr.
Knightley to mean _you_.  What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only
myself.  Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know--in a
joke--it is all a joke.  We always say what we like to one another."

Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults
in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and
though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it
would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him
really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by
every body.

"Emma knows I never flatter her," said Mr. Knightley, "but I meant no
reflection on any body.  Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons
to please; she will now have but one.  The chances are that she must be
a gainer."

"Well," said Emma, willing to let it pass--"you want to hear about the
wedding; and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved
charmingly.  Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks:
not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen.  Oh no; we all felt that
we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting
every day."

"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father.  "But, Mr.
Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am
sure she _will_ miss her more than she thinks for."

Emma turned away her head, divided between tears and smiles.  "It is
impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion," said Mr.
Knightley.  "We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could
suppose it; but she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's
advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be, at Miss Taylor's
time of life, to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to
her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow
herself to feel so much pain as pleasure.  Every friend of Miss Taylor
must be glad to have her so happily married."

"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a
very considerable one--that I made the match myself.  I made the match,
you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in
the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again,
may comfort me for any thing."

Mr. Knightley shook his head at her.  Her father fondly replied, "Ah!
my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for
whatever you say always comes to pass.  Pray do not make any more
matches."

"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for
other people.  It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after
such success, you know!--Every body said that Mr. Weston would never
marry again.  Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long,
and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly
occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here,
always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful--Mr. Weston need
not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it.  Oh
no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again.  Some people even
talked of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son
and the uncle not letting him.  All manner of solemn nonsense was
talked on the subject, but I believed none of it.

"Ever since the day--about four years ago--that Miss Taylor and I met
with him in Broadway Lane, when, because it began to drizzle, he darted
away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from
Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject.  I planned the
match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this
instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off
match-making."

"I do not understand what you mean by 'success,'" said Mr. Knightley.
"Success supposes endeavour.  Your time has been properly and
delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years
to bring about this marriage.  A worthy employment for a young lady's
mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you
call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle
day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr.
Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now
and then afterwards, why do you talk of success? Where is your merit?
What are you proud of? You made a lucky guess; and _that_ is all that
can be said."

"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess?--
I pity you.--I thought you cleverer--for, depend upon it a lucky guess
is never merely luck.  There is always some talent in it.  And as to my
poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so
entirely without any claim to it.  You have drawn two pretty pictures;
but I think there may be a third--a something between the do-nothing
and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and
given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it
might not have come to any thing after all.  I think you must know
Hartfield enough to comprehend that."

"A straightforward, open-hearted man like Weston, and a rational,
unaffected woman like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their
own concerns.  You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than
good to them, by interference."

"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others," rejoined
Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part.  "But, my dear, pray do not
make any more matches; they are silly things, and break up one's family
circle grievously."

"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton.  Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr.
Elton, papa,--I must look about for a wife for him.  There is nobody in
Highbury who deserves him--and he has been here a whole year, and has
fitted up his house so comfortably, that it would be a shame to have
him single any longer--and I thought when he was joining their hands
to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same
kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is
the only way I have of doing him a service."

"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good
young man, and I have a great regard for him.  But if you want to shew
him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day.
That will be a much better thing.  I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so
kind as to meet him."

"With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time," said Mr. Knightley,
laughing, "and I agree with you entirely, that it will be a much better
thing.  Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the
fish and the chicken, but leave him to chuse his own wife.  Depend upon
it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."



CHAPTER II


Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,
which for the last two or three generations had been rising into
gentility and property.  He had received a good education, but, on
succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed
for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,
and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by
entering into the militia of his county, then embodied.

Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great
Yorkshire family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was
surprized, except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and
who were full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.

Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the
family-estate--was not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took
place, to the infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who
threw her off with due decorum.  It was an unsuitable connexion, and
did not produce much happiness.  Mrs. Weston ought to have found more
in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him
think every thing due to her in return for the great goodness of being
in love with him; but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not
the best.  She had resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of
her brother, but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at
that brother's unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her
former home.  They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing
in comparison of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but
she wanted at once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill
of Enscombe.

Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,
as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of
the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he
was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved.  The boy
had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his
mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young
creature of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge
of the little Frank soon after her decease.  Some scruples and some
reluctance the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they
were overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the
care and the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort
to seek, and his own situation to improve as he could.

A complete change of life became desirable.  He quitted the militia and
engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in
London, which afforded him a favourable opening.  It was a concern
which brought just employment enough.  He had still a small house in
Highbury, where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful
occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty
years of his life passed cheerfully away.  He had, by that time,
realised an easy competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little
estate adjoining Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to
marry a woman as portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according
to the wishes of his own friendly and social disposition.

It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth, it
had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could
purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;
but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were
accomplished.  He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained
his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.  He
had never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from
that, even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how
delightful a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must
give him the pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to
choose than to be chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.

He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his
uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume
the name of Churchill on coming of age.  It was most unlikely,
therefore, that he should ever want his father's assistance.  His
father had no apprehension of it.  The aunt was a capricious woman, and
governed her husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to
imagine that any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear,
and, as he believed, so deservedly dear.  He saw his son every year in
London, and was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine
young man had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too.  He was
looked on as sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and
prospects a kind of common concern.

Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little
returned that he had never been there in his life.  His coming to visit
his father had been often talked of but never achieved.

Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
most proper attention, that the visit should take place.  There was not
a dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea
with Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the
visit.  Now was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them;
and the hope strengthened when it was understood that he had written to
his new mother on the occasion.  For a few days, every morning visit in
Highbury included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had
received.  "I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank
Churchill has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very
handsome letter, indeed.  Mr. Woodhouse told me of it.  Mr. Woodhouse
saw the letter, and he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his
life."

It was, indeed, a highly prized letter.  Mrs. Weston had, of course,
formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most
welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation
which her marriage had already secured.  She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate
she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial
separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and
who could ill bear to part with her.

She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without
pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,
from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
privations.  And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance
of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female
walking, and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would
make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the
evenings in the week together.

Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.
Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more
than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,
that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize
at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her
at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away
in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
own.  But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle
sigh, and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to
stay."

There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to
pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which
had been a great distress to him, was all eat up.  His own stomach
could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
different from himself.  What was unwholesome to him he regarded as
unfit for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade
them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as
earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it.  He had been at the
pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject.  Mr.
Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were
one of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to,
he could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias
of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with
many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately.  With such an
opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence
every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;
and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.

There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being
seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.
Woodhouse would never believe it.



CHAPTER III


Mr. Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way.  He liked very much
to have his friends come and see him; and from various united causes,
from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his
fortune, his house, and his daughter, he could command the visits of
his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked.  He had not
much intercourse with any families beyond that circle; his horror of
late hours, and large dinner-parties, made him unfit for any
acquaintance but such as would visit him on his own terms.  Fortunately
for him, Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell
Abbey in the parish adjoining, the seat of Mr. Knightley, comprehended
many such.  Not unfrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of
the chosen and the best to dine with him: but evening parties were what
he preferred; and, unless he fancied himself at any time unequal to
company, there was scarcely an evening in the week in which Emma could
not make up a card-table for him.

Real, long-standing regard brought the Westons and Mr. Knightley; and
by Mr. Elton, a young man living alone without liking it, the privilege
of exchanging any vacant evening of his own blank solitude for the
elegancies and society of Mr. Woodhouse's drawing-room, and the smiles
of his lovely daughter, was in no danger of being thrown away.

After these came a second set; among the most come-at-able of whom were
Mrs. and Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always at
the service of an invitation from Hartfield, and who were fetched and
carried home so often, that Mr. Woodhouse thought it no hardship for
either James or the horses.  Had it taken place only once a year, it
would have been a grievance.

Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old
lady, almost past every thing but tea and quadrille.  She lived with
her single daughter in a very small way, and was considered with all
the regard and respect which a harmless old lady, under such untoward
circumstances, can excite.  Her daughter enjoyed a most uncommon degree
of popularity for a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.
Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having
much of the public favour; and she had no intellectual superiority to
make atonement to herself, or frighten those who might hate her into
outward respect.  She had never boasted either beauty or cleverness.
Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was
devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a
small income go as far as possible.  And yet she was a happy woman, and
a woman whom no one named without good-will.  It was her own universal
good-will and contented temper which worked such wonders.  She loved
every body, was interested in every body's happiness, quicksighted to
every body's merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and
surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother, and so many good
neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing.  The
simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful
spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to
herself.  She was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly
suited Mr. Woodhouse, full of trivial communications and harmless
gossip.

Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a School--not of a seminary, or an
establishment, or any thing which professed, in long sentences of
refined nonsense, to combine liberal acquirements with elegant
morality, upon new principles and new systems--and where young ladies
for enormous pay might be screwed out of health and into vanity--but a
real, honest, old-fashioned Boarding-school, where a reasonable
quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price, and where
girls might be sent to be out of the way, and scramble themselves into
a little education, without any danger of coming back prodigies.  Mrs.
Goddard's school was in high repute--and very deservedly; for Highbury
was reckoned a particularly healthy spot: she had an ample house and
garden, gave the children plenty of wholesome food, let them run about
a great deal in the summer, and in winter dressed their chilblains with
her own hands.  It was no wonder that a train of twenty young couple
now walked after her to church.  She was a plain, motherly kind of
woman, who had worked hard in her youth, and now thought herself
entitled to the occasional holiday of a tea-visit; and having formerly
owed much to Mr. Woodhouse's kindness, felt his particular claim on her
to leave her neat parlour, hung round with fancy-work, whenever she
could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireside.

These were the ladies whom Emma found herself very frequently able to
collect; and happy was she, for her father's sake, in the power;
though, as far as she was herself concerned, it was no remedy for the
absence of Mrs. Weston.  She was delighted to see her father look
comfortable, and very much pleased with herself for contriving things
so well; but the quiet prosings of three such women made her feel that
every evening so spent was indeed one of the long evenings she had
fearfully anticipated.

As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such a close of the
present day, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard, requesting, in most
respectful terms, to be allowed to bring Miss Smith with her; a most
welcome request: for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen, whom Emma knew
very well by sight, and had long felt an interest in, on account of her
beauty.  A very gracious invitation was returned, and the evening no
longer dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.

Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody.  Somebody had
placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody
had lately raised her from the condition of scholar to that of
parlour-boarder. This was all that was generally known of her history.
She had no visible friends but what had been acquired at Highbury, and
was now just returned from a long visit in the country to some young
ladies who had been at school there with her.

She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort
which Emma particularly admired.  She was short, plump, and fair, with
a fine bloom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of
great sweetness, and, before the end of the evening, Emma was as much
pleased with her manners as her person, and quite determined to
continue the acquaintance.

She was not struck by any thing remarkably clever in Miss Smith's
conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging--not
inconveniently shy, not unwilling to talk--and yet so far from pushing,
shewing so proper and becoming a deference, seeming so pleasantly
grateful for being admitted to Hartfield, and so artlessly impressed by
the appearance of every thing in so superior a style to what she had
been used to, that she must have good sense, and deserve encouragement.
Encouragement should be given.  Those soft blue eyes, and all those
natural graces, should not be wasted on the inferior society of
Highbury and its connexions.  The acquaintance she had already formed
were unworthy of her.  The friends from whom she had just parted,
though very good sort of people, must be doing her harm.  They were a
family of the name of Martin, whom Emma well knew by character, as
renting a large farm of Mr. Knightley, and residing in the parish of
Donwell--very creditably, she believed--she knew Mr. Knightley thought
highly of them--but they must be coarse and unpolished, and very unfit
to be the intimates of a girl who wanted only a little more knowledge
and elegance to be quite perfect.  _She_ would notice her; she would
improve her; she would detach her from her bad acquaintance, and
introduce her into good society; she would form her opinions and her
manners.  It would be an interesting, and certainly a very kind
undertaking; highly becoming her own situation in life, her leisure,
and powers.

She was so busy in admiring those soft blue eyes, in talking and
listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens, that the
evening flew away at a very unusual rate; and the supper-table, which
always closed such parties, and for which she had been used to sit and
watch the due time, was all set out and ready, and moved forwards to
the fire, before she was aware.  With an alacrity beyond the common
impulse of a spirit which yet was never indifferent to the credit of
doing every thing well and attentively, with the real good-will of a
mind delighted with its own ideas, did she then do all the honours of
the meal, and help and recommend the minced chicken and scalloped
oysters, with an urgency which she knew would be acceptable to the
early hours and civil scruples of their guests.

Upon such occasions poor Mr. Woodhouses feelings were in sad warfare.
He loved to have the cloth laid, because it had been the fashion of his
youth, but his conviction of suppers being very unwholesome made him
rather sorry to see any thing put on it; and while his hospitality
would have welcomed his visitors to every thing, his care for their
health made him grieve that they would eat.

Such another small basin of thin gruel as his own was all that he
could, with thorough self-approbation, recommend; though he might
constrain himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing the nicer
things, to say:

"Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing on one of these eggs.  An
egg boiled very soft is not unwholesome.  Serle understands boiling an
egg better than any body.  I would not recommend an egg boiled by any
body else; but you need not be afraid, they are very small, you
see--one of our small eggs will not hurt you.  Miss Bates, let Emma
help you to a _little_ bit of tart--a _very_ little bit.  Ours are all
apple-tarts. You need not be afraid of unwholesome preserves here.  I
do not advise the custard.  Mrs. Goddard, what say you to _half_ a
glass of wine? A _small_ half-glass, put into a tumbler of water? I do
not think it could disagree with you."

Emma allowed her father to talk--but supplied her visitors in a much
more satisfactory style, and on the present evening had particular
pleasure in sending them away happy.  The happiness of Miss Smith was
quite equal to her intentions.  Miss Woodhouse was so great a personage
in Highbury, that the prospect of the introduction had given as much
panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl went off with
highly gratified feelings, delighted with the affability with which
Miss Woodhouse had treated her all the evening, and actually shaken
hands with her at last!



CHAPTER IV


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

Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful
disposition, was totally free from conceit, and only desiring to be
guided by any one she looked up to.  Her early attachment to herself
was very amiable; and her inclination for good company, and power of
appreciating what was elegant and clever, shewed that there was no want
of taste, though strength of understanding must not be expected.
Altogether she was quite convinced of Harriet Smith's being exactly the
young friend she wanted--exactly the something which her home required.
Such a friend as Mrs. Weston was out of the question.  Two such could
never be granted.  Two such she did not want.  It was quite a different
sort of thing, a sentiment distinct and independent.  Mrs. Weston was
the object of a regard which had its basis in gratitude and esteem.
Harriet would be loved as one to whom she could be useful.  For Mrs.
Weston there was nothing to be done; for Harriet every thing.

Her first attempts at usefulness were in an endeavour to find out who
were the parents, but Harriet could not tell.  She was ready to tell
every thing in her power, but on this subject questions were vain.
Emma was obliged to fancy what she liked--but she could never believe
that in the same situation _she_ should not have discovered the truth.
Harriet had no penetration.  She had been satisfied to hear and believe
just what Mrs. Goddard chose to tell her; and looked no farther.

Mrs. Goddard, and the teachers, and the girls and the affairs of the
school in general, formed naturally a great part of the
conversation--and but for her acquaintance with the Martins of
Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole.  But the Martins occupied
her thoughts a good deal; she had spent two very happy months with
them, and now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit, and describe
the many comforts and wonders of the place.  Emma encouraged her
talkativeness--amused by such a picture of another set of beings, and
enjoying the youthful simplicity which could speak with so much
exultation of Mrs. Martin's having "_two_ parlours, two very good
parlours, indeed; one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard's
drawing-room; and of her having an upper maid who had lived
five-and-twenty years with her; and of their having eight cows, two of
them Alderneys, and one a little Welch cow, a very pretty little Welch
cow indeed; and of Mrs. Martin's saying as she was so fond of it, it
should be called _her_ cow; and of their having a very handsome
summer-house in their garden, where some day next year they were all to
drink tea:--a very handsome summer-house, large enough to hold a dozen
people."

For some time she was amused, without thinking beyond the immediate
cause; but as she came to understand the family better, other feelings
arose.  She had taken up a wrong idea, fancying it was a mother and
daughter, a son and son's wife, who all lived together; but when it
appeared that the Mr. Martin, who bore a part in the narrative, and was
always mentioned with approbation for his great good-nature in doing
something or other, was a single man; that there was no young Mrs.
Martin, no wife in the case; she did suspect danger to her poor little
friend from all this hospitality and kindness, and that, if she were
not taken care of, she might be required to sink herself forever.

With this inspiriting notion, her questions increased in number and
meaning; and she particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin,
and there was evidently no dislike to it.  Harriet was very ready to
speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry
evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very
good-humoured and obliging.  He had gone three miles round one day in
order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was
of them, and in every thing else he was so very obliging.  He had his
shepherd's son into the parlour one night on purpose to sing to her.
She was very fond of singing.  He could sing a little himself.  She
believed he was very clever, and understood every thing.  He had a very
fine flock, and, while she was with them, he had been bid more for his
wool than any body in the country.  She believed every body spoke well
of him.  His mother and sisters were very fond of him.  Mrs. Martin had
told her one day (and there was a blush as she said it,) that it was
impossible for any body to be a better son, and therefore she was sure,
whenever he married, he would make a good husband.  Not that she
_wanted_ him to marry.  She was in no hurry at all.

"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma.  "You know what you are about."

"And when she had come away, Mrs. Martin was so very kind as to send
Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose--the finest goose Mrs. Goddard had ever
seen.  Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday, and asked all the three
teachers, Miss Nash, and Miss Prince, and Miss Richardson, to sup with
her."

"Mr. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information beyond the line of
his own business? He does not read?"

"Oh yes!--that is, no--I do not know--but I believe he has read a good
deal--but not what you would think any thing of.  He reads the
Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the
window seats--but he reads all _them_ to himself.  But sometimes of an
evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of
the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining.  And I know he has read the
Vicar of Wakefield.  He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The
Children of the Abbey.  He had never heard of such books before I
mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he
can."

The next question was--

"What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?"

"Oh! not handsome--not at all handsome.  I thought him very plain at
first, but I do not think him so plain now.  One does not, you know,
after a time.  But did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now
and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to
Kingston.  He has passed you very often."

"That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having
any idea of his name.  A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot,
is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.  The yeomanry
are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing
to do.  A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might
interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or
other.  But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in
one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it."

"To be sure.  Oh yes! It is not likely you should ever have observed
him; but he knows you very well indeed--I mean by sight."

"I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man.  I know,
indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well.  What do you
imagine his age to be?"

"He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the
23rd just a fortnight and a day's difference--which is very odd."

"Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle.  His mother is
perfectly right not to be in a hurry.  They seem very comfortable as
they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would
probably repent it.  Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort
of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it
might be very desirable."

"Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!"

"Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are
not born to an independence.  Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune
entirely to make--cannot be at all beforehand with the world.  Whatever
money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of
the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his
stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may
be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised
any thing yet."

"To be sure, so it is.  But they live very comfortably.  They have no
indoors man, else they do not want for any thing; and Mrs. Martin talks
of taking a boy another year."

"I wish you may not get into a scrape, Harriet, whenever he does
marry;--I mean, as to being acquainted with his wife--for though his
sisters, from a superior education, are not to be altogether objected
to, it does not follow that he might marry any body at all fit for you
to notice.  The misfortune of your birth ought to make you particularly
careful as to your associates.  There can be no doubt of your being a
gentleman's daughter, and you must support your claim to that station
by every thing within your own power, or there will be plenty of people
who would take pleasure in degrading you."

"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are.  But while I visit at Hartfield,
and you are so kind to me, Miss Woodhouse, I am not afraid of what any
body can do."

"You understand the force of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I
would have you so firmly established in good society, as to be
independent even of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse.  I want to see you
permanently well connected, and to that end it will be advisable to
have as few odd acquaintance as may be; and, therefore, I say that if
you should still be in this country when Mr. Martin marries, I wish you
may not be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters, to be acquainted
with the wife, who will probably be some mere farmer's daughter,
without education."

"To be sure.  Yes.  Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry any
body but what had had some education--and been very well brought up.
However, I do not mean to set up my opinion against yours--and I am
sure I shall not wish for the acquaintance of his wife.  I shall always
have a great regard for the Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, and
should be very sorry to give them up, for they are quite as well
educated as me.  But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman,
certainly I had better not visit her, if I can help it."

Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech, and saw no
alarming symptoms of love.  The young man had been the first admirer,
but she trusted there was no other hold, and that there would be no
serious difficulty, on Harriet's side, to oppose any friendly
arrangement of her own.

They met Mr. Martin the very next day, as they were walking on the
Donwell road.  He was on foot, and after looking very respectfully at
her, looked with most unfeigned satisfaction at her companion.  Emma
was not sorry to have such an opportunity of survey; and walking a few
yards forward, while they talked together, soon made her quick eye
sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Robert Martin.  His appearance was
very neat, and he looked like a sensible young man, but his person had
no other advantage; and when he came to be contrasted with gentlemen,
she thought he must lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's
inclination.  Harriet was not insensible of manner; she had voluntarily
noticed her father's gentleness with admiration as well as wonder.  Mr.
Martin looked as if he did not know what manner was.

They remained but a few minutes together, as Miss Woodhouse must not be
kept waiting; and Harriet then came running to her with a smiling face,
and in a flutter of spirits, which Miss Woodhouse hoped very soon to
compose.

"Only think of our happening to meet him!--How very odd! It was quite a
chance, he said, that he had not gone round by Randalls.  He did not
think we ever walked this road.  He thought we walked towards Randalls
most days.  He has not been able to get the Romance of the Forest yet.
He was so busy the last time he was at Kingston that he quite forgot
it, but he goes again to-morrow.  So very odd we should happen to meet!
Well, Miss Woodhouse, is he like what you expected? What do you think
of him? Do you think him so very plain?"

"He is very plain, undoubtedly--remarkably plain:--but that is nothing
compared with his entire want of gentility.  I had no right to expect
much, and I did not expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so
very clownish, so totally without air.  I had imagined him, I confess,
a degree or two nearer gentility."

"To be sure," said Harriet, in a mortified voice, "he is not so genteel
as real gentlemen."

"I think, Harriet, since your acquaintance with us, you have been
repeatedly in the company of some such very real gentlemen, that you
must yourself be struck with the difference in Mr. Martin.  At
Hartfield, you have had very good specimens of well educated, well bred
men.  I should be surprized if, after seeing them, you could be in
company with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him to be a very
inferior creature--and rather wondering at yourself for having ever
thought him at all agreeable before.  Do not you begin to feel that
now? Were not you struck? I am sure you must have been struck by his
awkward look and abrupt manner, and the uncouthness of a voice which I
heard to be wholly unmodulated as I stood here."

"Certainly, he is not like Mr. Knightley.  He has not such a fine air
and way of walking as Mr. Knightley.  I see the difference plain
enough.  But Mr. Knightley is so very fine a man!"

"Mr. Knightley's air is so remarkably good that it is not fair to
compare Mr. Martin with _him_.  You might not see one in a hundred with
_gentleman_ so plainly written as in Mr. Knightley.  But he is not the
only gentleman you have been lately used to.  What say you to Mr.
Weston and Mr. Elton? Compare Mr. Martin with either of _them_.
Compare their manner of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking;
of being silent.  You must see the difference."

"Oh yes!--there is a great difference.  But Mr. Weston is almost an old
man.  Mr. Weston must be between forty and fifty."

"Which makes his good manners the more valuable.  The older a person
grows, Harriet, the more important it is that their manners should not
be bad; the more glaring and disgusting any loudness, or coarseness, or
awkwardness becomes.  What is passable in youth is detestable in later
age.  Mr. Martin is now awkward and abrupt; what will he be at Mr.
Weston's time of life?"

"There is no saying, indeed," replied Harriet rather solemnly.

"But there may be pretty good guessing.  He will be a completely gross,
vulgar farmer, totally inattentive to appearances, and thinking of
nothing but profit and loss."

"Will he, indeed? That will be very bad."

"How much his business engrosses him already is very plain from the
circumstance of his forgetting to inquire for the book you recommended.
He was a great deal too full of the market to think of any thing
else--which is just as it should be, for a thriving man.  What has he
to do with books? And I have no doubt that he _will_ thrive, and be a
very rich man in time--and his being illiterate and coarse need not
disturb _us_."

"I wonder he did not remember the book"--was all Harriet's answer, and
spoken with a degree of grave displeasure which Emma thought might be
safely left to itself.  She, therefore, said no more for some time.
Her next beginning was,

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

She then repeated some warm personal praise which she had drawn from
Mr. Elton, and now did full justice to; and Harriet blushed and smiled,
and said she had always thought Mr. Elton very agreeable.

Mr. Elton was the very person fixed on by Emma for driving the young
farmer out of Harriet's head.  She thought it would be an excellent
match; and only too palpably desirable, natural, and probable, for her
to have much merit in planning it.  She feared it was what every body
else must think of and predict.  It was not likely, however, that any
body should have equalled her in the date of the plan, as it had
entered her brain during the very first evening of Harriet's coming to
Hartfield.  The longer she considered it, the greater was her sense of
its expediency.  Mr. Elton's situation was most suitable, quite the
gentleman himself, and without low connexions; at the same time, not of
any family that could fairly object to the doubtful birth of Harriet.
He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient
income; for though the vicarage of Highbury was not large, he was known
to have some independent property; and she thought very highly of him
as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man, without any
deficiency of useful understanding or knowledge of the world.

She had already satisfied herself that he thought Harriet a beautiful
girl, which she trusted, with such frequent meetings at Hartfield, was
foundation enough on his side; and on Harriet's there could be little
doubt that the idea of being preferred by him would have all the usual
weight and efficacy.  And he was really a very pleasing young man, a
young man whom any woman not fastidious might like.  He was reckoned
very handsome; his person much admired in general, though not by her,
there being a want of elegance of feature which she could not dispense
with:--but the girl who could be gratified by a Robert Martin's riding
about the country to get walnuts for her might very well be conquered
by Mr. Elton's admiration.



CHAPTER V


"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr.
Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but
I think it a bad thing."

"A bad thing! Do you really think it a bad thing?--why so?"

"I think they will neither of them do the other any good."

"You surprize me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with
a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good.  I have
been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure.  How very
differently we feel!--Not think they will do each other any good! This
will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr.
Knightley."

"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing
Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."

"Mr. Weston would undoubtedly support me, if he were here, for he
thinks exactly as I do on the subject.  We were speaking of it only
yesterday, and agreeing how fortunate it was for Emma, that there
should be such a girl in Highbury for her to associate with.  Mr.
Knightley, I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case.  You
are so much used to live alone, that you do not know the value of a
companion; and, perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a
woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to
it all her life.  I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith.  She
is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be.  But
on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be
an inducement to her to read more herself.  They will read together.
She means it, I know."

"Emma has been meaning to read more ever since she was twelve years
old.  I have seen a great many lists of her drawing-up at various times
of books that she meant to read regularly through--and very good lists
they were--very well chosen, and very neatly arranged--sometimes
alphabetically, and sometimes by some other rule.  The list she drew up
when only fourteen--I remember thinking it did her judgment so much
credit, that I preserved it some time; and I dare say she may have made
out a very good list now.  But I have done with expecting any course of
steady reading from Emma.  She will never submit to any thing requiring
industry and patience, and a subjection of the fancy to the
understanding.  Where Miss Taylor failed to stimulate, I may safely
affirm that Harriet Smith will do nothing.--You never could persuade
her to read half so much as you wished.--You know you could not."

"I dare say," replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "that I thought so
_then_;--but since we have parted, I can never remember Emma's omitting
to do any thing I wished."

"There is hardly any desiring to refresh such a memory as
_that_,"--said Mr. Knightley, feelingly; and for a moment or two he had
done.  "But I," he soon added, "who have had no such charm thrown over
my senses, must still see, hear, and remember.  Emma is spoiled by
being the cleverest of her family.  At ten years old, she had the
misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister
at seventeen.  She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and
diffident.  And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of
the house and of you all.  In her mother she lost the only person able
to cope with her.  She inherits her mother's talents, and must have
been under subjection to her."

"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley, to be dependent on _your_
recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another
situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to
any body.  I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held."

"Yes," said he, smiling.  "You are better placed _here_; very fit for a
wife, but not at all for a governess.  But you were preparing yourself
to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield.  You might
not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to
promise; but you were receiving a very good education from _her_, on
the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and
doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a
wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor."

"Thank you.  There will be very little merit in making a good wife to
such a man as Mr. Weston."

"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and
that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne.
We will not despair, however.  Weston may grow cross from the
wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him."

"I hope not _that_.--It is not likely.  No, Mr. Knightley, do not
foretell vexation from that quarter."

"Not I, indeed.  I only name possibilities.  I do not pretend to Emma's
genius for foretelling and guessing.  I hope, with all my heart, the
young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.--But
Harriet Smith--I have not half done about Harriet Smith.  I think her
the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have.  She
knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing every thing.  She
is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because
undesigned.  Her ignorance is hourly flattery.  How can Emma imagine
she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a
delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that
_she_ cannot gain by the acquaintance.  Hartfield will only put her out
of conceit with all the other places she belongs to.  She will grow
just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and
circumstances have placed her home.  I am much mistaken if Emma's
doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl
adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in
life.--They only give a little polish."

"I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more
anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance.
How well she looked last night!"

"Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you?
Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty."

"Pretty! say beautiful rather.  Can you imagine any thing nearer
perfect beauty than Emma altogether--face and figure?"

"I do not know what I could imagine, but I confess that I have seldom
seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers.  But I am a
partial old friend."

"Such an eye!--the true hazle eye--and so brilliant! regular features,
open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health,
and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure!
There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her
glance.  One hears sometimes of a child being 'the picture of health;'
now, Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of
grown-up health.  She is loveliness itself.  Mr. Knightley, is not she?"

"I have not a fault to find with her person," he replied.  "I think her
all you describe.  I love to look at her; and I will add this praise,
that I do not think her personally vain.  Considering how very handsome
she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies
another way.  Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of
Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm."

"And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not
doing them any harm.  With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an
excellent creature.  Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder
sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be
trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no
lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred
times."

"Very well; I will not plague you any more.  Emma shall be an angel,
and I will keep my spleen to myself till Christmas brings John and
Isabella.  John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not a blind
affection, and Isabella always thinks as he does; except when he is not
quite frightened enough about the children.  I am sure of having their
opinions with me."

"I know that you all love her really too well to be unjust or unkind;
but excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if I take the liberty (I consider myself,
you know, as having somewhat of the privilege of speech that Emma's
mother might have had) the liberty of hinting that I do not think any
possible good can arise from Harriet Smith's intimacy being made a
matter of much discussion among you.  Pray excuse me; but supposing any
little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy, it cannot be
expected that Emma, accountable to nobody but her father, who perfectly
approves the acquaintance, should put an end to it, so long as it is a
source of pleasure to herself.  It has been so many years my province
to give advice, that you cannot be surprized, Mr. Knightley, at this
little remains of office."

"Not at all," cried he; "I am much obliged to you for it.  It is very
good advice, and it shall have a better fate than your advice has often
found; for it shall be attended to."

"Mrs. John Knightley is easily alarmed, and might be made unhappy about
her sister."

"Be satisfied," said he, "I will not raise any outcry.  I will keep my
ill-humour to myself.  I have a very sincere interest in Emma.
Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater
interest; perhaps hardly so great.  There is an anxiety, a curiosity in
what one feels for Emma.  I wonder what will become of her!"

"So do I," said Mrs. Weston gently, "very much."

"She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just
nothing at all.  But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man
she cared for.  It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in
love with a proper object.  I should like to see Emma in love, and in
some doubt of a return; it would do her good.  But there is nobody
hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home."

"There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her
resolution at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while
she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any
attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr.
Woodhouse's account.  I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma,
though I mean no slight to the state, I assure you."

Part of her meaning was to conceal some favourite thoughts of her own
and Mr. Weston's on the subject, as much as possible.  There were
wishes at Randalls respecting Emma's destiny, but it was not desirable
to have them suspected; and the quiet transition which Mr. Knightley
soon afterwards made to "What does Weston think of the weather; shall
we have rain?" convinced her that he had nothing more to say or surmise
about Hartfield.



CHAPTER VI


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

"You have given Miss Smith all that she required," said he; "you have
made her graceful and easy.  She was a beautiful creature when she came
to you, but, in my opinion, the attractions you have added are
infinitely superior to what she received from nature."

"I am glad you think I have been useful to her; but Harriet only wanted
drawing out, and receiving a few, very few hints.  She had all the
natural grace of sweetness of temper and artlessness in herself.  I
have done very little."

"If it were admissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr.
Elton--

"I have perhaps given her a little more decision of character, have
taught her to think on points which had not fallen in her way before."

"Exactly so; that is what principally strikes me.  So much superadded
decision of character! Skilful has been the hand!"

"Great has been the pleasure, I am sure.  I never met with a
disposition more truly amiable."

"I have no doubt of it." And it was spoken with a sort of sighing
animation, which had a vast deal of the lover.  She was not less
pleased another day with the manner in which he seconded a sudden wish
of hers, to have Harriet's picture.

"Did you ever have your likeness taken, Harriet?" said she: "did you
ever sit for your picture?"

Harriet was on the point of leaving the room, and only stopt to say,
with a very interesting naivete,

"Oh! dear, no, never."

No sooner was she out of sight, than Emma exclaimed,

"What an exquisite possession a good picture of her would be! I would
give any money for it.  I almost long to attempt her likeness myself.
You do not know it I dare say, but two or three years ago I had a great
passion for taking likenesses, and attempted several of my friends, and
was thought to have a tolerable eye in general.  But from one cause or
another, I gave it up in disgust.  But really, I could almost venture,
if Harriet would sit to me.  It would be such a delight to have her
picture!"

"Let me entreat you," cried Mr. Elton; "it would indeed be a delight!
Let me entreat you, Miss Woodhouse, to exercise so charming a talent in
favour of your friend.  I know what your drawings are.  How could you
suppose me ignorant? Is not this room rich in specimens of your
landscapes and flowers; and has not Mrs. Weston some inimitable
figure-pieces in her drawing-room, at Randalls?"

Yes, good man!--thought Emma--but what has all that to do with taking
likenesses? You know nothing of drawing.  Don't pretend to be in
raptures about mine.  Keep your raptures for Harriet's face.  "Well, if
you give me such kind encouragement, Mr. Elton, I believe I shall try
what I can do.  Harriet's features are very delicate, which makes a
likeness difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the
eye and the lines about the mouth which one ought to catch."

"Exactly so--The shape of the eye and the lines about the mouth--I have
not a doubt of your success.  Pray, pray attempt it.  As you will do
it, it will indeed, to use your own words, be an exquisite possession."

"But I am afraid, Mr. Elton, Harriet will not like to sit.  She thinks
so little of her own beauty.  Did not you observe her manner of
answering me? How completely it meant, 'why should my picture be
drawn?'"

"Oh! yes, I observed it, I assure you.  It was not lost on me.  But
still I cannot imagine she would not be persuaded."

Harriet was soon back again, and the proposal almost immediately made;
and she had no scruples which could stand many minutes against the
earnest pressing of both the others.  Emma wished to go to work
directly, and therefore produced the portfolio containing her various
attempts at portraits, for not one of them had ever been finished, that
they might decide together on the best size for Harriet.  Her many
beginnings were displayed.  Miniatures, half-lengths, whole-lengths,
pencil, crayon, and water-colours had been all tried in turn.  She had
always wanted to do every thing, and had made more progress both in
drawing and music than many might have done with so little labour as
she would ever submit to.  She played and sang;--and drew in almost
every style; but steadiness had always been wanting; and in nothing had
she approached the degree of excellence which she would have been glad
to command, and ought not to have failed of.  She was not much deceived
as to her own skill either as an artist or a musician, but she was not
unwilling to have others deceived, or sorry to know her reputation for
accomplishment often higher than it deserved.

There was merit in every drawing--in the least finished, perhaps the
most; her style was spirited; but had there been much less, or had
there been ten times more, the delight and admiration of her two
companions would have been the same.  They were both in ecstasies.  A
likeness pleases every body; and Miss Woodhouse's performances must be
capital.

"No great variety of faces for you," said Emma.  "I had only my own
family to study from.  There is my father--another of my father--but
the idea of sitting for his picture made him so nervous, that I could
only take him by stealth; neither of them very like therefore.  Mrs.
Weston again, and again, and again, you see.  Dear Mrs. Weston! always
my kindest friend on every occasion.  She would sit whenever I asked
her.  There is my sister; and really quite her own little elegant
figure!--and the face not unlike.  I should have made a good likeness
of her, if she would have sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to
have me draw her four children that she would not be quiet.  Then, here
come all my attempts at three of those four children;--there they are,
Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the sheet to the other, and
any one of them might do for any one of the rest.  She was so eager to
have them drawn that I could not refuse; but there is no making
children of three or four years old stand still you know; nor can it be
very easy to take any likeness of them, beyond the air and complexion,
unless they are coarser featured than any of mama's children ever were.
Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby.  I took him as he was
sleeping on the sofa, and it is as strong a likeness of his cockade as
you would wish to see.  He had nestled down his head most conveniently.
That's very like.  I am rather proud of little George.  The corner of
the sofa is very good.  Then here is my last,"--unclosing a pretty
sketch of a gentleman in small size, whole-length--"my last and my
best--my brother, Mr. John Knightley.--This did not want much of being
finished, when I put it away in a pet, and vowed I would never take
another likeness.  I could not help being provoked; for after all my
pains, and when I had really made a very good likeness of it--(Mrs.
Weston and I were quite agreed in thinking it _very_ like)--only too
handsome--too flattering--but that was a fault on the right side--after
all this, came poor dear Isabella's cold approbation of--"Yes, it was a
little like--but to be sure it did not do him justice." We had had a
great deal of trouble in persuading him to sit at all.  It was made a
great favour of; and altogether it was more than I could bear; and so I
never would finish it, to have it apologised over as an unfavourable
likeness, to every morning visitor in Brunswick Square;--and, as I
said, I did then forswear ever drawing any body again.  But for
Harriet's sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and
wives in the case _at_ _present_, I will break my resolution now."

Mr. Elton seemed very properly struck and delighted by the idea, and
was repeating, "No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as
you observe.  Exactly so.  No husbands and wives," with so interesting
a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better
leave them together at once.  But as she wanted to be drawing, the
declaration must wait a little longer.

She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait.  It was to be a
whole-length in water-colours, like Mr. John Knightley's, and was
destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable
station over the mantelpiece.

The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not
keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of
youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist.  But there was no
doing any thing, with Mr. Elton fidgeting behind her and watching every
touch.  She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze
and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to
it, and request him to place himself elsewhere.  It then occurred to
her to employ him in reading.

"If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness
indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen
the irksomeness of Miss Smith's."

Mr. Elton was only too happy.  Harriet listened, and Emma drew in
peace.  She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any
thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was
ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see
the progress, and be charmed.--There was no being displeased with such
an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost
before it was possible.  She could not respect his eye, but his love
and his complaisance were unexceptionable.

The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough
pleased with the first day's sketch to wish to go on.  There was no
want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she
meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little
more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence
of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling
its destined place with credit to them both--a standing memorial of the
beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with
as many other agreeable associations as Mr. Elton's very promising
attachment was likely to add.

Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Elton, just as he ought,
entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.

"By all means.  We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the
party."

The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction,
took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the
picture, which was rapid and happy.  Every body who saw it was pleased,
but Mr. Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every
criticism.

"Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she
wanted,"--observed Mrs. Weston to him--not in the least suspecting that
she was addressing a lover.--"The expression of the eye is most
correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes.  It is
the fault of her face that she has them not."

"Do you think so?" replied he.  "I cannot agree with you.  It appears
to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature.  I never saw such a
likeness in my life.  We must allow for the effect of shade, you know."

"You have made her too tall, Emma," said Mr. Knightley.

Emma knew that she had, but would not own it; and Mr. Elton warmly
added,

"Oh no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall.  Consider,
she is sitting down--which naturally presents a different--which in
short gives exactly the idea--and the proportions must be preserved,
you know.  Proportions, fore-shortening.--Oh no! it gives one exactly
the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"

"It is very pretty," said Mr. Woodhouse.  "So prettily done! Just as
your drawings always are, my dear.  I do not know any body who draws so
well as you do.  The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she
seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her
shoulders--and it makes one think she must catch cold."

"But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer.
Look at the tree."

"But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear."

"You, sir, may say any thing," cried Mr. Elton, "but I must confess
that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out
of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any
other situation would have been much less in character.  The naivete of
Miss Smith's manners--and altogether--Oh, it is most admirable! I
cannot keep my eyes from it.  I never saw such a likeness."

The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a
few difficulties.  It must be done directly; it must be done in London;
the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose
taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all
commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr.
Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in
the fogs of December.  But no sooner was the distress known to Mr.
Elton, than it was removed.  His gallantry was always on the alert.
"Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should
he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time.  It was
impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on
such an errand."

"He was too good!--she could not endure the thought!--she would not
give him such a troublesome office for the world,"--brought on the
desired repetition of entreaties and assurances,--and a very few
minutes settled the business.

Mr. Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give
the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its
safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of
not being incommoded enough.

"What a precious deposit!" said he with a tender sigh, as he received
it.

"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," thought Emma.  "I
should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways
of being in love.  He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet
exactly; it will be an 'Exactly so,' as he says himself; but he does
sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could
endure as a principal.  I come in for a pretty good share as a second.
But it is his gratitude on Harriet's account."



CHAPTER VII


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

"Upon my word," she cried, "the young man is determined not to lose any
thing for want of asking.  He will connect himself well if he can."

"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet.  "Pray do.  I'd rather you
would."

Emma was not sorry to be pressed.  She read, and was surprized.  The
style of the letter was much above her expectation.  There were not
merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have
disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and
unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of
the writer.  It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment,
liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.  She paused over it,
while Harriet stood anxiously watching for her opinion, with a "Well,
well," and was at last forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it
too short?"

"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," replied Emma rather slowly--"so good
a letter, Harriet, that every thing considered, I think one of his
sisters must have helped him.  I can hardly imagine the young man whom
I saw talking with you the other day could express himself so well, if
left quite to his own powers, and yet it is not the style of a woman;
no, certainly, it is too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a
woman.  No doubt he is a sensible man, and I suppose may have a natural
talent for--thinks strongly and clearly--and when he takes a pen in
hand, his thoughts naturally find proper words.  It is so with some
men.  Yes, I understand the sort of mind.  Vigorous, decided, with
sentiments to a certain point, not coarse.  A better written letter,
Harriet (returning it,) than I had expected."

"Well," said the still waiting Harriet;--"well--and--and what shall I
do?"

"What shall you do! In what respect? Do you mean with regard to this
letter?"

"Yes."

"But what are you in doubt of? You must answer it of course--and
speedily."

"Yes. But what shall I say? Dear Miss Woodhouse, do advise me."

"Oh no, no! the letter had much better be all your own.  You will
express yourself very properly, I am sure.  There is no danger of your
not being intelligible, which is the first thing.  Your meaning must be
unequivocal; no doubts or demurs: and such expressions of gratitude and
concern for the pain you are inflicting as propriety requires, will
present themselves unbidden to _your_ mind, I am persuaded.  You need
not be prompted to write with the appearance of sorrow for his
disappointment."

"You think I ought to refuse him then," said Harriet, looking down.

"Ought to refuse him! My dear Harriet, what do you mean? Are you in any
doubt as to that? I thought--but I beg your pardon, perhaps I have been
under a mistake.  I certainly have been misunderstanding you, if you
feel in doubt as to the _purport_ of your answer.  I had imagined you
were consulting me only as to the wording of it."

Harriet was silent.  With a little reserve of manner, Emma continued:

"You mean to return a favourable answer, I collect."

"No, I do not; that is, I do not mean--What shall I do? What would you
advise me to do? Pray, dear Miss Woodhouse, tell me what I ought to do."

"I shall not give you any advice, Harriet.  I will have nothing to do
with it.  This is a point which you must settle with your feelings."

"I had no notion that he liked me so very much," said Harriet,
contemplating the letter.  For a little while Emma persevered in her
silence; but beginning to apprehend the bewitching flattery of that
letter might be too powerful, she thought it best to say,

"I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman _doubts_ as
to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to
refuse him.  If she can hesitate as to 'Yes,' she ought to say 'No'
directly.  It is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful
feelings, with half a heart.  I thought it my duty as a friend, and
older than yourself, to say thus much to you.  But do not imagine that
I want to influence you."

"Oh! no, I am sure you are a great deal too kind to--but if you would
just advise me what I had best do--No, no, I do not mean that--As you
say, one's mind ought to be quite made up--One should not be
hesitating--It is a very serious thing.--It will be safer to say 'No,'
perhaps.--Do you think I had better say 'No?'"

"Not for the world," said Emma, smiling graciously, "would I advise you
either way.  You must be the best judge of your own happiness.  If you
prefer Mr. Martin to every other person; if you think him the most
agreeable man you have ever been in company with, why should you
hesitate? You blush, Harriet.--Does any body else occur to you at this
moment under such a definition? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive
yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.  At this
moment whom are you thinking of?"

The symptoms were favourable.--Instead of answering, Harriet turned
away confused, and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and though the
letter was still in her hand, it was now mechanically twisted about
without regard.  Emma waited the result with impatience, but not
without strong hopes.  At last, with some hesitation, Harriet said--

"Miss Woodhouse, as you will not give me your opinion, I must do as
well as I can by myself; and I have now quite determined, and really
almost made up my mind--to refuse Mr. Martin.  Do you think I am right?"

"Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just
what you ought.  While you were at all in suspense I kept my feelings
to myself, but now that you are so completely decided I have no
hesitation in approving.  Dear Harriet, I give myself joy of this.  It
would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been
the consequence of your marrying Mr. Martin.  While you were in the
smallest degree wavering, I said nothing about it, because I would not
influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend to me.  I could
not have visited Mrs. Robert Martin, of Abbey-Mill Farm.  Now I am
secure of you for ever."

Harriet had not surmised her own danger, but the idea of it struck her
forcibly.

"You could not have visited me!" she cried, looking aghast.  "No, to be
sure you could not; but I never thought of that before.  That would
have been too dreadful!--What an escape!--Dear Miss Woodhouse, I would
not give up the pleasure and honour of being intimate with you for any
thing in the world."

"Indeed, Harriet, it would have been a severe pang to lose you; but it
must have been.  You would have thrown yourself out of all good
society.  I must have given you up."

"Dear me!--How should I ever have borne it! It would have killed me
never to come to Hartfield any more!"

"Dear affectionate creature!--_You_ banished to Abbey-Mill Farm!--_You_
confined to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life!  I
wonder how the young man could have the assurance to ask it.  He must
have a pretty good opinion of himself."

"I do not think he is conceited either, in general," said Harriet, her
conscience opposing such censure; "at least, he is very good natured,
and I shall always feel much obliged to him, and have a great regard
for--but that is quite a different thing from--and you know, though he
may like me, it does not follow that I should--and certainly I must
confess that since my visiting here I have seen people--and if one
comes to compare them, person and manners, there is no comparison at
all, _one_ is so very handsome and agreeable.  However, I do really
think Mr. Martin a very amiable young man, and have a great opinion of
him; and his being so much attached to me--and his writing such a
letter--but as to leaving you, it is what I would not do upon any
consideration."

"Thank you, thank you, my own sweet little friend.  We will not be
parted.  A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or
because he is attached to her, and can write a tolerable letter."

"Oh no;--and it is but a short letter too."

Emma felt the bad taste of her friend, but let it pass with a "very
true; and it would be a small consolation to her, for the clownish
manner which might be offending her every hour of the day, to know that
her husband could write a good letter."

"Oh! yes, very.  Nobody cares for a letter; the thing is, to be always
happy with pleasant companions.  I am quite determined to refuse him.
But how shall I do? What shall I say?"

Emma assured her there would be no difficulty in the answer, and
advised its being written directly, which was agreed to, in the hope of
her assistance; and though Emma continued to protest against any
assistance being wanted, it was in fact given in the formation of every
sentence.  The looking over his letter again, in replying to it, had
such a softening tendency, that it was particularly necessary to brace
her up with a few decisive expressions; and she was so very much
concerned at the idea of making him unhappy, and thought so much of
what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so anxious
that they should not fancy her ungrateful, that Emma believed if the
young man had come in her way at that moment, he would have been
accepted after all.

This letter, however, was written, and sealed, and sent.  The business
was finished, and Harriet safe.  She was rather low all the evening,
but Emma could allow for her amiable regrets, and sometimes relieved
them by speaking of her own affection, sometimes by bringing forward
the idea of Mr. Elton.

"I shall never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," was said in rather a
sorrowful tone.

"Nor, if you were, could I ever bear to part with you, my Harriet.  You
are a great deal too necessary at Hartfield to be spared to Abbey-Mill."

"And I am sure I should never want to go there; for I am never happy
but at Hartfield."

Some time afterwards it was, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very much
surprized if she knew what had happened.  I am sure Miss Nash
would--for Miss Nash thinks her own sister very well married, and it is
only a linen-draper."

"One should be sorry to see greater pride or refinement in the teacher
of a school, Harriet.  I dare say Miss Nash would envy you such an
opportunity as this of being married.  Even this conquest would appear
valuable in her eyes.  As to any thing superior for you, I suppose she
is quite in the dark.  The attentions of a certain person can hardly be
among the tittle-tattle of Highbury yet.  Hitherto I fancy you and I
are the only people to whom his looks and manners have explained
themselves."

Harriet blushed and smiled, and said something about wondering that
people should like her so much.  The idea of Mr. Elton was certainly
cheering; but still, after a time, she was tender-hearted again towards
the rejected Mr. Martin.

"Now he has got my letter," said she softly.  "I wonder what they are
all doing--whether his sisters know--if he is unhappy, they will be
unhappy too.  I hope he will not mind it so very much."

"Let us think of those among our absent friends who are more cheerfully
employed," cried Emma.  "At this moment, perhaps, Mr. Elton is shewing
your picture to his mother and sisters, telling how much more beautiful
is the original, and after being asked for it five or six times,
allowing them to hear your name, your own dear name."

"My picture!--But he has left my picture in Bond-street."

"Has he so!--Then I know nothing of Mr. Elton.  No, my dear little
modest Harriet, depend upon it the picture will not be in Bond-street
till just before he mounts his horse to-morrow.  It is his companion
all this evening, his solace, his delight.  It opens his designs to his
family, it introduces you among them, it diffuses through the party
those pleasantest feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm
prepossession.  How cheerful, how animated, how suspicious, how busy
their imaginations all are!"

Harriet smiled again, and her smiles grew stronger.



CHAPTER VIII


Harriet slept at Hartfield that night.  For some weeks past she had
been spending more than half her time there, and gradually getting to
have a bed-room appropriated to herself; and Emma judged it best in
every respect, safest and kindest, to keep her with them as much as
possible just at present.  She was obliged to go the next morning for
an hour or two to Mrs. Goddard's, but it was then to be settled that
she should return to Hartfield, to make a regular visit of some days.

While she was gone, Mr. Knightley called, and sat some time with Mr.
Woodhouse and Emma, till Mr. Woodhouse, who had previously made up his
mind to walk out, was persuaded by his daughter not to defer it, and
was induced by the entreaties of both, though against the scruples of
his own civility, to leave Mr. Knightley for that purpose.  Mr.
Knightley, who had nothing of ceremony about him, was offering by his
short, decided answers, an amusing contrast to the protracted apologies
and civil hesitations of the other.

"Well, I believe, if you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley, if you will not
consider me as doing a very rude thing, I shall take Emma's advice and
go out for a quarter of an hour.  As the sun is out, I believe I had
better take my three turns while I can.  I treat you without ceremony,
Mr. Knightley.  We invalids think we are privileged people."

"My dear sir, do not make a stranger of me."

"I leave an excellent substitute in my daughter.  Emma will be happy to
entertain you.  And therefore I think I will beg your excuse and take
my three turns--my winter walk."

"You cannot do better, sir."

"I would ask for the pleasure of your company, Mr. Knightley, but I am
a very slow walker, and my pace would be tedious to you; and, besides,
you have another long walk before you, to Donwell Abbey."

"Thank you, sir, thank you; I am going this moment myself; and I think
the sooner _you_ go the better.  I will fetch your greatcoat and open
the garden door for you."

Mr. Woodhouse at last was off; but Mr. Knightley, instead of being
immediately off likewise, sat down again, seemingly inclined for more
chat.  He began speaking of Harriet, and speaking of her with more
voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.

"I cannot rate her beauty as you do," said he; "but she is a pretty
little creature, and I am inclined to think very well of her
disposition.  Her character depends upon those she is with; but in good
hands she will turn out a valuable woman."

"I am glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be
wanting."

"Come," said he, "you are anxious for a compliment, so I will tell you
that you have improved her.  You have cured her of her school-girl's
giggle; she really does you credit."

"Thank you.  I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had
been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where
they may.  _You_ do not often overpower me with it."

"You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"

"Almost every moment.  She has been gone longer already than she
intended."

"Something has happened to delay her; some visitors perhaps."

"Highbury gossips!--Tiresome wretches!"

"Harriet may not consider every body tiresome that you would."

Emma knew this was too true for contradiction, and therefore said
nothing.  He presently added, with a smile,

"I do not pretend to fix on times or places, but I must tell you that I
have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of
something to her advantage."

"Indeed! how so? of what sort?"

"A very serious sort, I assure you;" still smiling.

"Very serious! I can think of but one thing--Who is in love with her?
Who makes you their confidant?"

Emma was more than half in hopes of Mr. Elton's having dropt a hint.
Mr. Knightley was a sort of general friend and adviser, and she knew
Mr. Elton looked up to him.

"I have reason to think," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon
have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable
quarter:--Robert Martin is the man.  Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this
summer, seems to have done his business.  He is desperately in love and
means to marry her."

"He is very obliging," said Emma; "but is he sure that Harriet means to
marry him?"

"Well, well, means to make her an offer then.  Will that do? He came to
the Abbey two evenings ago, on purpose to consult me about it.  He
knows I have a thorough regard for him and all his family, and, I
believe, considers me as one of his best friends.  He came to ask me
whether I thought it would be imprudent in him to settle so early;
whether I thought her too young: in short, whether I approved his
choice altogether; having some apprehension perhaps of her being
considered (especially since _your_ making so much of her) as in a line
of society above him.  I was very much pleased with all that he said.
I never hear better sense from any one than Robert Martin.  He always
speaks to the purpose; open, straightforward, and very well judging.
He told me every thing; his circumstances and plans, and what they all
proposed doing in the event of his marriage.  He is an excellent young
man, both as son and brother.  I had no hesitation in advising him to
marry.  He proved to me that he could afford it; and that being the
case, I was convinced he could not do better.  I praised the fair lady
too, and altogether sent him away very happy.  If he had never esteemed
my opinion before, he would have thought highly of me then; and, I dare
say, left the house thinking me the best friend and counsellor man ever
had.  This happened the night before last.  Now, as we may fairly
suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the
lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not
unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's to-day; and she may be
detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch."

"Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, who had been smiling to herself
through a great part of this speech, "how do you know that Mr. Martin
did not speak yesterday?"

"Certainly," replied he, surprized, "I do not absolutely know it; but
it may be inferred.  Was not she the whole day with you?"

"Come," said she, "I will tell you something, in return for what you
have told me.  He did speak yesterday--that is, he wrote, and was
refused."

This was obliged to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr.
Knightley actually looked red with surprize and displeasure, as he
stood up, in tall indignation, and said,

"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her.  What is the
foolish girl about?"

"Oh! to be sure," cried Emma, "it is always incomprehensible to a man
that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage.  A man always
imagines a woman to be ready for any body who asks her."

"Nonsense! a man does not imagine any such thing.  But what is the
meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? madness, if it is
so; but I hope you are mistaken."

"I saw her answer!--nothing could be clearer."

"You saw her answer!--you wrote her answer too.  Emma, this is your
doing.  You persuaded her to refuse him."

"And if I did, (which, however, I am far from allowing) I should not
feel that I had done wrong.  Mr. Martin is a very respectable young
man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather
surprized indeed that he should have ventured to address her.  By your
account, he does seem to have had some scruples.  It is a pity that
they were ever got over."

"Not Harriet's equal!" exclaimed Mr. Knightley loudly and warmly; and
with calmer asperity, added, a few moments afterwards, "No, he is not
her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in
situation.  Emma, your infatuation about that girl blinds you.  What
are Harriet Smith's claims, either of birth, nature or education, to
any connexion higher than Robert Martin? She is the natural daughter of
nobody knows whom, with probably no settled provision at all, and
certainly no respectable relations.  She is known only as
parlour-boarder at a common school.  She is not a sensible girl, nor a
girl of any information.  She has been taught nothing useful, and is
too young and too simple to have acquired any thing herself.  At her
age she can have no experience, and with her little wit, is not very
likely ever to have any that can avail her.  She is pretty, and she is
good tempered, and that is all.  My only scruple in advising the match
was on his account, as being beneath his deserts, and a bad connexion
for him.  I felt that, as to fortune, in all probability he might do
much better; and that as to a rational companion or useful helpmate, he
could not do worse.  But I could not reason so to a man in love, and
was willing to trust to there being no harm in her, to her having that
sort of disposition, which, in good hands, like his, might be easily
led aright and turn out very well.  The advantage of the match I felt
to be all on her side; and had not the smallest doubt (nor have I now)
that there would be a general cry-out upon her extreme good luck.  Even
_your_ satisfaction I made sure of.  It crossed my mind immediately
that you would not regret your friend's leaving Highbury, for the sake
of her being settled so well.  I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma,
with all her partiality for Harriet, will think this a good match.'"

"I cannot help wondering at your knowing so little of Emma as to say
any such thing.  What! think a farmer, (and with all his sense and all
his merit Mr. Martin is nothing more,) a good match for my intimate
friend! Not regret her leaving Highbury for the sake of marrying a man
whom I could never admit as an acquaintance of my own! I wonder you
should think it possible for me to have such feelings.  I assure you
mine are very different.  I must think your statement by no means fair.
You are not just to Harriet's claims.  They would be estimated very
differently by others as well as myself; Mr. Martin may be the richest
of the two, but he is undoubtedly her inferior as to rank in
society.--The sphere in which she moves is much above his.--It would be
a degradation."

"A degradation to illegitimacy and ignorance, to be married to a
respectable, intelligent gentleman-farmer!"

"As to the circumstances of her birth, though in a legal sense she may
be called Nobody, it will not hold in common sense.  She is not to pay
for the offence of others, by being held below the level of those with
whom she is brought up.--There can scarcely be a doubt that her father
is a gentleman--and a gentleman of fortune.--Her allowance is very
liberal; nothing has ever been grudged for her improvement or
comfort.--That she is a gentleman's daughter, is indubitable to me;
that she associates with gentlemen's daughters, no one, I apprehend,
will deny.--She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."

"Whoever might be her parents," said Mr. Knightley, "whoever may have
had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of
their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society.
After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs.
Goddard's hands to shift as she can;--to move, in short, in Mrs.
Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance.  Her friends
evidently thought this good enough for her; and it _was_ good enough.
She desired nothing better herself.  Till you chose to turn her into a
friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition
beyond it.  She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the
summer.  She had no sense of superiority then.  If she has it now, you
have given it.  You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma.  Robert
Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded
of her not being disinclined to him.  I know him well.  He has too much
real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion.
And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know.
Depend upon it he had encouragement."

It was most convenient to Emma not to make a direct reply to this
assertion; she chose rather to take up her own line of the subject
again.

"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said before, are
unjust to Harriet.  Harriet's claims to marry well are not so
contemptible as you represent them.  She is not a clever girl, but she
has better sense than you are aware of, and does not deserve to have
her understanding spoken of so slightingly.  Waiving that point,
however, and supposing her to be, as you describe her, only pretty and
good-natured, let me tell you, that in the degree she possesses them,
they are not trivial recommendations to the world in general, for she
is, in fact, a beautiful girl, and must be thought so by ninety-nine
people out of an hundred; and till it appears that men are much more
philosophic on the subject of beauty than they are generally supposed;
till they do fall in love with well-informed minds instead of handsome
faces, a girl, with such loveliness as Harriet, has a certainty of
being admired and sought after, of having the power of chusing from
among many, consequently a claim to be nice.  Her good-nature, too, is
not so very slight a claim, comprehending, as it does, real, thorough
sweetness of temper and manner, a very humble opinion of herself, and a
great readiness to be pleased with other people.  I am very much
mistaken if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such
temper, the highest claims a woman could possess."

"Upon my word, Emma, to hear you abusing the reason you have, is almost
enough to make me think so too.  Better be without sense, than misapply
it as you do."

"To be sure!" cried she playfully.  "I know _that_ is the feeling of
you all.  I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man
delights in--what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his
judgment.  Oh! Harriet may pick and chuse.  Were you, yourself, ever to
marry, she is the very woman for you.  And is she, at seventeen, just
entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at
because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No--pray let
her have time to look about her."

"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy," said Mr. Knightley
presently, "though I have kept my thoughts to myself; but I now
perceive that it will be a very unfortunate one for Harriet.  You will
puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty, and of what she has a
claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach will be good
enough for her.  Vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of
mischief.  Nothing so easy as for a young lady to raise her
expectations too high.  Miss Harriet Smith may not find offers of
marriage flow in so fast, though she is a very pretty girl.  Men of
sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.  Men of
family would not be very fond of connecting themselves with a girl of
such obscurity--and most prudent men would be afraid of the
inconvenience and disgrace they might be involved in, when the mystery
of her parentage came to be revealed.  Let her marry Robert Martin, and
she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her
to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing
less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a
parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life--or, at
least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other,)
till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old
writing-master's son."

"We think so very differently on this point, Mr. Knightley, that there
can be no use in canvassing it.  We shall only be making each other
more angry.  But as to my _letting_ her marry Robert Martin, it is
impossible; she has refused him, and so decidedly, I think, as must
prevent any second application.  She must abide by the evil of having
refused him, whatever it may be; and as to the refusal itself, I will
not pretend to say that I might not influence her a little; but I
assure you there was very little for me or for any body to do.  His
appearance is so much against him, and his manner so bad, that if she
ever were disposed to favour him, she is not now.  I can imagine, that
before she had seen any body superior, she might tolerate him.  He was
the brother of her friends, and he took pains to please her; and
altogether, having seen nobody better (that must have been his great
assistant) she might not, while she was at Abbey-Mill, find him
disagreeable.  But the case is altered now.  She knows now what
gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manner has
any chance with Harriet."

"Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!" cried Mr.
Knightley.--"Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and
good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility
than Harriet Smith could understand."

Emma made no answer, and tried to look cheerfully unconcerned, but was
really feeling uncomfortable and wanting him very much to be gone.  She
did not repent what she had done; she still thought herself a better
judge of such a point of female right and refinement than he could be;
but yet she had a sort of habitual respect for his judgment in general,
which made her dislike having it so loudly against her; and to have him
sitting just opposite to her in angry state, was very disagreeable.
Some minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt
on Emma's side to talk of the weather, but he made no answer.  He was
thinking.  The result of his thoughts appeared at last in these words.

"Robert Martin has no great loss--if he can but think so; and I hope it
will not be long before he does.  Your views for Harriet are best known
to yourself; but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it
is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have;--and
as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think
it will be all labour in vain."

Emma laughed and disclaimed.  He continued,

"Depend upon it, Elton will not do.  Elton is a very good sort of man,
and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make
an imprudent match.  He knows the value of a good income as well as any
body.  Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally.  He is
as well acquainted with his own claims, as you can be with Harriet's.
He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite
wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved
moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does
not mean to throw himself away.  I have heard him speak with great
animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are
intimate with, who have all twenty thousand pounds apiece."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Emma, laughing again.  "If I had
set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very
kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to
myself.  I have done with match-making indeed.  I could never hope to
equal my own doings at Randalls.  I shall leave off while I am well."

"Good morning to you,"--said he, rising and walking off abruptly.  He
was very much vexed.  He felt the disappointment of the young man, and
was mortified to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction
he had given; and the part which he was persuaded Emma had taken in the
affair, was provoking him exceedingly.

Emma remained in a state of vexation too; but there was more
indistinctness in the causes of her's, than in his.  She did not always
feel so absolutely satisfied with herself, so entirely convinced that
her opinions were right and her adversary's wrong, as Mr. Knightley.
He walked off in more complete self-approbation than he left for her.
She was not so materially cast down, however, but that a little time
and the return of Harriet were very adequate restoratives.  Harriet's
staying away so long was beginning to make her uneasy.  The possibility
of the young man's coming to Mrs. Goddard's that morning, and meeting
with Harriet and pleading his own cause, gave alarming ideas.  The
dread of such a failure after all became the prominent uneasiness; and
when Harriet appeared, and in very good spirits, and without having any
such reason to give for her long absence, she felt a satisfaction which
settled her with her own mind, and convinced her, that let Mr.
Knightley think or say what he would, she had done nothing which
woman's friendship and woman's feelings would not justify.

He had frightened her a little about Mr. Elton; but when she considered
that Mr. Knightley could not have observed him as she had done, neither
with the interest, nor (she must be allowed to tell herself, in spite
of Mr. Knightley's pretensions) with the skill of such an observer on
such a question as herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger,
she was able to believe, that he had rather said what he wished
resentfully to be true, than what he knew any thing about.  He
certainly might have heard Mr. Elton speak with more unreserve than she
had ever done, and Mr. Elton might not be of an imprudent,
inconsiderate disposition as to money matters; he might naturally be
rather attentive than otherwise to them; but then, Mr. Knightley did
not make due allowance for the influence of a strong passion at war
with all interested motives.  Mr. Knightley saw no such passion, and of
course thought nothing of its effects; but she saw too much of it to
feel a doubt of its overcoming any hesitations that a reasonable
prudence might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable, becoming
degree of prudence, she was very sure did not belong to Mr. Elton.

Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not
to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton.  Miss Nash had been
telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great
delight.  Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child,
and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was
coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and
found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to
London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the
whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr.
Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it
was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much
to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not
do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a _very_
_particular_ way indeed, that he was going on business which he would
not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very
enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly
precious.  Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very
sure there must be a _lady_ in the case, and he told him so; and Mr.
Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great
spirits.  Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal
more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her,
"that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but
she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should
think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton
had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness."



CHAPTER IX


Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with
herself.  He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual
before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave
looks shewed that she was not forgiven.  She was sorry, but could not
repent.  On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more
justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next
few days.

The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr.
Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common
sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half
sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's
feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and
steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted.  Emma was
soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered,
than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage
to the latter.

Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of
useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few
first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow.  It was much
easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination
range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge
her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary
pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she
was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing
all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin
quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with
ciphers and trophies.

In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are
not uncommon.  Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written
out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint
of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many
more.  Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as
Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of
the first order, in form as well as quantity.

Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the
girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting
in.  "So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young--he
wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time."
And it always ended in "Kitty, a fair but frozen maid."

His good friend Perry, too, whom he had spoken to on the subject, did
not at present recollect any thing of the riddle kind; but he had
desired Perry to be upon the watch, and as he went about so much,
something, he thought, might come from that quarter.

It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellects of Highbury
in general should be put under requisition.  Mr. Elton was the only one
whose assistance she asked.  He was invited to contribute any really
good enigmas, charades, or conundrums that he might recollect; and she
had the pleasure of seeing him most intently at work with his
recollections; and at the same time, as she could perceive, most
earnestly careful that nothing ungallant, nothing that did not breathe
a compliment to the sex should pass his lips.  They owed to him their
two or three politest puzzles; and the joy and exultation with which at
last he recalled, and rather sentimentally recited, that well-known
charade,

    My first doth affliction denote,
      Which my second is destin'd to feel
    And my whole is the best antidote
      That affliction to soften and heal.--

made her quite sorry to acknowledge that they had transcribed it some
pages ago already.

"Why will not you write one yourself for us, Mr. Elton?" said she;
"that is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be
easier to you."

"Oh no! he had never written, hardly ever, any thing of the kind in his
life.  The stupidest fellow! He was afraid not even Miss Woodhouse"--he
stopt a moment--"or Miss Smith could inspire him."

The very next day however produced some proof of inspiration.  He
called for a few moments, just to leave a piece of paper on the table
containing, as he said, a charade, which a friend of his had addressed
to a young lady, the object of his admiration, but which, from his
manner, Emma was immediately convinced must be his own.

"I do not offer it for Miss Smith's collection," said he.  "Being my
friend's, I have no right to expose it in any degree to the public eye,
but perhaps you may not dislike looking at it."

The speech was more to Emma than to Harriet, which Emma could
understand.  There was deep consciousness about him, and he found it
easier to meet her eye than her friend's.  He was gone the next
moment:--after another moment's pause,

"Take it," said Emma, smiling, and pushing the paper towards
Harriet--"it is for you.  Take your own."

But Harriet was in a tremor, and could not touch it; and Emma, never
loth to be first, was obliged to examine it herself.

        To Miss--

          CHARADE.

    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.
    Another view of man, my second brings,
      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

    But ah! united, what reverse we have!
      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown;
    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply,
      May its approval beam in that soft eye!

She cast her eye over it, pondered, caught the meaning, read it through
again to be quite certain, and quite mistress of the lines, and then
passing it to Harriet, sat happily smiling, and saying to herself,
while Harriet was puzzling over the paper in all the confusion of hope
and dulness, "Very well, Mr. Elton, very well indeed.  I have read
worse charades.  _Courtship_--a very good hint.  I give you credit for
it.  This is feeling your way.  This is saying very plainly--'Pray,
Miss Smith, give me leave to pay my addresses to you.  Approve my
charade and my intentions in the same glance.'

      May its approval beam in that soft eye!

Harriet exactly.  Soft is the very word for her eye--of all epithets,
the justest that could be given.

      Thy ready wit the word will soon supply.

Humph--Harriet's ready wit! All the better.  A man must be very much in
love, indeed, to describe her so.  Ah! Mr. Knightley, I wish you had
the benefit of this; I think this would convince you.  For once in your
life you would be obliged to own yourself mistaken.  An excellent
charade indeed! and very much to the purpose.  Things must come to a
crisis soon now.

She was obliged to break off from these very pleasant observations,
which were otherwise of a sort to run into great length, by the
eagerness of Harriet's wondering questions.

"What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?--what can it be? I have not an idea--I
cannot guess it in the least.  What can it possibly be? Do try to find
it out, Miss Woodhouse.  Do help me.  I never saw any thing so hard.
Is it kingdom? I wonder who the friend was--and who could be the young
lady.  Do you think it is a good one? Can it be woman?

      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

Can it be Neptune?

      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh, no! shark is only one
syllable.  It must be very clever, or he would not have brought it.
Oh! Miss Woodhouse, do you think we shall ever find it out?"

"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking
of? Where would be the use of his bringing us a charade made by a
friend upon a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.

For Miss ------, read Miss Smith.

    My first displays the wealth and pomp of kings,
      Lords of the earth! their luxury and ease.

That is _court_.

    Another view of man, my second brings;
      Behold him there, the monarch of the seas!

That is _ship_;--plain as it can be.--Now for the cream.

    But ah! united, (_courtship_, you know,) what reverse we have!
      Man's boasted power and freedom, all are flown.
    Lord of the earth and sea, he bends a slave,
      And woman, lovely woman, reigns alone.

A very proper compliment!--and then follows the application, which I
think, my dear Harriet, you cannot find much difficulty in
comprehending.  Read it in comfort to yourself.  There can be no doubt
of its being written for you and to you."

Harriet could not long resist so delightful a persuasion.  She read the
concluding lines, and was all flutter and happiness.  She could not
speak.  But she was not wanted to speak.  It was enough for her to
feel.  Emma spoke for her.

"There is so pointed, and so particular a meaning in this compliment,"
said she, "that I cannot have a doubt as to Mr. Elton's intentions.
You are his object--and you will soon receive the completest proof of
it.  I thought it must be so.  I thought I could not be so deceived;
but now, it is clear; the state of his mind is as clear and decided, as
my wishes on the subject have been ever since I knew you.  Yes,
Harriet, just so long have I been wanting the very circumstance to
happen what has happened.  I could never tell whether an attachment
between you and Mr. Elton were most desirable or most natural.  Its
probability and its eligibility have really so equalled each other! I
am very happy.  I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, with all my heart.
This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating.
This is a connexion which offers nothing but good.  It will give you
every thing that you want--consideration, independence, a proper
home--it will fix you in the centre of all your real friends, close to
Hartfield and to me, and confirm our intimacy for ever.  This, Harriet,
is an alliance which can never raise a blush in either of us."

"Dear Miss Woodhouse!"--and "Dear Miss Woodhouse," was all that
Harriet, with many tender embraces could articulate at first; but when
they did arrive at something more like conversation, it was
sufficiently clear to her friend that she saw, felt, anticipated, and
remembered just as she ought.  Mr. Elton's superiority had very ample
acknowledgment.

"Whatever you say is always right," cried Harriet, "and therefore I
suppose, and believe, and hope it must be so; but otherwise I could not
have imagined it.  It is so much beyond any thing I deserve.  Mr.
Elton, who might marry any body! There cannot be two opinions about
_him_.  He is so very superior.  Only think of those sweet verses--'To
Miss ------.' Dear me, how clever!--Could it really be meant for me?"

"I cannot make a question, or listen to a question about that.  It is a
certainty.  Receive it on my judgment.  It is a sort of prologue to the
play, a motto to the chapter; and will be soon followed by
matter-of-fact prose."

"It is a sort of thing which nobody could have expected.  I am sure, a
month ago, I had no more idea myself!--The strangest things do take
place!"

"When Miss Smiths and Mr. Eltons get acquainted--they do indeed--and
really it is strange; it is out of the common course that what is so
evidently, so palpably desirable--what courts the pre-arrangement of
other people, should so immediately shape itself into the proper form.
You and Mr. Elton are by situation called together; you belong to one
another by every circumstance of your respective homes.  Your marrying
will be equal to the match at Randalls.  There does seem to be a
something in the air of Hartfield which gives love exactly the right
direction, and sends it into the very channel where it ought to flow.

      The course of true love never did run smooth--

A Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would have a long note on that
passage."

"That Mr. Elton should really be in love with me,--me, of all people,
who did not know him, to speak to him, at Michaelmas! And he, the very
handsomest man that ever was, and a man that every body looks up to,
quite like Mr. Knightley! His company so sought after, that every body
says he need not eat a single meal by himself if he does not chuse it;
that he has more invitations than there are days in the week.  And so
excellent in the Church! Miss Nash has put down all the texts he has
ever preached from since he came to Highbury.  Dear me! When I look
back to the first time I saw him! How little did I think!--The two
Abbots and I ran into the front room and peeped through the blind when
we heard he was going by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away, and
staid to look through herself; however, she called me back presently,
and let me look too, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we
thought he looked!  He was arm-in-arm with Mr. Cole."

"This is an alliance which, whoever--whatever your friends may be, must
be agreeable to them, provided at least they have common sense; and we
are not to be addressing our conduct to fools.  If they are anxious to
see you _happily_ married, here is a man whose amiable character gives
every assurance of it;--if they wish to have you settled in the same
country and circle which they have chosen to place you in, here it will
be accomplished; and if their only object is that you should, in the
common phrase, be _well_ married, here is the comfortable fortune, the
respectable establishment, the rise in the world which must satisfy
them."

"Yes, very true.  How nicely you talk; I love to hear you.  You
understand every thing.  You and Mr. Elton are one as clever as the
other.  This charade!--If I had studied a twelvemonth, I could never
have made any thing like it."

"I thought he meant to try his skill, by his manner of declining it
yesterday."

"I do think it is, without exception, the best charade I ever read."

"I never read one more to the purpose, certainly."

"It is as long again as almost all we have had before."

"I do not consider its length as particularly in its favour.  Such
things in general cannot be too short."

Harriet was too intent on the lines to hear.  The most satisfactory
comparisons were rising in her mind.

"It is one thing," said she, presently--her cheeks in a glow--"to have
very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is
any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you
must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like
this."

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin's
prose.

"Such sweet lines!" continued Harriet--"these two last!--But how shall
I ever be able to return the paper, or say I have found it out?--Oh!
Miss Woodhouse, what can we do about that?"

"Leave it to me.  You do nothing.  He will be here this evening, I dare
say, and then I will give it him back, and some nonsense or other will
pass between us, and you shall not be committed.--Your soft eyes shall
chuse their own time for beaming.  Trust to me."

"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, what a pity that I must not write this beautiful
charade into my book! I am sure I have not got one half so good."

"Leave out the two last lines, and there is no reason why you should
not write it into your book."

"Oh! but those two lines are"--

--"The best of all.  Granted;--for private enjoyment; and for private
enjoyment keep them.  They are not at all the less written you know,
because you divide them.  The couplet does not cease to be, nor does
its meaning change.  But take it away, and all _appropriation_ ceases,
and a very pretty gallant charade remains, fit for any collection.
Depend upon it, he would not like to have his charade slighted, much
better than his passion.  A poet in love must be encouraged in both
capacities, or neither.  Give me the book, I will write it down, and
then there can be no possible reflection on you."

Harriet submitted, though her mind could hardly separate the parts, so
as to feel quite sure that her friend were not writing down a
declaration of love.  It seemed too precious an offering for any degree
of publicity.

"I shall never let that book go out of my own hands," said she.

"Very well," replied Emma; "a most natural feeling; and the longer it
lasts, the better I shall be pleased.  But here is my father coming:
you will not object to my reading the charade to him.  It will be
giving him so much pleasure! He loves any thing of the sort, and
especially any thing that pays woman a compliment.  He has the
tenderest spirit of gallantry towards us all!--You must let me read it
to him."

Harriet looked grave.

"My dear Harriet, you must not refine too much upon this charade.--You
will betray your feelings improperly, if you are too conscious and too
quick, and appear to affix more meaning, or even quite all the meaning
which may be affixed to it.  Do not be overpowered by such a little
tribute of admiration.  If he had been anxious for secrecy, he would
not have left the paper while I was by; but he rather pushed it towards
me than towards you.  Do not let us be too solemn on the business.  He
has encouragement enough to proceed, without our sighing out our souls
over this charade."

"Oh! no--I hope I shall not be ridiculous about it.  Do as you please."

Mr. Woodhouse came in, and very soon led to the subject again, by the
recurrence of his very frequent inquiry of "Well, my dears, how does
your book go on?--Have you got any thing fresh?"

"Yes, papa; we have something to read you, something quite fresh.  A
piece of paper was found on the table this morning--(dropt, we suppose,
by a fairy)--containing a very pretty charade, and we have just copied
it in."

She read it to him, just as he liked to have any thing read, slowly and
distinctly, and two or three times over, with explanations of every
part as she proceeded--and he was very much pleased, and, as she had
foreseen, especially struck with the complimentary conclusion.

"Aye, that's very just, indeed, that's very properly said.  Very true.
'Woman, lovely woman.' It is such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can
easily guess what fairy brought it.--Nobody could have written so
prettily, but you, Emma."

Emma only nodded, and smiled.--After a little thinking, and a very
tender sigh, he added,

"Ah! it is no difficulty to see who you take after! Your dear mother
was so clever at all those things! If I had but her memory! But I can
remember nothing;--not even that particular riddle which you have heard
me mention; I can only recollect the first stanza; and there are
several.

    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,
      Kindled a flame I yet deplore,
    The hood-wink'd boy I called to aid,
    Though of his near approach afraid,
      So fatal to my suit before.

And that is all that I can recollect of it--but it is very clever all
the way through.  But I think, my dear, you said you had got it."

"Yes, papa, it is written out in our second page.  We copied it from
the Elegant Extracts.  It was Garrick's, you know."

"Aye, very true.--I wish I could recollect more of it.

    Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.

The name makes me think of poor Isabella; for she was very near being
christened Catherine after her grandmama.  I hope we shall have her
here next week.  Have you thought, my dear, where you shall put
her--and what room there will be for the children?"

"Oh! yes--she will have her own room, of course; the room she always
has;--and there is the nursery for the children,--just as usual, you
know.  Why should there be any change?"

"I do not know, my dear--but it is so long since she was here!--not
since last Easter, and then only for a few days.--Mr. John Knightley's
being a lawyer is very inconvenient.--Poor Isabella!--she is sadly
taken away from us all!--and how sorry she will be when she comes, not
to see Miss Taylor here!"

"She will not be surprized, papa, at least."

"I do not know, my dear.  I am sure I was very much surprized when I
first heard she was going to be married."

"We must ask Mr. and Mrs. Weston to dine with us, while Isabella is
here."

"Yes, my dear, if there is time.--But--(in a very depressed tone)--she
is coming for only one week.  There will not be time for any thing."

"It is unfortunate that they cannot stay longer--but it seems a case of
necessity.  Mr. John Knightley must be in town again on the 28th, and
we ought to be thankful, papa, that we are to have the whole of the
time they can give to the country, that two or three days are not to be
taken out for the Abbey.  Mr. Knightley promises to give up his claim
this Christmas--though you know it is longer since they were with him,
than with us."

"It would be very hard, indeed, my dear, if poor Isabella were to be
anywhere but at Hartfield."

Mr. Woodhouse could never allow for Mr. Knightley's claims on his
brother, or any body's claims on Isabella, except his own.  He sat
musing a little while, and then said,

"But I do not see why poor Isabella should be obliged to go back so
soon, though he does.  I think, Emma, I shall try and persuade her to
stay longer with us.  She and the children might stay very well."

"Ah! papa--that is what you never have been able to accomplish, and I
do not think you ever will.  Isabella cannot bear to stay behind her
husband."

This was too true for contradiction.  Unwelcome as it was, Mr.
Woodhouse could only give a submissive sigh; and as Emma saw his
spirits affected by the idea of his daughter's attachment to her
husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject as must
raise them.

"Harriet must give us as much of her company as she can while my
brother and sister are here.  I am sure she will be pleased with the
children.  We are very proud of the children, are not we, papa? I
wonder which she will think the handsomest, Henry or John?"

"Aye, I wonder which she will.  Poor little dears, how glad they will
be to come.  They are very fond of being at Hartfield, Harriet."

"I dare say they are, sir.  I am sure I do not know who is not."

"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very like his mama.  Henry is the
eldest, he was named after me, not after his father.  John, the second,
is named after his father.  Some people are surprized, I believe, that
the eldest was not, but Isabella would have him called Henry, which I
thought very pretty of her.  And he is a very clever boy, indeed.  They
are all remarkably clever; and they have so many pretty ways.  They
will come and stand by my chair, and say, 'Grandpapa, can you give me a
bit of string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him
knives were only made for grandpapas.  I think their father is too
rough with them very often."

"He appears rough to you," said Emma, "because you are so very gentle
yourself; but if you could compare him with other papas, you would not
think him rough.  He wishes his boys to be active and hardy; and if
they misbehave, can give them a sharp word now and then; but he is an
affectionate father--certainly Mr. John Knightley is an affectionate
father.  The children are all fond of him."

"And then their uncle comes in, and tosses them up to the ceiling in a
very frightful way!"

"But they like it, papa; there is nothing they like so much.  It is
such enjoyment to them, that if their uncle did not lay down the rule
of their taking turns, whichever began would never give way to the
other."

"Well, I cannot understand it."

"That is the case with us all, papa.  One half of the world cannot
understand the pleasures of the other."

Later in the morning, and just as the girls were going to separate in
preparation for the regular four o'clock dinner, the hero of this
inimitable charade walked in again.  Harriet turned away; but Emma
could receive him with the usual smile, and her quick eye soon
discerned in his the consciousness of having made a push--of having
thrown a die; and she imagined he was come to see how it might turn up.
His ostensible reason, however, was to ask whether Mr. Woodhouse's
party could be made up in the evening without him, or whether he should
be in the smallest degree necessary at Hartfield.  If he were, every
thing else must give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had been saying
so much about his dining with him--had made such a point of it, that he
had promised him conditionally to come.

Emma thanked him, but could not allow of his disappointing his friend
on their account; her father was sure of his rubber.  He re-urged--she
re-declined; and he seemed then about to make his bow, when taking the
paper from the table, she returned it--

"Oh! here is the charade you were so obliging as to leave with us;
thank you for the sight of it.  We admired it so much, that I have
ventured to write it into Miss Smith's collection.  Your friend will
not take it amiss I hope.  Of course I have not transcribed beyond the
first eight lines."

Mr. Elton certainly did not very well know what to say.  He looked
rather doubtingly--rather confused; said something about
"honour,"--glanced at Emma and at Harriet, and then seeing the book
open on the table, took it up, and examined it very attentively.  With
the view of passing off an awkward moment, Emma smilingly said,

"You must make my apologies to your friend; but so good a charade must
not be confined to one or two.  He may be sure of every woman's
approbation while he writes with such gallantry."

"I have no hesitation in saying," replied Mr. Elton, though hesitating
a good deal while he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying--at least
if my friend feels at all as _I_ do--I have not the smallest doubt
that, could he see his little effusion honoured as _I_ see it, (looking
at the book again, and replacing it on the table), he would consider it
as the proudest moment of his life."

After this speech he was gone as soon as possible.  Emma could not
think it too soon; for with all his good and agreeable qualities, there
was a sort of parade in his speeches which was very apt to incline her
to laugh.  She ran away to indulge the inclination, leaving the tender
and the sublime of pleasure to Harriet's share.



CHAPTER X


Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to
prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the
morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who
lived a little way out of Highbury.

Their road to this detached cottage was down Vicarage Lane, a lane
leading at right angles from the broad, though irregular, main street
of the place; and, as may be inferred, containing the blessed abode of
Mr. Elton.  A few inferior dwellings were first to be passed, and then,
about a quarter of a mile down the lane rose the Vicarage, an old and
not very good house, almost as close to the road as it could be.  It
had no advantage of situation; but had been very much smartened up by
the present proprietor; and, such as it was, there could be no
possibility of the two friends passing it without a slackened pace and
observing eyes.--Emma's remark was--

"There it is.  There go you and your riddle-book one of these days."--
Harriet's was--

"Oh, what a sweet house!--How very beautiful!--There are the yellow
curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."

"I do not often walk this way _now_," said Emma, as they proceeded,
"but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get
intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of
this part of Highbury."

Harriet, she found, had never in her life been within side the
Vicarage, and her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering
exteriors and probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of
love, with Mr. Elton's seeing ready wit in her.

"I wish we could contrive it," said she; "but I cannot think of any
tolerable pretence for going in;--no servant that I want to inquire
about of his housekeeper--no message from my father."

She pondered, but could think of nothing.  After a mutual silence of
some minutes, Harriet thus began again--

"I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or
going to be married! so charming as you are!"--

Emma laughed, and replied,

"My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;
I must find other people charming--one other person at least.  And I am
not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little
intention of ever marrying at all."

"Ah!--so you say; but I cannot believe it."

"I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the
question:  and I do _not_ wish to see any such person.  I would rather
not be tempted.  I cannot really change for the better.  If I were to
marry, I must expect to repent it."

"Dear me!--it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!"--

"I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.  Were I to
fall in love, indeed, it would be a different thing!  but I never have
been in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever
shall.  And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such
a situation as mine.  Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;
consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much
mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never,
never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always
first and always right in any man's eyes as I am in my father's."

"But then, to be an old maid at last, like Miss Bates!"

"That is as formidable an image as you could present, Harriet; and if I
thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly--so satisfied--so
smiling--so prosing--so undistinguishing and unfastidious--and so apt
to tell every thing relative to every body about me, I would marry
to-morrow. But between _us_, I am convinced there never can be any
likeness, except in being unmarried."

"But still, you will be an old maid! and that's so dreadful!"

"Never mind, Harriet, I shall not be a poor old maid; and it is poverty
only which makes celibacy contemptible to a generous public!  A single
woman, with a very narrow income, must be a ridiculous, disagreeable
old maid! the proper sport of boys and girls, but a single woman, of
good fortune, is always respectable, and may be as sensible and
pleasant as any body else.  And the distinction is not quite so much
against the candour and common sense of the world as appears at first;
for a very narrow income has a tendency to contract the mind, and sour
the temper.  Those who can barely live, and who live perforce in a very
small, and generally very inferior, society, may well be illiberal and
cross.  This does not apply, however, to Miss Bates; she is only too
good natured and too silly to suit me; but, in general, she is very
much to the taste of every body, though single and though poor.
Poverty certainly has not contracted her mind:  I really believe, if
she had only a shilling in the world, she would be very likely to give
away sixpence of it; and nobody is afraid of her:  that is a great
charm."

"Dear me! but what shall you do? how shall you employ yourself when you
grow old?"

"If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great
many independent resources; and I do not perceive why I should be more
in want of employment at forty or fifty than one-and-twenty.  Woman's
usual occupations of hand and mind will be as open to me then as they
are now; or with no important variation.  If I draw less, I shall read
more; if I give up music, I shall take to carpet-work.  And as for
objects of interest, objects for the affections, which is in truth the
great point of inferiority, the want of which is really the great evil
to be avoided in _not_ marrying, I shall be very well off, with all the
children of a sister I love so much, to care about.  There will be
enough of them, in all probability, to supply every sort of sensation
that declining life can need.  There will be enough for every hope and
every fear; and though my attachment to none can equal that of a
parent, it suits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and
blinder.  My nephews and nieces!--I shall often have a niece with me."

"Do you know Miss Bates's niece?  That is, I know you must have seen
her a hundred times--but are you acquainted?"

"Oh! yes; we are always forced to be acquainted whenever she comes to
Highbury.  By the bye, _that_ is almost enough to put one out of
conceit with a niece.  Heaven forbid! at least, that I should ever bore
people half so much about all the Knightleys together, as she does
about Jane Fairfax.  One is sick of the very name of Jane Fairfax.
Every letter from her is read forty times over; her compliments to all
friends go round and round again; and if she does but send her aunt the
pattern of a stomacher, or knit a pair of garters for her grandmother,
one hears of nothing else for a month.  I wish Jane Fairfax very well;
but she tires me to death."

They were now approaching the cottage, and all idle topics were
superseded.  Emma was very compassionate; and the distresses of the
poor were as sure of relief from her personal attention and kindness,
her counsel and her patience, as from her purse.  She understood their
ways, could allow for their ignorance and their temptations, had no
romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom
education had done so little; entered into their troubles with ready
sympathy, and always gave her assistance with as much intelligence as
good-will.  In the present instance, it was sickness and poverty
together which she came to visit; and after remaining there as long as
she could give comfort or advice, she quitted the cottage with such an
impression of the scene as made her say to Harriet, as they walked away,

"These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good.  How trifling they make
every thing else appear!--I feel now as if I could think of nothing but
these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how
soon it may all vanish from my mind?"

"Very true," said Harriet.  "Poor creatures! one can think of nothing
else."

"And really, I do not think the impression will soon be over," said
Emma, as she crossed the low hedge, and tottering footstep which ended
the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden, and brought them
into the lane again.  "I do not think it will," stopping to look once
more at all the outward wretchedness of the place, and recall the still
greater within.

"Oh! dear, no," said her companion.

They walked on.  The lane made a slight bend; and when that bend was
passed, Mr. Elton was immediately in sight; and so near as to give Emma
time only to say farther,

"Ah!  Harriet, here comes a very sudden trial of our stability in good
thoughts.  Well, (smiling,) I hope it may be allowed that if compassion
has produced exertion and relief to the sufferers, it has done all that
is truly important.  If we feel for the wretched, enough to do all we
can for them, the rest is empty sympathy, only distressing to
ourselves."

Harriet could just answer, "Oh! dear, yes," before the gentleman joined
them.  The wants and sufferings of the poor family, however, were the
first subject on meeting.  He had been going to call on them.  His
visit he would now defer; but they had a very interesting parley about
what could be done and should be done.  Mr. Elton then turned back to
accompany them.

"To fall in with each other on such an errand as this," thought Emma;
"to meet in a charitable scheme; this will bring a great increase of
love on each side.  I should not wonder if it were to bring on the
declaration.  It must, if I were not here.  I wish I were anywhere
else."

Anxious to separate herself from them as far as she could, she soon
afterwards took possession of a narrow footpath, a little raised on one
side of the lane, leaving them together in the main road.  But she had
not been there two minutes when she found that Harriet's habits of
dependence and imitation were bringing her up too, and that, in short,
they would both be soon after her.  This would not do; she immediately
stopped, under pretence of having some alteration to make in the lacing
of her 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
talk to and question her, was the most natural thing in the world, or
would have been the most natural, had she been acting just then without
design; and by this means the others were still able to keep ahead,
without any obligation of waiting for her.  She gained on them,
however, involuntarily:  the child's pace was quick, and theirs rather
slow; and she was the more concerned at it, from their being evidently
in a conversation which interested them.  Mr. Elton was speaking with
animation, Harriet listening with a very pleased attention; and Emma,
having sent the child on, was beginning to think how she might draw
back a little more, when they both looked around, and she was obliged
to join them.

Mr. Elton was still talking, still engaged in some interesting detail;
and Emma experienced some disappointment when she found that he was
only giving his fair companion an account of the yesterday's party at
his friend Cole's, and that she was come in herself for the Stilton
cheese, the north Wiltshire, the butter, the cellery, the beet-root,
and all the dessert.

"This would soon have led to something better, of course," was her
consoling reflection; "any thing interests between those who love; and
any thing will serve as introduction to what is near the heart.  If I
could but have kept longer away!"

They now walked on together quietly, till within view of the vicarage
pales, when a sudden resolution, of at least getting Harriet into the
house, made her again find something very much amiss about her boot,
and fall behind to arrange it once more.  She then broke the lace off
short, and dexterously throwing it into a ditch, was presently obliged
to entreat them to stop, and acknowledged her inability to put herself
to rights so as to be able to walk home in tolerable comfort.

"Part of my lace is gone," said she, "and I do not know how I am to
contrive.  I really am a most troublesome companion to you both, but I
hope I am not often so ill-equipped. Mr. Elton, I must beg leave to
stop at your house, and ask your housekeeper for a bit of ribband or
string, or any thing just to keep my boot on."

Mr. Elton looked all happiness at this proposition; and nothing could
exceed his alertness and attention in conducting them into his house
and endeavouring to make every thing appear to advantage.  The room
they were taken into was the one he chiefly occupied, and looking
forwards; behind it was another with which it immediately communicated;
the door between them was open, and Emma passed into it with the
housekeeper to receive her assistance in the most comfortable manner.
She was obliged to leave the door ajar as she found it; but she fully
intended that Mr. Elton should close it.  It was not closed, however,
it still remained ajar; but by engaging the housekeeper in incessant
conversation, she hoped to make it practicable for him to chuse his own
subject in the adjoining room.  For ten minutes she could hear nothing
but herself.  It could be protracted no longer.  She was then obliged
to be finished, and make her appearance.

The lovers were standing together at one of the windows.  It had a most
favourable aspect; and, for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of
having schemed successfully.  But it would not do; he had not come to
the point.  He had been most agreeable, most delightful; he had told
Harriet that he had seen them go by, and had purposely followed them;
other little gallantries and allusions had been dropt, but nothing
serious.

"Cautious, very cautious," thought Emma; "he advances inch by inch, and
will hazard nothing till he believes himself secure."

Still, however, though every thing had not been accomplished by her
ingenious device, she could not but flatter herself that it had been
the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading
them forward to the great event.



CHAPTER XI


Mr. Elton must now be left to himself.  It was no longer in Emma's
power to superintend his happiness or quicken his measures.  The coming
of her sister's family was so very near at hand, that first in
anticipation, and then in reality, it became henceforth her prime
object of interest; and during the ten days of their stay at Hartfield
it was not to be expected--she did not herself expect--that any thing
beyond occasional, fortuitous assistance could be afforded by her to
the lovers.  They might advance rapidly if they would, however; they
must advance somehow or other whether they would or no.  She hardly
wished to have more leisure for them.  There are people, who the more
you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.

Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley, from having been longer than usual absent
from Surry, were exciting of course rather more than the usual
interest.  Till this year, every long vacation since their marriage had
been divided between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays
of this autumn had been given to sea-bathing for the children, and it
was therefore many months since they had been seen in a regular way by
their Surry connexions, or seen at all by Mr. Woodhouse, who could not
be induced to get so far as London, even for poor Isabella's sake; and
who consequently was now most nervously and apprehensively happy in
forestalling this too short visit.

He thought much of the evils of the journey for her, and not a little
of the fatigues of his own horses and coachman who were to bring some
of the party the last half of the way; but his alarms were needless;
the sixteen miles being happily accomplished, and Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley, their five children, and a competent number of
nursery-maids, all reaching Hartfield in safety.  The bustle and joy of
such an arrival, the many to be talked to, welcomed, encouraged, and
variously dispersed and disposed of, produced a noise and confusion
which his nerves could not have borne under any other cause, nor have
endured much longer even for this; but the ways of Hartfield and the
feelings of her father were so respected by Mrs. John Knightley, that
in spite of maternal solicitude for the immediate enjoyment of her
little ones, and for their having instantly all the liberty and
attendance, all the eating and drinking, and sleeping and playing,
which they could possibly wish for, without the smallest delay, the
children were never allowed to be long a disturbance to him, either in
themselves or in any restless attendance on them.

Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle,
quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate;
wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so
tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher
ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible.  She could never see
a fault in any of them.  She was not a woman of strong understanding or
any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited
also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health,
over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves,
and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be
of Mr. Perry.  They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper,
and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.

Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man;
rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private
character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being
generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour.  He
was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to
deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection;
and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that
any natural defects in it should not be increased.  The extreme
sweetness of her temper must hurt his.  He had all the clearness and
quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an
ungracious, or say a severe thing.

He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong
in him escaped her.  She was quick in feeling the little injuries to
Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself.  Perhaps she might have
passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella's sister,
but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without
praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal
compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all
in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful
forbearance towards her father.  There he had not always the patience
that could have been wished.  Mr. Woodhouse's peculiarities and
fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or
sharp retort equally ill-bestowed.  It did not often happen; for Mr.
John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and
generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often
for Emma's charity, especially as there was all the pain of
apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not.
The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest
feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass
away in unsullied cordiality.  They had not been long seated and
composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a
sigh, called his daughter's attention to the sad change at Hartfield
since she had been there last.

"Ah, my dear," said he, "poor Miss Taylor--It is a grievous business."

"Oh yes, sir," cried she with ready sympathy, "how you must miss her!
And dear Emma, too!--What a dreadful loss to you both!--I have been so
grieved for you.--I could not imagine how you could possibly do without
her.--It is a sad change indeed.--But I hope she is pretty well, sir."

"Pretty well, my dear--I hope--pretty well.--I do not know but that the
place agrees with her tolerably."

Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any
doubts of the air of Randalls.

"Oh! no--none in the least.  I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my
life--never looking so well.  Papa is only speaking his own regret."

"Very much to the honour of both," was the handsome reply.

"And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?" asked Isabella in the
plaintive tone which just suited her father.

Mr. Woodhouse hesitated.--"Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish."

"Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they
married.  Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one,
have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both,
either at Randalls or here--and as you may suppose, Isabella, most
frequently here.  They are very, very kind in their visits.  Mr. Weston
is really as kind as herself.  Papa, if you speak in that melancholy
way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all.  Every body
must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought
also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our
missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated--which
is the exact truth."

"Just as it should be," said Mr. John Knightley, "and just as I hoped
it was from your letters.  Her wish of shewing you attention could not
be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all
easy.  I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of
the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and
now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."

"Why, to be sure," said Mr. Woodhouse--"yes, certainly--I cannot deny
that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often--
but then--she is always obliged to go away again."

"It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa.-- You
quite forget poor Mr. Weston."

"I think, indeed," said John Knightley pleasantly, "that Mr. Weston has
some little claim.  You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of
the poor husband.  I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the
claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force.  As for
Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of
putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can."

"Me, my love," cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in
part.-- "Are you talking about me?--I am sure nobody ought to be, or
can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not
been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have
thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world;
and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think
there is nothing he does not deserve.  I believe he is one of the very
best-tempered men that ever existed.  Excepting yourself and your
brother, I do not know his equal for temper.  I shall never forget his
flying Henry's kite for him that very windy day last Easter--and ever
since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing
that note, at twelve o'clock at night, on purpose to assure me that
there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could
not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence.--If any body
can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor."

"Where is the young man?" said John Knightley.  "Has he been here on
this occasion--or has he not?"

"He has not been here yet," replied Emma.  "There was a strong
expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in
nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately."

"But you should tell them of the letter, my dear," said her father.
"He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very
proper, handsome letter it was.  She shewed it to me.  I thought it
very well done of him indeed.  Whether it was his own idea you know,
one cannot tell.  He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps--"

"My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes."

"Three-and-twenty!--is he indeed?--Well, I could not have thought it--
and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother!  Well, time
does fly indeed!--and my memory is very bad.  However, it was an
exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great
deal of pleasure.  I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated
Sept. 28th--and began, 'My dear Madam,' but I forget how it went on;
and it was signed 'F. C. Weston Churchill.'-- I remember that
perfectly."

"How very pleasing and proper of him!" cried the good-hearted Mrs. John
Knightley.  "I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man.
But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father!
There is something so shocking in a child's being taken away from his
parents and natural home!  I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston
could part with him.  To give up one's child!  I really never could
think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else."

"Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy," observed Mr.
John Knightley coolly.  "But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have
felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John.  Mr. Weston is
rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings;
he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow
or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society
for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and
playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family
affection, or any thing that home affords."

Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and
had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass.  She
would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable
and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home
to himself, whence resulted her brother's disposition to look down on
the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was
important.--It had a high claim to forbearance.



CHAPTER XII


Mr. Knightley was to dine with them--rather against the inclination of
Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in
Isabella's first day.  Emma's sense of right however had decided it;
and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had
particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement
between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper
invitation.

She hoped they might now become friends again.  She thought it was time
to make up.  Making-up indeed would not do.  _She_ certainly had not
been in the wrong, and _he_ would never own that he had.  Concession
must be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that
they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the
restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one
of the children with her--the youngest, a nice little girl about eight
months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very
happy to be danced about in her aunt's arms.  It did assist; for though
he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to
talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her
arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity.  Emma felt they
were friends again; and the conviction giving her at first great
satisfaction, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying,
as he was admiring the baby,

"What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and
nieces.  As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very
different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never
disagree."

"If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and
women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings
with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might
always think alike."

"To be sure--our discordancies must always arise from my being in the
wrong."

"Yes," said he, smiling--"and reason good.  I was sixteen years old
when you were born."

"A material difference then," she replied--"and no doubt you were much
my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the
lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal
nearer?"

"Yes--a good deal _nearer_."

"But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we
think differently."

"I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by
not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child.  Come, my dear
Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it.  Tell your aunt,
little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be
renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is
now."

"That's true," she cried--"very true.  Little Emma, grow up a better
woman than your aunt.  Be infinitely cleverer and not half so
conceited.  Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done.
As far as good intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say
that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong.  I
only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly
disappointed."

"A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer.

"Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me."

This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John
Knightley made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?" and "John,
how are you?" succeeded in the true English style, burying under a
calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which
would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the
good of the other.

The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards
entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and
the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his
daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally
distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in
one or the other.

The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally
of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative,
and who was always the greater talker.  As a magistrate, he had
generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some
curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the
home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next
year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being
interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest
part of his life, and whose attachments were strong.  The plan of a
drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the
destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was
entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler
manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any
thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of
eagerness.

While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a
full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter.

"My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and
interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her
five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here!
And how tired you must be after your journey!  You must go to bed
early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you
go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together.  My dear Emma,
suppose we all have a little gruel."

Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both
the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as
herself;--and two basins only were ordered.  After a little more
discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being
taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of
grave reflection,

"It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South
End instead of coming here.  I never had much opinion of the sea air."

"Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not
have gone.  He recommended it for all the children, but particularly
for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing."

"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any
good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though
perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use
to any body.  I am sure it almost killed me once."

"Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must
beg you not to talk of the sea.  It makes me envious and miserable;--I
who have never seen it!  South End is prohibited, if you please.  My
dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry
yet; and he never forgets you."

"Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"

"Why, pretty well; but not quite well.  Poor Perry is bilious, and he
has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to
take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all
round the country.  I suppose there is not a man in such practice
anywhere.  But then there is not so clever a man any where."

"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow?
I have a great regard for Mr. Perry.  I hope he will be calling soon.
He will be so pleased to see my little ones."

"I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask
him about myself of some consequence.  And, my dear, whenever he comes,
you had better let him look at little Bella's throat."

"Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any
uneasiness about it.  Either bathing has been of the greatest service
to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of
Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since
August."

"It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use
to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would
have spoken to--

"You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I
have not heard one inquiry after them."

"Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention
them in most of your letters.  I hope they are quite well.  Good old
Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They
are always so pleased to see my children.-- And that excellent Miss
Bates!--such thorough worthy people!-- How are they, sir?"

"Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole.  But poor Mrs. Bates had a
bad cold about a month ago."

"How sorry I am!  But colds were never so prevalent as they have been
this autumn.  Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more
general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza."

"That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you
mention.  Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so
heavy as he has very often known them in November.  Perry does not call
it altogether a sickly season."

"No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly
except--

"Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a
sickly season.  Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be.  It is a
dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the
air so bad!"

"No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air.  Our part of London is
very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in
general, my dear sir.  The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very
different from almost all the rest.  We are so very airy!  I should be
unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is
hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in:  but
_we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of
Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air."

"Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield.  You make the best of it--but
after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different
creatures; you do not look like the same.  Now I cannot say, that I
think you are any of you looking well at present."

"I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those
little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely
free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were
rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a
little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of
coming.  I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I
assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever
sent us off altogether, in such good case.  I trust, at least, that you
do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with
affectionate anxiety towards her husband.

"Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you.  I think Mr. John
Knightley very far from looking well."

"What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John
Knightley, hearing his own name.

"I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking
well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued.  I could have
wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before
you left home."

"My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern
yourself about my looks.  Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling
yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse."

"I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother,"
cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff
from Scotland, to look after his new estate.  What will it answer?
Will not the old prejudice be too strong?"

And she talked in this way so long and successfully that, when forced
to give her attention again to her father and sister, she had nothing
worse to hear than Isabella's kind inquiry after Jane Fairfax; and Jane
Fairfax, though no great favourite with her in general, she was at that
moment very happy to assist in praising.

"That sweet, amiable Jane Fairfax!" said Mrs. John Knightley.-- "It is
so long since I have seen her, except now and then for a moment
accidentally in town!  What happiness it must be to her good old
grandmother and excellent aunt, when she comes to visit them!  I always
regret excessively on dear Emma's account that she cannot be more at
Highbury; but now their daughter is married, I suppose Colonel and Mrs.
Campbell will not be able to part with her at all.  She would be such a
delightful companion for Emma."

Mr. Woodhouse agreed to it all, but added,

"Our little friend Harriet Smith, however, is just such another pretty
kind of young person.  You will like Harriet.  Emma could not have a
better companion than Harriet."

"I am most happy to hear it--but only Jane Fairfax one knows to be so
very accomplished and superior!--and exactly Emma's age."

This topic was discussed very happily, and others succeeded of similar
moment, and passed away with similar harmony; but the evening did not
close without a little return of agitation.  The gruel came and
supplied a great deal to be said--much praise and many comments--
undoubting decision of its wholesomeness for every constitution, and
pretty severe Philippics upon the many houses where it was never met
with tolerable;--but, unfortunately, among the failures which the
daughter had to instance, the most recent, and therefore most
prominent, was in her own cook at South End, a young woman hired for
the time, who never had been able to understand what she meant by a
basin of nice smooth gruel, thin, but not too thin.  Often as she had
wished for and ordered it, she had never been able to get any thing
tolerable.  Here was a dangerous opening.

"Ah!" said Mr. Woodhouse, shaking his head and fixing his eyes on her
with tender concern.--The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed, "Ah!
there is no end of the sad consequences of your going to South End.  It
does not bear talking of."  And for a little while she hoped he would
not talk of it, and that a silent rumination might suffice to restore
him to the relish of his own smooth gruel.  After an interval of some
minutes, however, he began with,

"I shall always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn,
instead of coming here."

"But why should you be sorry, sir?--I assure you, it did the children a
great deal of good."

"And, moreover, if you must go to the sea, it had better not have been
to South End.  South End is an unhealthy place.  Perry was surprized to
hear you had fixed upon South End."

"I know there is such an idea with many people, but indeed it is quite
a mistake, sir.--We all had our health perfectly well there, never
found the least inconvenience from the mud; and Mr. Wingfield says it
is entirely a mistake to suppose the place unhealthy; and I am sure he
may be depended on, for he thoroughly understands the nature of the
air, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly."

"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went anywhere.-- Perry
was a week at Cromer once, and he holds it to be the best of all the
sea-bathing places.  A fine open sea, he says, and very pure air.  And,
by what I understand, you might have had lodgings there quite away from
the sea--a quarter of a mile off--very comfortable.  You should have
consulted Perry."

"But, my dear sir, the difference of the journey;--only consider how
great it would have been.--An hundred miles, perhaps, instead of forty."

"Ah! my dear, as Perry says, where health is at stake, nothing else
should be considered; and if one is to travel, there is not much to
chuse between forty miles and an hundred.--Better not move at all,
better stay in London altogether than travel forty miles to get into a
worse air.  This is just what Perry said.  It seemed to him a very
ill-judged measure."

Emma's attempts to stop her father had been vain; and when he had
reached such a point as this, she could not wonder at her
brother-in-law's breaking out.

"Mr. Perry," said he, in a voice of very strong displeasure, "would do
as well to keep his opinion till it is asked for.  Why does he make it
any business of his, to wonder at what I do?--at my taking my family
to one part of the coast or another?--I may be allowed, I hope, the use
of my judgment as well as Mr. Perry.-- I want his directions no more
than his drugs."  He paused--and growing cooler in a moment, added,
with only sarcastic dryness, "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to convey a
wife and five children a distance of an hundred and thirty miles with
no greater expense or 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 to-morrow morning I hope, and then we will look them over,
and you shall give me your opinion."

Mr. Woodhouse was rather agitated by such harsh reflections on his
friend Perry, to whom he had, in fact, though unconsciously, been
attributing many of his own feelings and expressions;--but the
soothing attentions of his daughters gradually removed the present
evil, and the immediate alertness of one brother, and better
recollections of the other, prevented any renewal of it.



CHAPTER XIII


There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John
Knightley, in this short visit to Hartfield, going about every morning
among her old acquaintance with her five children, and talking over
what she had done every evening with her father and sister.  She had
nothing to wish otherwise, but that the days did not pass so swiftly.
It was a delightful visit;--perfect, in being much too short.

In general their evenings were less engaged with friends than their
mornings; but one complete dinner engagement, and out of the house too,
there was no avoiding, though at Christmas.  Mr. Weston would take no
denial; they must all dine at Randalls one day;--even Mr. Woodhouse was
persuaded to think it a possible thing in preference to a division of
the party.

How they were all to be conveyed, he would have made a difficulty if he
could, but as his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually
at Hartfield, he was not able to make more than a simple question on
that head; it hardly amounted to a doubt; nor did it occupy Emma long
to convince him that they might in one of the carriages find room for
Harriet also.

Harriet, Mr. Elton, and Mr. Knightley, their own especial set, were the
only persons invited to meet them;--the hours were to be early, as well
as the numbers few; Mr. Woodhouse's habits and inclination being
consulted in every thing.

The evening before this great event (for it was a very great event that
Mr. Woodhouse should dine out, on the 24th of December) had been spent
by Harriet at Hartfield, and she had gone home so much indisposed with
a cold, that, but for her own earnest wish of being nursed by Mrs.
Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to leave the house.  Emma
called on her the next day, and found her doom already signed with
regard to Randalls.  She was very feverish and had a bad sore throat:
Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was talked of,
and Harriet herself was too ill and low to resist the authority which
excluded her from this delightful engagement, though she could not
speak of her loss without many tears.

Emma sat with her as long as she could, to attend her in Mrs. Goddard's
unavoidable absences, and raise her spirits by representing how much
Mr. Elton's would be depressed when he knew her state; and left her at
last tolerably comfortable, in the sweet dependence of his having a
most comfortless visit, and of their all missing her very much.  She
had not advanced many yards from Mrs. Goddard's door, when she was met
by Mr. Elton himself, evidently coming towards it, and as they walked
on slowly together in conversation about the invalid--of whom he, on
the rumour of considerable illness, had been going to inquire, that he
might carry some report of her to Hartfield--they were overtaken by
Mr. John Knightley returning from the daily visit to Donwell, with his
two eldest boys, whose healthy, glowing faces shewed all the benefit of
a country run, and seemed to ensure a quick despatch of the roast
mutton and rice pudding they were hastening home for.  They joined
company and proceeded together.  Emma was just describing the nature of
her friend's complaint;--"a throat very much inflamed, with a great
deal of heat about her, a quick, low pulse, &c.  and she was sorry to
find from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was liable to very bad
sore-throats, and had often alarmed her with them."  Mr. Elton looked
all alarm on the occasion, as he exclaimed,

"A sore-throat!--I hope not infectious.  I hope not of a putrid
infectious sort.  Has Perry seen her?  Indeed you should take care of
yourself as well as of your friend.  Let me entreat you to run no
risks.  Why does not Perry see her?"

Emma, who was not really at all frightened herself, tranquillised this
excess of apprehension by assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and
care; but as there must still remain a degree of uneasiness which she
could not wish to reason away, which she would rather feed and assist
than not, she added soon afterwards--as if quite another subject,

"It is so cold, so very cold--and looks and feels so very much like
snow, that if it were to any other place or with any other party, I
should really try not to go out to-day--and dissuade my father from
venturing; but as he has made up his mind, and does not seem to feel
the cold himself, I do not like to interfere, as I know it would be so
great a disappointment to Mr. and Mrs. Weston.  But, upon my word, Mr.
Elton, in your case, I should certainly excuse myself.  You appear to
me a little hoarse already, and when you consider what demand of voice
and what fatigues to-morrow will bring, I think it would be no more
than common prudence to stay at home and take care of yourself
to-night."

Mr. Elton looked as if he did not very well know what answer to make;
which was exactly the case; for though very much gratified by the kind
care of such a fair lady, and not liking to resist any advice of her's,
he had not really the least inclination to give up the visit;--but
Emma, too eager and busy in her own previous conceptions and views to
hear him impartially, or see him with clear vision, was very well
satisfied with his muttering acknowledgment of its being "very cold,
certainly very cold," and walked on, rejoicing in having extricated him
from Randalls, and secured him the power of sending to inquire after
Harriet every hour of the evening.

"You do quite right," said she;--"we will make your apologies to Mr.
and Mrs. Weston."

But hardly had she so spoken, when she found her brother was civilly
offering a seat in his carriage, if the weather were Mr. Elton's only
objection, and Mr. Elton actually accepting the offer with much prompt
satisfaction.  It was a done thing; Mr. Elton was to go, and never had
his broad handsome face expressed more pleasure than at this moment;
never had his smile been stronger, nor his eyes more exulting than when
he next looked at her.

"Well," said she to herself, "this is most strange!--After I had got
him off so well, to chuse to go into company, and leave Harriet ill
behind!--Most strange indeed!--But there is, I believe, in many men,
especially single men, such an inclination--such a passion for dining
out--a dinner engagement is so high in the class of their pleasures,
their employments, their dignities, almost their duties, that any thing
gives way to it--and this must be the case with Mr. Elton; a most
valuable, amiable, pleasing young man undoubtedly, and very much in
love with Harriet; but still, he cannot refuse an invitation, he must
dine out wherever he is asked.  What a strange thing love is! he can
see ready wit in Harriet, but will not dine alone for her."

Soon afterwards Mr. Elton quitted them, and she could not but do him
the justice of feeling that there was a great deal of sentiment in his
manner of naming Harriet at parting; in the tone of his voice while
assuring her that he should call at Mrs. Goddard's for news of her fair
friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of meeting
her again, when he hoped to be able to give a better report; and he
sighed and smiled himself off in a way that left the balance of
approbation much in his favour.

After a few minutes of entire silence between them, John Knightley
began with--

"I never in my life saw a man more intent on being agreeable than Mr.
Elton.  It is downright labour to him where ladies are concerned.  With
men he can be rational and unaffected, but when he has ladies to
please, every feature works."

"Mr. Elton's manners are not perfect," replied Emma; "but where there
is a wish to please, one ought to overlook, and one does overlook a
great deal.  Where a man does his best with only moderate powers, he
will have the advantage over negligent superiority.  There is such
perfect good-temper and good-will in Mr. Elton as one cannot but value."

"Yes," said Mr. John Knightley presently, with some slyness, "he seems
to have a great deal of good-will towards you."

"Me!" she replied with a smile of astonishment, "are you imagining me
to be Mr. Elton's object?"

"Such an imagination has crossed me, I own, Emma; and if it never
occurred to you before, you may as well take it into consideration now."

"Mr. Elton in love with me!--What an idea!"

"I do not say it is so; but you will do well to consider whether it is
so or not, and to regulate your behaviour accordingly.  I think your
manners to him encouraging.  I speak as a friend, Emma.  You had better
look about you, and ascertain what you do, and what you mean to do."

"I thank you; but I assure you you are quite mistaken.  Mr. Elton and I
are very good friends, and nothing more;" and she walked on, amusing
herself in the consideration of the blunders which often arise from a
partial knowledge of circumstances, of the mistakes which people of
high pretensions to judgment are for ever falling into; and not very
well pleased with her brother for imagining her blind and ignorant, and
in want of counsel.  He said no more.

Mr. Woodhouse had so completely made up his mind to the visit, that in
spite of the increasing coldness, he seemed to have no idea of
shrinking from it, and set forward at last most punctually with his
eldest daughter in his own carriage, with less apparent consciousness
of the weather than either of the others; too full of the wonder of his
own going, and the pleasure it was to afford at Randalls to see that it
was cold, and too well wrapt up to feel it.  The cold, however, was
severe; and by the time the second carriage was in motion, a few flakes
of snow were finding their way down, and the sky had the appearance of
being so overcharged as to want only a milder air to produce a very
white world in a very short time.

Emma soon saw that her companion was not in the happiest humour.  The
preparing and the going abroad in such weather, with the sacrifice of
his children after dinner, were evils, were disagreeables at least,
which Mr. John Knightley did not by any means like; he anticipated
nothing in the visit that could be at all worth the purchase; and the
whole of their drive to the vicarage was spent by him in expressing his
discontent.

"A man," said he, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he
asks people to leave their own fireside, and encounter such a day as
this, for the sake of coming to see him.  He must think himself a most
agreeable fellow; I could not do such a thing.  It is the greatest
absurdity--Actually snowing at this moment!-- The folly of not allowing
people to be comfortable at home--and the folly of people's not staying
comfortably at home when they can!  If we were obliged to go out such
an evening as this, by any call of duty or business, what a hardship we
should deem it;--and here are we, probably with rather thinner clothing
than usual, setting forward voluntarily, without excuse, in defiance of
the voice of nature, which tells man, in every thing given to his view
or his feelings, to stay at home himself, and keep all under shelter
that he can;--here are we setting forward to spend five dull hours in
another man's house, with nothing to say or to hear that was not said
and heard yesterday, and may not be said and heard again to-morrow.
Going in dismal weather, to return probably in worse;--four horses and
four servants taken out for nothing but to convey five idle, shivering
creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they might have had
at home."

Emma did not find herself equal to give the pleased assent, which no
doubt he was in the habit of receiving, to emulate the "Very true, my
love," which must have been usually administered by his travelling
companion; but she had resolution enough to refrain from making any
answer at all.  She could not be complying, she dreaded being
quarrelsome; her heroism reached only to silence.  She allowed him to
talk, and arranged the glasses, and wrapped herself up, without opening
her lips.

They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was let down, and Mr.
Elton, spruce, black, and smiling, was with them instantly.  Emma
thought with pleasure of some change of subject.  Mr. Elton was all
obligation and cheerfulness; he was so very cheerful in his civilities
indeed, that she began to think he must have received a different
account of Harriet from what had reached her.  She had sent while
dressing, and the answer had been, "Much the same--not better."

"_My_ report from Mrs. Goddard's," said she presently, "was not so
pleasant as I had hoped--'Not better' was _my_ answer."

His face lengthened immediately; and his voice was the voice of
sentiment as he answered.

"Oh! no--I am grieved to find--I was on the point of telling you that
when I called at Mrs. Goddard's door, which I did the very last thing
before I returned to dress, I was told that Miss Smith was not better,
by no means better, rather worse.  Very much grieved and concerned-- I
had flattered myself that she must be better after such a cordial as I
knew had been given her in the morning."

Emma smiled and answered--"My visit was of use to the nervous part of
her complaint, I hope; but not even I can charm away a sore throat; it
is a most severe cold indeed.  Mr. Perry has been with her, as you
probably heard."

"Yes--I imagined--that is--I did not--"

"He has been used to her in these complaints, and I hope to-morrow
morning will bring us both a more comfortable report.  But it is
impossible not to feel uneasiness.  Such a sad loss to our party
to-day!"

"Dreadful!--Exactly so, indeed.--She will be missed every moment."

This was very proper; the sigh which accompanied it was really
estimable; but it should have lasted longer.  Emma was rather in dismay
when only half a minute afterwards he began to speak of other things,
and in a voice of the greatest alacrity and enjoyment.

"What an excellent device," said he, "the use of a sheepskin for
carriages.  How very comfortable they make it;--impossible to feel cold
with such precautions.  The contrivances of modern days indeed have
rendered a gentleman's carriage perfectly complete.  One is so fenced
and guarded from the weather, that not a breath of air can find its way
unpermitted.  Weather becomes absolutely of no consequence.  It is a
very cold afternoon--but in this carriage we know nothing of the
matter.--Ha! snows a little I see."

"Yes," said John Knightley, "and I think we shall have a good deal of
it."

"Christmas weather," observed Mr. Elton.  "Quite seasonable; and
extremely fortunate we may think ourselves that it did not begin
yesterday, and prevent this day's party, which it might very possibly
have done, for Mr. Woodhouse would hardly have ventured had there been
much snow on the ground; but now it is of no consequence.  This is
quite the season indeed for friendly meetings.  At Christmas every body
invites their friends about them, and people think little of even the
worst weather.  I was snowed up at a friend's house once for a week.
Nothing could be pleasanter.  I went for only one night, and could not
get away till that very day se'nnight."

Mr. John Knightley looked as if he did not comprehend the pleasure, but
said only, coolly,

"I cannot wish to be snowed up a week at Randalls."

At another time Emma might have been amused, but she was too much
astonished now at Mr. Elton's spirits for other feelings.  Harriet
seemed quite forgotten in the expectation of a pleasant party.

"We are sure of excellent fires," continued he, "and every thing in the
greatest comfort.  Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Weston;--Mrs. Weston
indeed is much beyond praise, and he is exactly what one values, so
hospitable, and so fond of society;--it will be a small party, but
where small parties are select, they are perhaps the most agreeable of
any.  Mr. Weston's dining-room does not accommodate more than ten
comfortably; and for my part, I would rather, under such circumstances,
fall short by two than exceed by two.  I think you will agree with me,
(turning with a soft air to Emma,) I think I shall certainly have your
approbation, though Mr. Knightley perhaps, from being used to the large
parties of London, may not quite enter into our feelings."

"I know nothing of the large parties of London, sir--I never dine with
any body."

"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity,) I had no idea that the law had
been so great a slavery.  Well, sir, the time must come when you will
be paid for all this, when you will have little labour and great
enjoyment."

"My first enjoyment," replied John Knightley, as they passed through
the sweep-gate, "will be to find myself safe at Hartfield again."



CHAPTER XIV


Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they
walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his
joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr. Elton
must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as
happy as she was.  To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any
one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and
understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the
little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father
and herself.  She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston
had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted
communication of all those little matters on which the daily happiness
of private life depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.

This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not
afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but
the very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was
grateful to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of
Mr. Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all
that was enjoyable to the utmost.

The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival.  Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough
to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and
Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just
got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his
daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been
almost wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away
and welcome her dear Emma.

Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather
sorry to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close
to her.  The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility
towards Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and
solicitously addressing her upon every occasion.  Instead of forgetting
him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal
suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be
possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from
Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"-- Yet he would be so anxious
for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,
and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her
drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly
like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her
good manners.  For her own sake she could not be rude; and for
Harriet's, in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even
positively civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was
going on amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr.
Elton's nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to.  She
heard enough to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about
his son; she heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son,"
repeated several times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very
much suspected that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but
before she could quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past
that any reviving question from her would have been awkward.

Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never
marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank
Churchill, which always interested her.  She had frequently
thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that
if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,
character and condition.  He seemed by this connexion between the
families, quite to belong to her.  She could not but suppose it to be a
match that every body who knew them must think of.  That Mr. and Mrs.
Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though not
meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could
change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided
intention of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain
MANSFIELD PARK

(1814)


by

Jane Austen



CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven
thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of
Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences
of an handsome house and large income.  All Huntingdon exclaimed on the
greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her
to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to
it.  She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of
their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as
handsome as Miss Maria, did not scruple to predict their marrying with
almost equal advantage.  But there certainly are not so many men of
large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.
Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found herself obliged to
be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law,
with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible:  Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an
income in the living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their
career of conjugal felicity with very little less than a thousand a
year.  But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her
family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, without education,
fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly.  She could hardly have
made a more untoward choice.  Sir Thomas Bertram had interest, which,
from principle as well as pride--from a general wish of doing right,
and a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations
of respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage
of Lady Bertram's sister; but her husband's profession was such as no
interest could reach; and before he had time to devise any other method
of assisting them, an absolute breach between the sisters had taken
place.  It was the natural result of the conduct of each party, and
such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces.  To save
herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family
on the subject till actually married.  Lady Bertram, who was a woman of
very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent,
would have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and
thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of
activity, which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and
angry letter to Fanny, to point out the folly of her conduct, and
threaten her with all its possible ill consequences.  Mrs. Price, in
her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer, which comprehended each
sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very disrespectful
reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not
possibly keep to herself, put an end to all intercourse between them
for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant, and the circles in which they moved so
distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever hearing of each
other's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, to
make it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have
it in her power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry
voice, that Fanny had got another child.  By the end of eleven years,
however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to cherish pride or
resentment, or to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.  A
large and still increasing family, an husband disabled for active
service, but not the less equal to company and good liquor, and a very
small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the
friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady
Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,
such a superfluity of children, and such a want of almost everything
else, as could not but dispose them all to a reconciliation.  She was
preparing for her ninth lying-in; and after bewailing the circumstance,
and imploring their countenance as sponsors to the expected child, she
could not conceal how important she felt they might be to the future
maintenance of the eight already in being.  Her eldest was a boy of ten
years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the world;
but what could she do?  Was there any chance of his being hereafter
useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?  No
situation would be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of
Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent out to the East?

The letter was not unproductive.  It re-established peace and kindness.
Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram
dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects, and within a twelvemonth a more
important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it.  Mrs. Norris was
often observing to the others that she could not get her poor sister
and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for
her, she seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not
but own it to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from
the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.
"What if they were among them to undertake the care of her eldest
daughter, a girl now nine years old, of an age to require more
attention than her poor mother could possibly give?  The trouble and
expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the benevolence
of the action."  Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly.  "I think we
cannot do better," said she; "let us send for the child."

Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.
He debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;--a girl so brought
up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruelty instead
of kindness in taking her from her family.  He thought of his own four
children, of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner had
he deliberately begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris
interrupted him with a reply to them all, whether stated or not.

"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend you, and do justice to the
generosity and delicacy of your notions, which indeed are quite of a
piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree with you in the
main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of
providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my
mite upon such an occasion.  Having no children of my own, who should I
look to in any little matter I may ever have to bestow, but the
children of my sisters?--and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you
know I am a woman of few words and professions.  Do not let us be
frightened from a good deed by a trifle.  Give a girl an education, and
introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the
means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody.  A niece of
ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of _yours_, would not grow up
in this neighbourhood without many advantages.  I don't say she would
be so handsome as her cousins.  I dare say she would not; but she would
be introduced into the society of this country under such very
favourable circumstances as, in all human probability, would get her a
creditable establishment.  You are thinking of your sons--but do not
you know that, of all things upon earth, _that_ is the least likely to
happen, brought up as they would be, always together like brothers and
sisters?  It is morally impossible.  I never knew an instance of it.
It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion.
Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time
seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief.  The very
idea of her having been suffered to grow up at a distance from us all
in poverty and neglect, would be enough to make either of the dear,
sweet-tempered boys in love with her.  But breed her up with them from
this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she
will never be more to either than a sister."

"There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied Sir Thomas,
"and far be it from me to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a
plan which would be so consistent with the relative situations of each.
I only meant to observe that it ought not to be lightly engaged in, and
that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, and creditable to
ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged
to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision
of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so
sanguine in expecting."

"I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris, "you are everything
that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we shall never disagree
on this point.  Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am always ready
enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though I could never
feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your
own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I
should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her.  Is not she a
sister's child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of
bread to give her?  My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a
warm heart; and, poor as I am, would rather deny myself the necessaries
of life than do an ungenerous thing.  So, if you are not against it, I
will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and make the proposal; and, as
soon as matters are settled, _I_ will engage to get the child to
Mansfield; _you_ shall have no trouble about it.  My own trouble, you
know, I never regard.  I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she
may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed
to meet her there.  They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by
the coach, under the care of any creditable person that may chance to
be going.  I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife
or other going up."

Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any
objection, and a more respectable, though less economical rendezvous
being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as settled,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.  The
division of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have
been equal; for Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and
consistent patron of the selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the
least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.
As far as walking, talking, and contriving reached, she was thoroughly
benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others;
but her love of money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew
quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look
forward to, she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of
economy necessary; and what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon
grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that needful solicitude
which there were no children to supply.  Had there been a family to
provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but having
no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her frugality, or
lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income which they
had never lived up to.  Under this infatuating principle, counteracted
by no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim
at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a
charity; though perhaps she might so little know herself as to walk
home to the Parsonage, after this conversation, in the happy belief of
being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again, her views were more fully
explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of "Where shall
the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?"  Sir Thomas heard
with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power
to take any share in the personal charge of her.  He had been
considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as
a desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he
found himself wholly mistaken.  Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the
little girl's staying with them, at least as things then were, was
quite out of the question.  Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of
health made it an impossibility:  he could no more bear the noise of a
child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get well of his
gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should then be
glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just
now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very
mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram, with the utmost
composure.  After a short pause Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes,
let her home be in this house.  We will endeavour to do our duty by
her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of her
own age, and of a regular instructress."

"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris, "which are both very important
considerations; and it will be just the same to Miss Lee whether she
has three girls to teach, or only two--there can be no difference.  I
only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all in my power.  I
am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny shall fetch
her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor
away for three days.  I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the
little white attic, near the old nurseries.  It will be much the best
place for her, so near Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close
by the housemaids, who could either of them help to dress her, you
know, and take care of her clothes, for I suppose you would not think
it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well as the others.  Indeed,
I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else."

Lady Bertram made no opposition.

"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris,
"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends."

"Should her disposition be really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not,
for our own children's sake, continue her in the family; but there is
no reason to expect so great an evil.  We shall probably see much to
wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gross ignorance,
some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous
for her associates.  Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself, I
should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter
of very serious moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to
fear for _them_, and everything to hope for _her_, from the
association."

"That is exactly what I think," cried Mrs. Norris, "and what I was
saying to my husband this morning.  It will be an education for the
child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee taught her
nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from _them_."

"I hope she will not tease my poor pug," said Lady Bertram; "I have but
just got Julia to leave it alone."

"There will be some difficulty in our way, Mrs. Norris," observed Sir
Thomas, "as to the distinction proper to be made between the girls as
they grow up:  how to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the
consciousness of what they are, without making them think too lowly of
their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to make
her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_.  I should wish to see
them very good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls
the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they
cannot be equals.  Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will
always be different.  It is a point of great delicacy, and you must
assist us in our endeavours to choose exactly the right line of
conduct."

Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and though she perfectly agreed
with him as to its being a most difficult thing, encouraged him to hope
that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write to her
sister in vain.  Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should
be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer
most thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very
well-disposed, good-humoured girl, and trusting they would never have
cause to throw her off.  She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate
and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
for change of air.  Poor woman! she probably thought change of air
might agree with many of her children.



CHAPTER II

The little girl performed her long journey in safety; and at
Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the credit of
being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading her in
to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there might
not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there was, at least,
nothing to disgust her relations.  She was small of her age, with no
glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid
and shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was
not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was
pretty.  Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir
Thomas, seeing how much she needed encouragement, tried to be all that
was conciliating:  but he had to work against a most untoward gravity
of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without taking half so much trouble,
or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere aid of a
good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the
two.

The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
introduction very well, with much good humour, and no embarrassment, at
least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixteen, and tall
of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little
cousin.  The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in
greater awe of their father, who addressed them on the occasion with
rather an injudicious particularity.  But they were too much used to
company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their
confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it, they were
soon able to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy
indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very well-looking, the
daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown and forward of
their age, which produced as striking a difference between the cousins
in person, as education had given to their address; and no one would
have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were.  There
were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny.  Julia
Bertram was only twelve, and Maria but a year older.  The little
visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.  Afraid of everybody,
ashamed of herself, and longing for the home she had left, she knew not
how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard, or without
crying.  Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from
Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree
of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her
consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its
being a wicked thing for her not to be happy.  The fatigue, too, of so
long a journey, became soon no trifling evil.  In vain were the
well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the officious
prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl; in vain
did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and
pug, and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving
her comfort; she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears
interrupted her, and sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was
taken to finish her sorrows in bed.

"This is not a very promising beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny
had left the room.  "After all that I said to her as we came along, I
thought she would have behaved better; I told her how much might depend
upon her acquitting herself well at first.  I wish there may not be a
little sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal; but we
must make allowances for such a child--and I do not know that her being
sorry to leave her home is really against her, for, with all its
faults, it _was_ her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much
she has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all
things."

It required a longer time, however, than Mrs. Norris was inclined to
allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield Park, and the
separation from everybody she had been used to.  Her feelings were very
acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to.  Nobody
meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to
secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day, on purpose to
afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their
young cousin, produced little union.  They could not but hold her cheap
on finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French;
and when they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were
so good as to play, they could do no more than make her a generous
present of some of their least valued toys, and leave her to herself,
while they adjourned to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport
of the moment, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the schoolroom, the
drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn, finding something
to fear in every person and place.  She was disheartened by Lady
Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome
by Mrs. Norris's admonitions.  Her elder cousins mortified her by
reflections on her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness:  Miss
Lee wondered at her ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her
clothes; and when to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers
and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
instructress, and nurse, the despondence that sunk her little heart was
severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her.  The
rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched
she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of
something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left
it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good
fortune, ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.  A week
had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet
passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin," said he, with all the gentleness of an
excellent nature, "what can be the matter?"  And sitting down by her,
he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and
persuade her to speak openly.  Was she ill? or was anybody angry with
her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about anything in her lesson that he could explain?  Did she, in short,
want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her?  For a long
while no answer could be obtained beyond a "no, no--not at all--no,
thank you"; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to
revert to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where
the grievance lay.  He tried to console her.

"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny," said he, "which
shows you to be a very good girl; but you must remember that you are
with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you
happy.  Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about
your brothers and sisters."

On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as all these brothers and
sisters generally were, there was one among them who ran more in her
thoughts than the rest.  It was William whom she talked of most, and
wanted most to see.  William, the eldest, a year older than herself,
her constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of
whom he was the darling) in every distress.  "William did not like she
should come away; he had told her he should miss her very much indeed."
"But William will write to you, I dare say."  "Yes, he had promised he
would, but he had told _her_ to write first."  "And when shall you do
it?"  She hung her head and answered hesitatingly, "she did not know;
she had not any paper."

"If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with paper and
every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you
choose.  Would it make you happy to write to William?"

"Yes, very."

"Then let it be done now.  Come with me into the breakfast-room, we
shall find everything there, and be sure of having the room to
ourselves."

"But, cousin, will it go to the post?"

"Yes, depend upon me it shall:  it shall go with the other letters;
and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost William nothing."

"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a frightened look.

"Yes, when you have written the letter, I will take it to my father to
frank."

Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and
they went together into the breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her
paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that her brother could
himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness.  He
continued with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with
his penknife or his orthography, as either were wanted; and added to
these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother
which delighted her beyond all the rest.  He wrote with his own hand
his love to his cousin William, and sent him half a guinea under the
seal.  Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed
herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few artless
words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin
began to find her an interesting object.  He talked to her more, and,
from all that she said, was convinced of her having an affectionate
heart, and a strong desire of doing right; and he could perceive her to
be farther entitled to attention by great sensibility of her situation,
and great timidity.  He had never knowingly given her pain, but he now
felt that she required more positive kindness; and with that view
endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them all, and
gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with
Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.  She felt that she had a
friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else.  The place became less strange, and the people
less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could not
cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the
best manner of conforming to them.  The little rusticities and
awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the
tranquillity of all, and not least of herself, necessarily wore away,
and she was no longer materially afraid to appear before her uncle, nor
did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much.  To her cousins
she became occasionally an acceptable companion.  Though unworthy, from
inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associate, their
pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper;
and they could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults,
or their brother Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny
was good-natured enough."

Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had nothing worse to endure
on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of
seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten.  He was just
entering into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal
dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for expense and
enjoyment.  His kindness to his little cousin was consistent with his
situation and rights: he made her some very pretty presents, and
laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris
thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan; and it was
pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she
showed a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little
trouble.  A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined to _them_.
Fanny could read, work, and write, but she had been taught nothing
more; and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things with which
they had been long familiar, they thought her prodigiously stupid, and
for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh
report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, only think, my cousin
cannot put the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot tell the
principal rivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or she
does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!-- How
strange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

"My dear," their considerate aunt would reply, "it is very bad, but you
must not expect everybody to be as forward and quick at learning as
yourself."

"But, aunt, she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know, we asked her
last night which way she would go to get to Ireland; and she said, she
should cross to the Isle of Wight.  She thinks of nothing but the Isle
of Wight, and she calls it _the_ _Island_, as if there were no other
island in the world.  I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself,
if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is.  I cannot
remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the
least notion of yet.  How long ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat
the chronological order of the kings of England, with the dates of
their accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!"

"Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;
besides a great deal of the heathen mythology, and all the metals,
semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers."

"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are blessed with wonderful
memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at all.  There is a
vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything else, and
therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her
deficiency.  And remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever
yourselves, you should always be modest; for, much as you know already,
there is a great deal more for you to learn."

"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventeen.  But I must tell you
another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid.  Do you know, she says
she does not want to learn either music or drawing."

"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid indeed, and shows a great
want of genius and emulation.  But, all things considered, I do not
know whether it is not as well that it should be so, for, though you
know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring her up
with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished
as you are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there
should be a difference."

Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted to form her
nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with all their
promising talents and early information, they should be entirely
deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity
and humility.  In everything but disposition they were admirably
taught.  Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting, because, though a
truly anxious father, he was not outwardly affectionate, and the
reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before
him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest
attention.  She had not time for such cares.  She was a woman who spent
her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some long piece
of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug
than her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put
herself to inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,
and in smaller concerns by her sister.  Had she possessed greater
leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have supposed
it unnecessary, for they were under the care of a governess, with
proper masters, and could want nothing more.  As for Fanny's being
stupid at learning, "she could only say it was very unlucky, but some
people _were_ stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she did not know
what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must add
she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very
handy and quick in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted."

Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and timidity, was fixed at
Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favour much of her
attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among her
cousins.  There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and
though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought
too lowly of her own claims to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family, Lady Bertram, in
consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of indolence, gave
up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy every spring,
and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend his
duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort
might arise from her absence.  In the country, therefore, the Miss
Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,
and grow tall and womanly:  and their father saw them becoming in
person, manner, and accomplishments, everything that could satisfy his
anxiety.  His eldest son was careless and extravagant, and had already
given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised him nothing
but good.  His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of
Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted,
would extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund,
his strong good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for
utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connexions.  He
was to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,
Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the children of Mrs.
Price:  he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her
sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,
though almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the
truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of
anything at all promising in their situation or conduct.  Once, and
once only, in the course of many years, had she the happiness of being
with William.  Of the rest she saw nothing: nobody seemed to think of
her ever going amongst them again, even for a visit, nobody at home
seemed to want her; but William determining, soon after her removal, to
be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in
Northamptonshire before he went to sea.  Their eager affection in
meeting, their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of
happy mirth, and moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as
well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even to the last, and
the misery of the girl when he left her.  Luckily the visit happened in
the Christmas holidays, when she could directly look for comfort to her
cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming things of what William was
to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession, as made her
gradually admit that the separation might have some use.  Edmund's
friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change
in his kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities
of proving them.  Without any display of doing more than the rest, or
any fear of doing too much, he was always true to her interests, and
considerate of her feelings, trying to make her good qualities
understood, and to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being
more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else, his single support could not
bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of the highest
importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending its
pleasures.  He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as
well as good sense, and a fondness for reading, which, properly
directed, must be an education in itself.  Miss Lee taught her French,
and heard her read the daily portion of history; but he recommended the
books which charmed her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste, and
corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by talking to her of
what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious praise.  In
return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world
except William:  her heart was divided between the two.



CHAPTER III

The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr.
Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties.  Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house
of Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of
her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter
economy.

The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few
years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till
he were old enough for orders.  But Tom's extravagance had, previous to
that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next
presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for
the pleasures of the elder.  There was another family living actually
held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement
somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to
be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest
son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better
effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.

"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your
feelings as a brother on the occasion.  You have robbed Edmund for ten,
twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income
which ought to be his.  It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I
hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his
natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the
urgency of your debts."

Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly
as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in
all probability, die very soon.

On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a
hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's
calculations.  But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of
fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off."

He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they
entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very
respectable, agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to
claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,
and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any
former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most
decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less
fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate,
in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable
to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the
obligation of her future provision.  In the fullness of his belief that
such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the
first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when
Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are
going to leave us, and live with my sister.  How shall you like it?"

Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words,
"Going to leave you?"

"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished?  You have been five years
with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died.
But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected.  She
had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love
her.

"I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice.

"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough.  I suppose you have
had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature
in the world."

"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly.

"No, my dear; I hope not.  I have always found you a very good girl."

"And am I never to live here again?"

"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home.  It can make
very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the
other."

Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the
difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction.  As soon as she met with Edmund she
told him her distress.

"Cousin," said she, "something is going to happen which I do not like
at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to
things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now.  I
am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so.  It is quite settled.  I am
to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon
as she is removed there."

"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call
it an excellent one."

"Oh, cousin!"

"It has everything else in its favour.  My aunt is acting like a
sensible woman in wishing for you.  She is choosing a friend and
companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does
not interfere.  You will be what you ought to be to her.  I hope it
does not distress you very much, Fanny?"

"Indeed it does:  I cannot like it.  I love this house and everything
in it:  I shall love nothing there.  You know how uncomfortable I feel
with her."

"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the
same with us all, or nearly so.  She never knew how to be pleasant to
children.  But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she
is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you
_must_ be important to her."

"I can never be important to any one."

"What is to prevent you?"

"Everything.  My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."

"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you
never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly.
There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where
you are known.  You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure
you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without
wishing to return it.  I do not know any better qualifications for a
friend and companion."

"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I
ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me.  Oh! cousin, if
I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of
my life."

"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance
as the White House.  You speak as if you were going two hundred miles
off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost
as much as ever.  The two families will be meeting every day in the
year.  The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you
will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be.  _Here_ there
are too many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be
forced to speak for yourself."

"Oh!  I do not say so."

"I must say it, and say it with pleasure.  Mrs. Norris is much better
fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now.  She is of a
temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself
about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers."

Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to
believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged
to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be.  If I could suppose
my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
consequence to anybody.  _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love
the place so well."

"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the
house.  You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as
ever.  Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a
nominal change.  You will have the same walks to frequent, the same
library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to
ride."

"Very true.  Yes, dear old grey pony!  Ah! cousin, when I remember how
much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked
of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's
opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind
pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince
me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you
proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well."

"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as
good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for
your ultimate happiness too."

So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it
could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had
not the smallest intention of taking her.  It had never occurred to
her, on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided.
To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation
which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,
the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her
servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very
particular point.  The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been
wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now
never forgotten.  Not all her precautions, however, could save her from
being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of
the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose
it really intended for Fanny.  Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to
a certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--

"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes
to live with you."

Mrs. Norris almost started.  "Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do
you mean?"

"Is she not to live with you?  I thought you had settled it with Sir
Thomas."

"Me! never.  I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to
me.  Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think
of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both.  Good heaven!
what could I do with Fanny?  Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit
for anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl
at her time of life?  A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to
need most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the
test!  Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing!  Sir
Thomas is too much my friend.  Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure,
would propose it.  How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?"

"Indeed, I do not know.  I suppose he thought it best."

"But what did he say?  He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny.
I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it."

"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too.  We
both thought it would be a comfort to you.  But if you do not like it,
there is no more to be said.  She is no encumbrance here."

"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any
comfort to me?  Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best
of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits
still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough
to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as
not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort
could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny?  If I could wish
it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.
She is in good hands, and sure of doing well.  I must struggle through
my sorrows and difficulties as I can."

"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"

"Lady Bertram, I do not complain.  I know I cannot live as I have done,
but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager.  I
_have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed
to practise economy now.  My situation is as much altered as my income.
A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the
parish, that cannot be expected from me.  It is unknown how much was
consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers.  At the White House,
matters must be better looked after.  I _must_ live within my income,
or I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction
to be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the
year."

"I dare say you will.  You always do, don't you?"

"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me.
It is for your children's good that I wish to be richer.  I have nobody
else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a
little trifle among them worth their having."

"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them.  They are
sure of being well provided for.  Sir Thomas will take care of that."

"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the
Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."

"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled.  Sir Thomas has been writing about
it, I know."

"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, "I can only say
that my sole desire is to be of use to your family:  and so, if Sir
Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able
to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must
keep a spare room for a friend."

Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to
convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and
she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the
slightest allusion to it from him.  He could not but wonder at her
refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to
adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady
Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their
family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same
time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable
him better to provide for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and
her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some
consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to
be so essentially serviceable to her.  Mrs. Norris took possession of
the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events
over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave
great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance.  They had
their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out.  The Doctor was very
fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant,
instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook
as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen
in her offices.  Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such
grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly
consumed in the house.  "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than
herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed,
had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad
character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she
could not understand.  A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out
of place.  _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough
for Mrs. Grant to go into.  Inquire where she would, she could not find
out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."

Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective.
She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all
the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life
without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point
almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the
other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event
arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some
place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies.  Sir Thomas found
it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of
his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of
detaching him from some bad connexions at home.  They left England with
the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its
utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the
rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of
others at their present most interesting time of life.  He could not
think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or
rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's
watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient
confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she
was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his
comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,
or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their
sorrow, but for their want of it.  Their father was no object of love
to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his
absence was unhappily most welcome.  They were relieved by it from all
restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably
have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at
their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her
cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were
ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve.  "Sir
Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone
perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it
was a shameful insensibility." He had said to her, moreover, on the
very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the
course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite
him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be
known to be in England.  "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and would
he only have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny," while he
said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.
But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification,
by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able
to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted
have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though,
I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much
like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when
her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set
her down as a hypocrite.



CHAPTER IV

Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he
could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was soon astonished to
find how very well they did even without his father, how well Edmund
could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing to
the attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from
all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of
directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers' safe arrival at Antigua,
after a favourable voyage, was received; though not before Mrs. Norris
had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make Edmund
participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depended
on being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others,
when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it
necessary to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for; the accounts
continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in promoting gaieties for
her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about for their future husbands, had so much to do as, in
addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those of
her sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very
little occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the
neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant acquirements
a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility and
obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.
Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free
from it, and gave themselves no airs; while the praises attending such
behaviour, secured and brought round by their aunt, served to
strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public with her daughters.  She was too
indolent even to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their
success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble, and the
charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than a
post of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished
the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to
hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the
rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally
became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a
party.  She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the
tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a
_tete-a-tete_ from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to
a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.
As to her cousins' gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them,
especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; but thought
too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitted
to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer
concern in them.  Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her;
for though it brought no William to England, the never-failing hope of
his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend, the old grey
pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her
health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the acknowledged
importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken for
mounting her again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts, "she
might ride one of her cousin's horses at any time when they did not
want them," and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses
every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to
the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came.
They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May;
and Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked
beyond her strength at the instigation of the other:  Lady Bertram
holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was
unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
thinking everybody ought to walk as much.  Edmund was absent at this
time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied.  When he returned,
to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects,
there seemed with him but one thing to be done; and that "Fanny must
have a horse" was the resolute declaration with which he opposed
whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother, or the economy
of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant.  Mrs. Norris could not help
thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers
belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be
borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then
lend them the pony he sent to the post.  She could not but consider it
as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a
regular lady's horse of her own, in the style of her cousins.  She was
sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:  and she must say that, to be
making such a purchase in his absence, and adding to the great expenses
of his stable, at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,
seemed to her very unjustifiable.  "Fanny must have a horse," was
Edmund's only reply.  Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.
Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to the necessity
of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she only
pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till
Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself.
He would be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only
waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased with his aunt than with his
mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could not help
paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a
method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's
thinking he had done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny
the immediate means of exercise, which he could not bear she should be
without.  He had three horses of his own, but not one that would carry
a woman.  Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful road-horse:
this third he resolved to exchange for one that his cousin might ride;
he knew where such a one was to be met with; and having once made up
his mind, the whole business was soon completed.  The new mare proved a
treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for
the purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.
She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the
old grey pony; but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any
former pleasure of the sort; and the addition it was ever receiving in
the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung, was
beyond all her words to express.  She regarded her cousin as an example
of everything good and great, as possessing worth which no one but
herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such gratitude from
her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay.  Her sentiments
towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful,
confiding, and tender.

As the horse continued in name, as well as fact, the property of
Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and had
Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have
been excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in
September, for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and
without any near prospect of finishing his business.  Unfavourable
circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning to
turn all his thoughts towards England; and the very great uncertainty
in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home
his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself.  Tom arrived
safely, bringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to
very little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned.  Sir Thomas's
sending away his son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the
influence of a foreboding of evil to himself, that she could not help
feeling dreadful presentiments; and as the long evenings of autumn came
on, was so terribly haunted by these ideas, in the sad solitariness of
her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refuge in the dining-room
of the Park.  The return of winter engagements, however, was not
without its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind
became so pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her
eldest niece, as tolerably to quiet her nerves.  "If poor Sir Thomas
were fated never to return, it would be peculiarly consoling to see
their dear Maria well married," she very often thought; always when
they were in the company of men of fortune, and particularly on the
introduction of a young man who had recently succeeded to one of the
largest estates and finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with the beauty of Miss
Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself in love.
He was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as there
was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was
well pleased with her conquest.  Being now in her twenty-first year,
Maria Bertram was beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a
marriage with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger
income than her father's, as well as ensure her the house in town,
which was now a prime object, it became, by the same rule of moral
obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could.  Mrs.
Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and
contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and,
among other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother,
who at present lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram
to go through ten miles of indifferent road to pay a morning visit.  It
was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady
and herself.  Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that
her son should marry, and declared that of all the young ladies she had
ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amiable qualities and
accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy.  Mrs. Norris
accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character
which could so well distinguish merit.  Maria was indeed the pride and
delight of them all--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so
surrounded by admirers, must be difficult in her choice:  but yet, as
far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself to decide on so short an
acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man to deserve
and attach her.

After dancing with each other at a proper number of balls, the young
people justified these opinions, and an engagement, with a due
reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the
satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general
lookers-on of the neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the
expediency of Mr. Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but,
in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure
in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was carried on
without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs.
Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at
present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the
business; but no representation of his aunt's could induce him to find
Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion.  He could allow his sister to be
the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her
happiness should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from
often saying to himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--"If this man had
not twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid fellow."

Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so
unquestionably advantageous, and of which he heard nothing but the
perfectly good and agreeable.  It was a connexion exactly of the right
sort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty
concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible.  He only conditioned that
the marriage should not take place before his return, which he was
again looking eagerly forward to.  He wrote in April, and had strong
hopes of settling everything to his entire satisfaction, and leaving
Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received
an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss
Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage.  They were
young people of fortune.  The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the
daughter twenty thousand pounds.  As children, their sister had been
always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon
followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the
care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she
had scarcely seen them since.  In their uncle's house they had found a
kind home.  Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no
farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite,
to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two.  The Admiral
delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the
lady's death which now obliged her _protegee_, after some months'
further trial at her uncle's house, to find another home.  Admiral
Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining
his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs.
Grant was indebted for her sister's proposal of coming to her, a
measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the
other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual
resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of
children--having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with
pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and
poultry--was very much in want of some variety at home.  The arrival,
therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to
retain with her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable;
and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits
of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though
they arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and
tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to
persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that
she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations.  To
anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry
Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike:  he could not accommodate his
sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the
utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch
her away again, at half an hour's notice, whenever she were weary of
the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side.  Miss Crawford found a
sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked
the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs.
Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young
man and woman of very prepossessing appearance.  Mary Crawford was
remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance;
the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant
immediately gave them credit for everything else.  She was delighted
with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able
to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of
being proud of her sister's. She had not waited her arrival to look out
for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest
son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,
with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in
her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been
three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very
near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care,
or the choice it had fallen on.  Matrimony was her object, provided she
could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that
objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in
life.  While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to
think of it seriously.  The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.

"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something to make it
complete.  I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and
therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice,
handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very
happy."

Henry bowed and thanked her.

"My dear sister," said Mary, "if you can persuade him into anything of
the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself
allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not
half a dozen daughters to dispose of.  If you can persuade Henry to
marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman.  All that English
abilities can do has been tried already.  I have three very particular
friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt
and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is
inconceivable!  He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined.  If
your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broke, let them
avoid Henry."

"My dear brother, I will not believe this of you."

"No, I am sure you are too good.  You will be kinder than Mary.  You
will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience.  I am of a
cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry.  Nobody
can think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself.  I consider
the blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines
of the poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'"

"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at
his smile.  I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral's lessons
have quite spoiled him."

"I pay very little regard," said Mrs. Grant, "to what any young person
says on the subject of marriage.  If they profess a disinclination for
it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person."

Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
disinclination to the state herself.

"Oh yes!  I am not at all ashamed of it.  I would have everybody marry
if they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw
themselves away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it
to advantage."



CHAPTER V

The young people were pleased with each other from the first.  On each
side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance soon promised as
early an intimacy as good manners would warrant.  Miss Crawford's
beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams.  They were too
handsome themselves to dislike any woman for being so too, and were
almost as much charmed as their brothers with her lively dark eye,
clear brown complexion, and general prettiness.  Had she been tall,
full formed, and fair, it might have been more of a trial:  but as it
was, there could be no comparison; and she was most allowably a sweet,
pretty girl, while they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome:  no, when they first saw him he was
absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the gentleman, with
a pleasing address.  The second meeting proved him not so very plain:
he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he
was plain; and after a third interview, after dining in company with
him at the Parsonage, he was no longer allowed to be called so by
anybody.  He was, in fact, the most agreeable young man the sisters had
ever known, and they were equally delighted with him.  Miss Bertram's
engagement made him in equity the property of Julia, of which Julia was
fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week, she was quite
ready to be fallen in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct.  She
did not want to see or understand.  "There could be no harm in her
liking an agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford
must take care of himself."  Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any
danger!  the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be
pleased; and he began with no object but of making them like him.  He
did not want them to die of love; but with sense and temper which ought
to have made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself great
latitude on such points.

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly, sister," said he, as he
returned from attending them to their carriage after the said dinner
visit; "they are very elegant, agreeable girls."

"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to hear you say it.  But you
like Julia best."

"Oh yes!  I like Julia best."

"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in general thought the
handsomest."

"So I should suppose.  She has the advantage in every feature, and I
prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss Bertram is
certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeable, but
I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."

"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you _will_ like her best at
last."

"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"

"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged.  Remember that, my dear brother.
Her choice is made."

"Yes, and I like her the better for it.  An engaged woman is always
more agreeable than a disengaged.  She is satisfied with herself.  Her
cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of
pleasing without suspicion.  All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm
can be done."

"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man, and
it is a great match for her."

"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws for him; _that_ is your
opinion of your intimate friend.  _I_ do not subscribe to it.  I am
sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth.  I could see
it in her eyes, when he was mentioned.  I think too well of Miss
Bertram to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."

"Mary, how shall we manage him?"

"We must leave him to himself, I believe.  Talking does no good.  He
will be taken in at last."

"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_; I would not have him duped; I
would have it all fair and honourable."

"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in.  It will do just as
well.  Everybody is taken in at some period or other."

"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."

"In marriage especially.  With all due respect to such of the present
company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one
in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry.  Look
where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which
people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves."

"Ah!  You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street."

"My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,
however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring
business.  I know so many who have married in the full expectation and
confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or
accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found
themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly
the reverse.  What is this but a take in?"

"My dear child, there must be a little imagination here.  I beg your
pardon, but I cannot quite believe you.  Depend upon it, you see but
half.  You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation.  There
will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt
to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human
nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a
second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded
observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in
and deceived than the parties themselves."

"Well done, sister!  I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_.  When I am a
wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
general would be so too.  It would save me many a heartache."

"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.
Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in.  Stay with
us, and we will cure you."

The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.
Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
equally ready to lengthen his visit.  He had come, intending to spend
only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was
nothing to call him elsewhere.  It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them
both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it
so:  a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant
society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr. Crawford's being his
guest was an excuse for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than
anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to feel.  She
acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very
good.  _He_ had been much in London, and had more liveliness and
gallantry than Edmund, and must, therefore, be preferred; and, indeed,
his being the eldest was another strong claim.  She had felt an early
presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best.  She knew it was
her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant, indeed, at any rate; he
was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his agreeableness was
of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a
higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a large
acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield
Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this.  Miss Crawford soon
felt that he and his situation might do.  She looked about her with due
consideration, and found almost everything in his favour:  a park, a
real park, five miles round, a spacious modern-built house, so well
placed and well screened as to deserve to be in any collection of
engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom, and wanting only to be
completely new furnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet mother, and an
agreeable man himself--with the advantage of being tied up from much
gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas
hereafter.  It might do very well; she believed she should accept him;
and she began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse
which he had to run at the B---- races.

These races were to call him away not long after their acquaintance
began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from his usual
goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his
passion to an early proof.  Much was said on his side to induce her to
attend the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with
all the eagerness of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.

And Fanny, what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while? and what
was _her_ opinion of the newcomers?  Few young ladies of eighteen could
be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny.  In a quiet way,
very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss
Crawford's beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford
very plain, in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the
contrary, she never mentioned _him_.  The notice, which she excited
herself, was to this effect.  "I begin now to understand you all,
except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as she was walking with the Mr.
Bertrams.  "Pray, is she out, or is she not?  I am puzzled.  She dined
at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like being _out_;
and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she _is_."

Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed, replied, "I believe I know
what you mean, but I will not undertake to answer the question.  My
cousin is grown up.  She has the age and sense of a woman, but the outs
and not outs are beyond me."

"And yet, in general, nothing can be more easily ascertained.  The
distinction is so broad.  Manners as well as appearance are, generally
speaking, so totally different.  Till now, I could not have supposed it
possible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not.  A girl not
out has always the same sort of dress:  a close bonnet, for instance;
looks very demure, and never says a word.  You may smile, but it is so,
I assure you; and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
it is all very proper.  Girls should be quiet and modest.  The most
objectionable part is, that the alteration of manners on being
introduced into company is frequently too sudden.  They sometimes pass
in such very little time from reserve to quite the opposite--to
confidence!  _That_ is the faulty part of the present system.  One does
not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to
every thing--and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the
year before.  Mr. Bertram, I dare say _you_ have sometimes met with
such changes."

"I believe I have, but this is hardly fair; I see what you are at.  You
are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."

"No, indeed.  Miss Anderson!  I do not know who or what you mean.  I am
quite in the dark.  But I _will_ quiz you with a great deal of
pleasure, if you will tell me what about."

"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I cannot be quite so far imposed
on.  You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in describing an
altered young lady.  You paint too accurately for mistake.  It was
exactly so.  The Andersons of Baker Street.  We were speaking of them
the other day, you know.  Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles
Anderson.  The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented
it.  When Anderson first introduced me to his family, about two years
ago, his sister was not _out_, and I could not get her to speak to me.
I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderson, with only her and
a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, and I
could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a
civil answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an
air!  I did not see her again for a twelvemonth.  She was then _out_.
I met her at Mrs. Holford's, and did not recollect her.  She came up to
me, claimed me as an acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and
talked and laughed till I did not know which way to look.  I felt that
I must be the jest of the room at the time, and Miss Crawford, it is
plain, has heard the story."

"And a very pretty story it is, and with more truth in it, I dare say,
than does credit to Miss Anderson.  It is too common a fault.  Mothers
certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their
daughters.  I do not know where the error lies.  I do not pretend to
set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong."

"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be," said
Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing a great deal to set them right."

"The error is plain enough," said the less courteous Edmund; "such
girls are ill brought up.  They are given wrong notions from the
beginning.  They are always acting upon motives of vanity, and there is
no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public
than afterwards."

"I do not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly.  "Yes, I cannot
agree with you there.  It is certainly the modestest part of the
business.  It is much worse to have girls not out give themselves the
same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which I have
seen done.  That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"

"Yes, _that_ is very inconvenient indeed," said Mr. Bertram.  "It leads
one astray; one does not know what to do.  The close bonnet and demure
air you describe so well (and nothing was ever juster), tell one what
is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want
of them.  I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last
September, just after my return from the West Indies.  My friend
Sneyd--you have heard me speak of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and
mother, and sisters, were there, all new to me.  When we reached Albion
Place they were out; we went after them, and found them on the pier:
Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their acquaintance.  I
made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, attached
myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way home,
and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy
in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen.  I had not a
suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong.  They looked just the
same:  both well-dressed, with veils and parasols like other girls; but
I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention to the
youngest, who was not _out_, and had most excessively offended the
eldest.  Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the next six
months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me."

"That was bad indeed.  Poor Miss Sneyd.  Though I have no younger
sister, I feel for her.  To be neglected before one's time must be very
vexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault.  Miss Augusta should
have been with her governess.  Such half-and-half doings never prosper.
But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price.  Does she go to balls?
Does she dine out every where, as well as at my sister's?"

"No," replied Edmund; "I do not think she has ever been to a ball.  My
mother seldom goes into company herself, and dines nowhere but with
Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with _her_."

"Oh! then the point is clear.  Miss Price is not out."



CHAPTER VI

Mr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find
a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decidedly in the
meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; and
on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she
retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting
to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters.  It
would be a very flat business, she was sure.  In comparison with his
brother, Edmund would have nothing to say.  The soup would be sent
round in a most spiritless manner, wine drank without any smiles or
agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up without supplying one
pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertaining story,
about "my friend such a one." She must try to find amusement in what
was passing at the upper end of the table, and in observing Mr.
Rushworth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first
time since the Crawfords' arrival.  He had been visiting a friend in
the neighbouring county, and that friend having recently had his
grounds laid out by an improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his
head full of the subject, and very eager to be improving his own place
in the same way; and though not saying much to the purpose, could talk
of nothing else.  The subject had been already handled in the
drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour.  Miss Bertram's
attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though her
deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to
oblige him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to
it, gave her a feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being
very ungracious.

"I wish you could see Compton," said he; "it is the most complete
thing!  I never saw a place so altered in my life.  I told Smith I did
not know where I was.  The approach _now_, is one of the finest things
in the country:  you see the house in the most surprising manner.  I
declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a
prison--quite a dismal old prison."

"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris.  "A prison indeed?  Sotherton Court
is the noblest old place in the world."

"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond anything.  I never saw a place
that wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn that I
do not know what can be done with it."

"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present," said Mrs.
Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; "but depend upon it, Sotherton will
have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."

"I must try to do something with it," said Mr. Rushworth, "but I do not
know what.  I hope I shall have some good friend to help me."

"Your best friend upon such an occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly,
"would be Mr. Repton, I imagine."

"That is what I was thinking of.  As he has done so well by Smith, I
think I had better have him at once.  His terms are five guineas a day."

"Well, and if they were _ten_," cried Mrs. Norris, "I am sure _you_
need not regard it.  The expense need not be any impediment.  If I were
you, I should not think of the expense.  I would have everything done
in the best style, and made as nice as possible.  Such a place as
Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do.  You
have space to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you.
For my own part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size
of Sotherton, I should be always planting and improving, for naturally
I am excessively fond of it.  It would be too ridiculous for me to
attempt anything where I am now, with my little half acre.  It would be
quite a burlesque.  But if I had more room, I should take a prodigious
delight in improving and planting.  We did a vast deal in that way at
the Parsonage:  we made it quite a different place from what it was
when we first had it.  You young ones do not remember much about it,
perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what
improvements we made:  and a great deal more would have been done, but
for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.  He could hardly ever get
out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and _that_ disheartened me from doing
several things that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of.  If it had not
been for _that_, we should have carried on the garden wall, and made
the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant has done.
We were always doing something as it was.  It was only the spring
twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot
against the stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree, and
getting to such perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.

"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt, madam," replied Dr. Grant.
"The soil is good; and I never pass it without regretting that the
fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."

"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a Moor Park, and it cost
us--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I saw the bill--and
I know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor Park."

"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have
as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree.
It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good apricot is eatable,
which none from my garden are."

"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Grant, pretending to whisper across
the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural
taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever indulged with one, for it
is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance, and ours is such a
remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and preserves,
my cook contrives to get them all."

Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was appeased; and, for a little
while, other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton.  Dr.
Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends; their acquaintance had
begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again.  "Smith's place
is the admiration of all the country; and it was a mere nothing before
Repton took it in hand.  I think I shall have Repton."

"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram, "if I were you, I would have a very
pretty shrubbery.  One likes to get out into a shrubbery in fine
weather."

Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence, and
tried to make out something complimentary; but, between his submission
to _her_ taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with
the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies
in general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was
anxious to please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end
to his speech by a proposal of wine.  Mr. Rushworth, however, though
not usually a great talker, had still more to say on the subject next
his heart.  "Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his
grounds, which is little enough, and makes it more surprising that the
place can have been so improved.  Now, at Sotherton we have a good
seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows; so that I think, if
so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair.  There have been
two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the house, and
it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or
anybody of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton
down:  the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the
hill, you know," turning to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke.  But
Miss Bertram thought it most becoming to reply--

"The avenue!  Oh!  I do not recollect it.  I really know very little of
Sotherton."

Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, exactly opposite
Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listening, now looked at
him, and said in a low voice--

"Cut down an avenue!  What a pity!  Does it not make you think of
Cowper?  'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'"

He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
Fanny."

"I should like to see Sotherton before it is cut down, to see the place
as it is now, in its old state; but I do not suppose I shall."

"Have you never been there?  No, you never can; and, unluckily, it is
out of distance for a ride.  I wish we could contrive it."

"Oh! it does not signify.  Whenever I do see it, you will tell me how
it has been altered."

"I collect," said Miss Crawford, "that Sotherton is an old place, and a
place of some grandeur.  In any particular style of building?"

"The house was built in Elizabeth's time, and is a large, regular,
brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has many good
rooms.  It is ill placed.  It stands in one of the lowest spots of the
park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement.  But the woods are
fine, and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good
deal of.  Mr. Rushworth is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it
a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely
well."

Miss Crawford listened with submission, and said to herself, "He is a
well-bred man; he makes the best of it."

"I do not wish to influence Mr. Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a
place to new fashion, I should not put myself into the hands of an
improver.  I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty, of my own
choice, and acquired progressively.  I would rather abide by my own
blunders than by his."

"_You_ would know what you were about, of course; but that would not
suit _me_.  I have no eye or ingenuity for such matters, but as they
are before me; and had I a place of my own in the country, I should be
most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and give me as
much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it
till it was complete."

"It would be delightful to _me_ to see the progress of it all," said
Fanny.

"Ay, you have been brought up to it.  It was no part of my education;
and the only dose I ever had, being administered by not the first
favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_
as the greatest of nuisances.  Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured
uncle, bought a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers
in; and my aunt and I went down to it quite in raptures; but it being
excessively pretty, it was soon found necessary to be improved, and for
three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel walk to
step on, or a bench fit for use.  I would have everything as complete
as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower-gardens, and rustic
seats innumerable:  but it must all be done without my care.  Henry is
different; he loves to be doing."

Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he was much disposed to
admire, speak so freely of her uncle.  It did not suit his sense of
propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and
liveliness to put the matter by for the present.

"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have tidings of my harp at last.  I am
assured that it is safe at Northampton; and there it has probably been
these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often
received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.
"The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a servant,
we went ourselves:  this will not do seventy miles from London; but
this morning we heard of it in the right way.  It was seen by some
farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and
the butcher's son-in-law left word at the shop."

"I am very glad that you have heard of it, by whatever means, and hope
there will be no further delay."

"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you think it is to be conveyed?
Not by a wagon or cart:  oh no!  nothing of that kind could be hired in
the village.  I might as well have asked for porters and a handbarrow."

"You would find it difficult, I dare say, just now, in the middle of a
very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and cart?"

"I was astonished to find what a piece of work was made of it!  To want
a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to
speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet
without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery without passing
another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather
grieved that I could not give the advantage to all.  Guess my surprise,
when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most
impossible thing in the world; had offended all the farmers, all the
labourers, all the hay in the parish!  As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I
believe I had better keep out of _his_ way; and my brother-in-law
himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather black upon me
when he found what I had been at."

"You could not be expected to have thought on the subject before; but
when you _do_ think of it, you must see the importance of getting in
the grass.  The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you
suppose:  our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in
harvest, it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."

"I shall understand all your ways in time; but, coming down with the
true London maxim, that everything is to be got with money, I was a
little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country
customs.  However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who
is good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche.  Will
it not be honourably conveyed?"

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument, and hoped to be
soon allowed to hear her.  Fanny had never heard the harp at all, and
wished for it very much.

"I shall be most happy to play to you both," said Miss Crawford; "at
least as long as you can like to listen: probably much longer, for I
dearly love music myself, and where the natural taste is equal the
player must always be best off, for she is gratified in more ways than
one.  Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I entreat you to
tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery about it.
And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most plaintive
airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know his
horse will lose."

"If I write, I will say whatever you wish me; but I do not, at present,
foresee any occasion for writing."

"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gone a twelvemonth, would you
ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped.  The occasion
would never be foreseen.  What strange creatures brothers are!  You
would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the
world; and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is
ill, or such a relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words.
You have but one style among you.  I know it perfectly.  Henry, who is
in every other respect exactly what a brother should be, who loves me,
consults me, confides in me, and will talk to me by the hour together,
has never yet turned the page in a letter; and very often it is nothing
more than--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived.  Bath seems full, and
everything as usual.  Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly style;
that is a complete brother's letter."

"When they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny,
colouring for William's sake, "they can write long letters."

"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellence as a
correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us."

"At sea, has she?  In the king's service, of course?"

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined
silence obliged her to relate her brother's situation:  her voice was
animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had
been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been
absent without tears in her eyes.  Miss Crawford civilly wished him an
early promotion.

"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain
Marshall?  You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?"

"Among admirals, large enough; but," with an air of grandeur, "we know
very little of the inferior ranks.  Post-captains may be very good sort
of men, but they do not belong to _us_.  Of various admirals I could
tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of
their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies.  But, in general, I can
assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used.
Certainly, my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of
admirals.  Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough.  Now do not be
suspecting me of a pun, I entreat."

Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, "It is a noble profession."

"Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make
the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it
is not a favourite profession of mine.  It has never worn an amiable
form to _me_."

Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very happy in the prospect
of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, was still under
consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help
addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss
Julia Bertram.

"My dear Henry, have _you_ nothing to say?  You have been an improver
yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may vie with any place
in England.  Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great.  Everingham,
as it _used_ to be, was perfect in my estimation:  such a happy fall of
ground, and such timber!  What would I not give to see it again?"

"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as to hear your opinion of it,"
was his answer; "but I fear there would be some disappointment:  you
would not find it equal to your present ideas.  In extent, it is a mere
nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance; and, as for
improvement, there was very little for me to do--too little:  I should
like to have been busy much longer."

"You are fond of the sort of thing?" said Julia.

"Excessively; but what with the natural advantages of the ground, which
pointed out, even to a very young eye, what little remained to be done,
and my own consequent resolutions, I had not been of age three months
before Everingham was all that it is now.  My plan was laid at
Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at
one-and-twenty executed.  I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for
having so much happiness yet before him.  I have been a devourer of my
own."

"Those who see quickly, will resolve quickly, and act quickly," said
Julia.  "_You_ can never want employment.  Instead of envying Mr.
Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion."

Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this speech, enforced it warmly,
persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her brother's; and as Miss
Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her full support,
declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to consult
with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw the
business into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very
ready to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr.
Crawford, after properly depreciating his own abilities, was quite at
his service in any way that could be useful.  Mr. Rushworth then began
to propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over to
Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norris, as if reading in
her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan which was to
take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.

"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness; but why should
not more of us go?  Why should not we make a little party?  Here are
many that would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr.
Rushworth, and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the
spot, and that might be of some small use to you with _their_ opinions;
and, for my own part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good
mother again; nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me
so remiss; but now I could go and sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth,
while the rest of you walked about and settled things, and then we
could all return to a late dinner here, or dine at Sotherton, just as
might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleasant drive home
by moonlight.  I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me
in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and
Fanny will stay at home with you."

Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one concerned in the going
was forward in expressing their ready concurrence, excepting Edmund,
who heard it all and said nothing.



CHAPTER VII

"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?" said Edmund the
next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself.  "How did
you like her yesterday?"

"Very well--very much.  I like to hear her talk.  She entertains me;
and she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking
at her."

"It is her countenance that is so attractive.  She has a wonderful play
of feature!  But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
Fanny, as not quite right?"

"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did.  I was
quite astonished.  An uncle with whom she has been living so many
years, and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her
brother, treating him, they say, quite like a son.  I could not have
believed it!"

"I thought you would be struck.  It was very wrong; very indecorous."

"And very ungrateful, I think."

"Ungrateful is a strong word.  I do not know that her uncle has any
claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth
of her respect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here.  She is
awkwardly circumstanced.  With such warm feelings and lively spirits it
must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,
without throwing a shade on the Admiral.  I do not pretend to know
which was most to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral's
present conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is
natural and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely.
I do not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_ impropriety
in making them public."

"Do not you think," said Fanny, after a little consideration, "that
this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her
niece has been entirely brought up by her?  She cannot have given her
right notions of what was due to the Admiral."

"That is a fair remark.  Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece
to have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the
disadvantages she has been under.  But I think her present home must do
her good.  Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be.  She
speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection."

"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters.  She made me
almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature
of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything
worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated.  I am sure
William would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances.  And
what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters
when you were absent?"

"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to
its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of
either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford:  nothing sharp,
or loud, or coarse.  She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances
we have been speaking of.  There she cannot be justified.  I am glad
you saw it all as I did."

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance
of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,
there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a
line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny
could not follow.  Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen.  The
harp arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for
she played with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste
which were peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be
said at the close of every air.  Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
to be indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an
invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a
listener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and
both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a
little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was
enough to catch any man's heart.  The season, the scene, the air, were
all favourable to tenderness and sentiment.  Mrs. Grant and her tambour
frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as
everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the
sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth
looking at.  Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he
was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such
intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady
it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder
brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small
talk, he began to be agreeable to her.  She felt it to be so, though
she had not foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not
pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no
compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and
simple.  There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,
his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not
equal to discuss with herself.  She did not think very much about it,
however:  he pleased her for the present; she liked to have him near
her; it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;
she would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited
and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when
the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he
should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their
home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she
thought it a very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the
wine and water for her, would rather go without it than not.  She was a
little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford,
and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed,
and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the
same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was.  Edmund was
fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it
enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to
point out her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like
ill-nature.  The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her
was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride, which the
former caught, soon after her being settled at Mansfield, from the
example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, when Edmund's
acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, and
the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts,
as the best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish.  No
pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this
offer:  _she_ was not to lose a day's exercise by it.  The mare was
only to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride
were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed, so far from
feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should
be asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no
inconvenience to Fanny.  Edmund, who had taken down the mare and
presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before
either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when
she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward.  The second
day's trial was not so guiltless.  Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding
was such that she did not know how to leave off.  Active and fearless,
and though rather small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a
horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something
was probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions, and
something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in
general by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount.
Fanny was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her
for not being gone, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund
appeared.  To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of
each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could
look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its
demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's
meadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on
horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,
with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on.  A happy party
it appeared to her, all interested in one object:  cheerful beyond a
doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her.  It was a sound
which did not make _her_ cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should
forget her, and felt a pang.  She could not turn her eyes from the
meadow; she could not help watching all that passed.  At first Miss
Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was not
small, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_ apparent suggestion, they rose
into a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to
see how well she sat.  After a few minutes they stopped entirely.
Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was evidently
directing her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she
saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach.  She
must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that
Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature by
any one?  She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as
well have saved him the trouble; that it would have been particularly
proper and becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr.
Crawford, with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship,
probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in
comparison of Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare
to have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should
be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by
seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the
lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked
to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.

"My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all
within hearing, "I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you
waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself--I knew it
was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if
you please, you must forgive me.  Selfishness must always be forgiven,
you know, because there is no hope of a cure."

Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction
that she could be in no hurry.  "For there is more than time enough for
my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you
have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half
an hour sooner:  clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from
the heat as she would have done then.  I wish _you_ may not be fatigued
by so much exercise.  I wish you had saved yourself this walk home."

"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,"
said she, as she sprang down with his help; "I am very strong.  Nothing
ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.  Miss Price, I give way
to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a
pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this
dear, delightful, beautiful animal."

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now
joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another
part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together
to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments
on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been
watching with an interest almost equal to her own.

"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!"
said he.  "I never see one sit a horse better.  She did not seem to
have a thought of fear.  Very different from you, miss, when you first
began, six years ago come next Easter.  Lord bless you! how you did
tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!"

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated.  Her merit in
being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated
by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her
early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure
in praising it.

"I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has the make for it.
Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

"Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she has the same
energy of character.  I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a
great deal to do with the mind."

When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride
the next day.

"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare," was her answer.

"I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are
next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to
have her a longer time--for a whole morning, in short.  She has a
great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common:  Mrs. Grant has been
telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being
perfectly equal to it.  But any morning will do for this.  She would be
extremely sorry to interfere with you.  It would be very wrong if she
did.  _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health."

"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out
very often lately, and would rather stay at home.  You know I am strong
enough now to walk very well."

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to
Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all
the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and
doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion.  A successful scheme of
this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield
Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after.  There
were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,
there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go.  A young party is
always provided with a shady lane.  Four fine mornings successively
were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and
doing the honours of its finest spots.  Everything answered; it was all
gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to
be talked of with pleasure--till the fourth day, when the happiness of
one of the party was exceedingly clouded.  Miss Bertram was the one.
Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was
excluded.  It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect
good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the
Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good
manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she
reached home.  As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was
increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over
him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and
throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,
fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of
what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would
scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was
half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's
ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say
no more.  For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in
their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think
beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking
around, said, "But where is Fanny?  Is she gone to bed?"

"No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment
ago."

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was
a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa.  Mrs. Norris began
scolding.

"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening
upon a sofa.  Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as
_we_ do?  If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the
poor basket.  There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,
not touched yet.  I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.
You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it
is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a
sofa."

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,
and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high
good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of
exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa
as anybody in the house."

"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you
have the headache."

She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

"I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well.
How long have you had it?"

"Since a little before dinner.  It is nothing but the heat."

"Did you go out in the heat?"

"Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her
stay within such a fine day as this?  Were not we _all_ out?  Even your
mother was out to-day for above an hour."

"Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly
awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an
hour.  I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while
Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very
hot.  It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded
the coming home again."

"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"

"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year.  Poor thing!
_She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could
not wait."

"There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a
rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not
be caught _then_, sister.  There is nothing so likely to give it as
standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well
to-morrow.  Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always
forget to have mine filled."

"She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she
came back from your house the second time."

"What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses;
walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am?
No wonder her head aches."

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.

"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but
when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then
you know they must be taken home."

"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"

"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and,
unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the
key, so she was obliged to go again."

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be
employed on such an errand but Fanny?  Upon my word, ma'am, it has been
a very ill-managed business."

"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried
Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had gone myself,
indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.
Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire,
and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour.  I think nobody
can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I
cannot do everything at once.  And as for Fanny's just stepping down to
my house for me--it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot
think I was unreasonable to ask it.  How often do I pace it three times
a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing
about it?"

"I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."

"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be
knocked up so soon.  She has not been out on horseback now this long
while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to
walk.  If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of
her.  But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping
among the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a
fatigue of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very
hot.  Between ourselves, Edmund," nodding significantly at his mother,
"it was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden,
that did the mischief."

"I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid Lady Bertram, who
had overheard her; "I am very much afraid she caught the headache
there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody.  It was as much as I
could bear myself.  Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him
from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me."

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,
on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to
Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part.  She wished to be
able to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created,
made it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry
with himself.  His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything
which they had done.  Nothing of this would have happened had she been
properly considered; but she had been left four days together without
any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require.  He was ashamed
to think that for four days together she had not had the power of
riding, and very seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to
check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her
arrival at the Park.  The state of her spirits had probably had its
share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and
been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past.  As she
leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be
seen, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and
the sudden change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her
hardly know how to support herself.



CHAPTER VIII

Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it was a pleasant
fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had lately been,
Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, would be
soon made good.  While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting
his mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially,
in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had
been started a fortnight before, and which, in consequence of her
subsequent absence from home, had since lain dormant.  Mrs. Norris and
her nieces were all well pleased with its revival, and an early day was
named and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged: the
young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris
would willingly have answered for his being so, they would neither
authorise the liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from
Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be
done was for him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on
Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in.  Having been
out some time, and taken a different route to the house, they had not
met him.  Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would find Mr.
Crawford at home.  The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.  It
was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of,
for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a
well-meaning, civil, prosing, pompous woman, who thought nothing of
consequence, but as it related to her own and her son's concerns, had
not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party.  Lady
Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of refusal made
Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norris's more
numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great deal too much, I
assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth.  Ten miles there, and ten back, you
know.  You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our
two dear girls and myself without her.  Sotherton is the only place
that could give her a _wish_ to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed.
She will have a companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do
very well; and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I
will answer for his being most happy to join the party.  He can go on
horseback, you know."

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's staying at
home, could only be sorry.  "The loss of her ladyship's company would
be a great drawback, and she should have been extremely happy to have
seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton
yet, and it was a pity she should not see the place."

"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam," cried Mrs.
Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have opportunities in plenty of
seeing Sotherton.  She has time enough before her; and her going now is
quite out of the question.  Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."

"Oh no!  I cannot do without Fanny."

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that everybody must
be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss Crawford in the
invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the trouble of
visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly
declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure for
her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in
accepting her share of the civility.  Mr. Rushworth came back from the
Parsonage successful; and Edmund made his appearance just in time to
learn what had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to
her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two other ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to
make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were
desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be full
without her.  The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that
the barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on
which _one_ might go with him.

"But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage, or
his _only_, should be employed?  Why is no use to be made of my
mother's chaise?  I could not, when the scheme was first mentioned the
other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to be made
in the carriage of the family."

"What!" cried Julia:  "go boxed up three in a postchaise in this
weather, when we may have seats in a barouche!  No, my dear Edmund,
that will not quite do."

"Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking
us.  After what passed at first, he would claim it as a promise."

"And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_ carriages
when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing; and, between
ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and
Sotherton:  he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching
his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."

"That would not be a very handsome reason for using Mr. Crawford's,"
said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow, and
does not know how to drive.  I will answer for it that we shall find no
inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday."

"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant," said Edmund, "in
going on the barouche box."

"Unpleasant!" cried Maria:  "oh dear!  I believe it would be generally
thought the favourite seat.  There can be no comparison as to one's
view of the country.  Probably Miss Crawford will choose the
barouche-box herself."

"There can be no objection, then, to Fanny's going with you; there can
be no doubt of your having room for her."

"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is no idea of her
going with us.  She stays with her aunt.  I told Mrs. Rushworth so.
She is not expected."

"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he, addressing his
mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_ to be of the party, but as it relates
to yourself, to your own comfort.  If you could do without her, you
would not wish to keep her at home?"

"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her."

"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do."

There was a general cry out at this.  "Yes," he continued, "there is no
necessity for my going, and I mean to stay at home.  Fanny has a great
desire to see Sotherton.  I know she wishes it very much.  She has not
often a gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would be
glad to give her the pleasure now?"

"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which could
remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could
not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in
taking her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got
over.  It must have the strangest appearance!  It would be something so
very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth,
whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,
that she really did not feel equal to it.  Mrs. Norris had no affection
for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time; but her
opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from partiality for her own
scheme, because it _was_ her own, than from anything else.  She felt
that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any
alteration must be for the worse.  When Edmund, therefore, told her in
reply, as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not
distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the
opportunity, as he walked with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss
Price as one who would probably be of the party, and had directly
received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin, Mrs. Norris was
too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and would only say,
"Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am
sure I do not care about it."

"It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be staying at home
instead of Fanny."

"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you," added Julia,
hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a consciousness that she
ought to offer to stay at home herself.

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires," was
Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact, much greater
than her pleasure.  She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than
all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment,
could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her
account gave her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton
would be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another
alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with general
approbation.  Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to
Lady Bertram in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at
dinner.  Lady Bertram was very well pleased to have it so, and the
young ladies were in spirits again.  Even Edmund was very thankful for
an arrangement which restored him to his share of the party; and Mrs.
Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it at her tongue's end,
and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr.
Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was ready, there was
nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to take
their places.  The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of
honour, was unappropriated.  To whose happy lot was it to fall?  While
each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most
appearance of obliging the others, to secure it, the matter was settled
by Mrs. Grant's saying, as she stepped from the carriage, "As there are
five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry; and as
you were saying lately that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think
this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson."

Happy Julia!  Unhappy Maria!  The former was on the barouche-box in a
moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and mortification;
and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining
ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny, whose rides had
never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge, and was very happy
in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pretty.  She
was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor
did she desire it.  Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually
her best companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country,
the bearings of the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the
harvest, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found
entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund to
speak to of what she felt.  That was the only point of resemblance
between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything but a value for
Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her.  She had none of Fanny's
delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate
Nature, with little observation; her attention was all for men and
women, her talents for the light and lively.  In looking back after
Edmund, however, when there was any stretch of road behind them, or
when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill, they were
united, and a "there he is" broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:
her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side
by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his
expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the
laugh of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own
sense of propriety could but just smooth over.  When Julia looked back,
it was with a countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them,
it was in the highest spirits: "her view of the country was charming,
she wished they could all see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange
was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long
hill, and was not more inviting than this: "Here is a fine burst of
country.  I wish you had my seat, but I dare say you will not take it,
let me press you ever so much;" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer
before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations, it was
better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two strings to her
bow.  She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and in the
vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect.  Mr.
Rushworth's consequence was hers.  She could not tell Miss Crawford
that "those woods belonged to Sotherton," she could not carelessly
observe that "she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property
on each side of the road," without elation of heart; and it was a
pleasure to increase with their approach to the capital freehold
mansion, and ancient manorial residence of the family, with all its
rights of court-leet and court-baron.

"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties
are over.  The rest of the way is such as it ought to be.  Mr.
Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate.  Here begins
the village.  Those cottages are really a disgrace.  The church spire
is reckoned remarkably handsome.  I am glad the church is not so close
to the great house as often happens in old places.  The annoyance of
the bells must be terrible.  There is the parsonage:  a tidy-looking
house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent
people.  Those are almshouses, built by some of the family.  To the
right is the steward's house; he is a very respectable man.  Now we are
coming to the lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park
still.  It is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine
timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful.  We go down hill to
it for half a mile, and it is a pity, for it would not be an
ill-looking place if it had a better approach."

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed Miss
Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her
enjoyment to the utmost.  Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility;
and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard
with complacency.  Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her
reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and
observing that "it was a sort of building which she could not look at
but with respect," she added, "Now, where is the avenue?  The house
fronts the east, I perceive.  The avenue, therefore, must be at the
back of it.  Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front."

"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and
ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds.  You may see
something of it here--something of the more distant trees.  It is oak
entirely."

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she had
known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion; and her
spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,
when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal
entrance.



CHAPTER IX

Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady; and the whole
party were welcomed by him with due attention.  In the drawing-room
they were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss Bertram had
all the distinction with each that she could wish.  After the business
of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were
thrown open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into
the appointed dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with
abundance and elegance.  Much was said, and much was ate, and all went
well.  The particular object of the day was then considered.  How would
Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse, to take a survey of
the grounds?  Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle.  Mr. Crawford
suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey
more than two.  "To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other
eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss of
present pleasure."

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also; but this
was scarcely received as an amendment:  the young ladies neither smiled
nor spoke.  Her next proposition, of shewing the house to such of them
as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing
something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance
were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and many large, and
amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining floors,
solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each
handsome in its way.  Of pictures there were abundance, and some few
good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to
anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all
that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well
qualified to shew the house.  On the present occasion she addressed
herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison
in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had seen
scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the
appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was
almost as interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected
earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in
former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,
delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her
imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect
from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and some of the others were
attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking
his head at the windows.  Every room on the west front looked across a
lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron
palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any
other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for
housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth, "we are coming to the chapel,
which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as
we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, if you will
excuse me."

They entered.  Fanny's imagination had prepared her for something
grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of
devotion:  with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion
of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
of the family gallery above.  "I am disappointed," said she, in a low
voice, to Edmund.  "This is not my idea of a chapel.  There is nothing
awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand.  Here are no aisles, no
arches, no inscriptions, no banners.  No banners, cousin, to be 'blown
by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps
below.'"

"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how
confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and
monasteries.  It was only for the private use of the family.  They have
been buried, I suppose, in the parish church.  _There_ you must look
for the banners and the achievements."

"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed."

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation.  "This chapel was fitted up as you
see it, in James the Second's time.  Before that period, as I
understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some reason to
think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were
only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain.  It is a handsome
chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.
Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the
memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off."

"Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a
smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and
Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.

"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been
discontinued.  It was a valuable part of former times.  There is
something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great
house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be!  A whole
family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!"

"Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing.  "It must do the
heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor
housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their
prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves
for staying away."

"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund.
"If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be
more harm than good in the custom."

"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such
subjects.  Everybody likes to go their own way--to chuse their own time
and manner of devotion.  The obligation of attendance, the formality,
the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing,
and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and
gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come
when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke
with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was
missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy.  Cannot you imagine
with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of
Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel?  The young Mrs.
Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with
heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain
were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were
very inferior even to what they are now."

For a few moments she was unanswered.  Fanny coloured and looked at
Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little
recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be
serious even on serious subjects.  You have given us an amusing sketch,
and human nature cannot say it was not so.  We must all feel _at_
_times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if
you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown
into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_
devotions of such persons?  Do you think the minds which are suffered,
which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected
in a closet?"

"Yes, very likely.  They would have two chances at least in their
favour.  There would be less to distract the attention from without,
and it would not be tried so long."

"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_
circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I
believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse
better feelings than are begun with.  The greater length of the
service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the
mind.  One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long
enough to forget what chapel prayers are."

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the
chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying,
"Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as
if the ceremony were going to be performed.  Have not they completely
the air of it?"

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria,
said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss
Bertram so near the altar."

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering
herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not
much louder, "If he would give her away?"

"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look
of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place
directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether,
and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."  And she
talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the
comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to
the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with
proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her
whenever it took place.

"If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he
stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in
orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly.  How unlucky that
you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."

Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a
disinterested observer.  She looked almost aghast under the new idea
she was receiving.  Fanny pitied her.  "How distressed she will be at
what she said just now," passed across her mind.

"Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?"

"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at
Christmas."

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion,
replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the
cloth with more respect," and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which
reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year.  Miss
Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to
feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs.
Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the
principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her
son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough.  "For
if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a
clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the
house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors.  It
is past two, and we are to dine at five."

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds,
with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and
Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and
horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an
outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led
immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

"Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth,
civilly taking the hint and following them.  "Here are the greatest
number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants."

"Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, "whether we may not find
something to employ us here before we go farther?  I see walls of great
promise.  Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"

"James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will
be new to all the party.  The Miss Bertrams have never seen the
wilderness yet."

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to
move in any plan, or to any distance.  All were attracted at first by
the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy
independence.  Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine
the capabilities of that end of the house.  The lawn, bounded on each
side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a
bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed
by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the
trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.  It was a good spot for
fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr.
Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into
parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by
Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and
who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties,
left them and walked on.  The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs.
Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star
no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,
and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her
aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed
the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her.  Poor Julia,
the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot,
was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia
of the barouche-box as could well be imagined.  The politeness which
she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for
her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command,
that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart,
that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her
education, made her miserable under it.

"This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one
turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the
middle which opened to the wilderness.  "Shall any of us object to
being comfortable?  Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into
it.  What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it
is; for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can
go where they like."

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in
turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day
behind.  A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,
which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of
larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much
regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with
the bowling-green and the terrace.  They all felt the refreshment of
it, and for some time could only walk and admire.  At length, after a
short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So you are to be a clergyman,
Mr. Bertram.  This is rather a surprise to me."

"Why should it surprise you?  You must suppose me designed for some
profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a
soldier, nor a sailor."

"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.  And you know
there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the
second son."

"A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund, "but not quite universal.
I am one of the exceptions, and _being_ one, must do something for
myself."

"But why are you to be a clergyman?  I thought _that_ was always the
lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse before him."

"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?"

"_Never_ is a black word.  But yes, in the _never_ of conversation,
which means _not_ _very_ _often_, I do think it.  For what is to be
done in the church?  Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either
of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.  A
clergyman is nothing."

"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as
the _never_.  A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion.  He must
not head mobs, or set the ton in dress.  But I cannot call that
situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first
importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered,
temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and
morals, and consequently of the manners which result from their
influence.  No one here can call the _office_ nothing.  If the man who
holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its just
importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what he ought not
to appear."

"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one has been
used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend.  One does not see
much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be
acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves?  How can two sermons
a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to
have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of?
govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation for
the rest of the week?  One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."

"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the nation at large."

"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample of the rest."

"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice throughout the
kingdom.  We do not look in great cities for our best morality.  It is
not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good;
and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be
most felt.  A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in
fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish
and his neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size
capable of knowing his private character, and observing his general
conduct, which in London can rarely be the case.  The clergy are lost
there in the crowds of their parishioners.  They are known to the
largest part only as preachers.  And with regard to their influencing
public manners, Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I
mean to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators of
refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life.  The
_manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_, perhaps, the
result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines
which it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe,
be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought
to be, so are the rest of the nation."

"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

"There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced Miss Price
already."

"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."

"I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile; "I am
just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend to
take orders.  You really are fit for something better.  Come, do change
your mind.  It is not too late.  Go into the law."

"Go into the law!  With as much ease as I was told to go into this
wilderness."

"Now you are going to say something about law being the worst
wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have
forestalled you."

"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent my saying a
_bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in my nature.  I am a very
matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the borders of a
repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."

A general silence succeeded.  Each was thoughtful.  Fanny made the
first interruption by saying, "I wonder that I should be tired with
only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a seat,
if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a
little while."

"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm within his,
"how thoughtless I have been!  I hope you are not very tired.
Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "my other companion may do me the
honour of taking an arm."

"Thank you, but I am not at all tired."  She took it, however, as she
spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a
connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful of Fanny.
"You scarcely touch me," said he.  "You do not make me of any use.
What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man!
At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the
length of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison."

"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at; for we must have
walked at least a mile in this wood.  Do not you think we have?"

"Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in
love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.

"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.  We have taken
such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile
long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since
we left the first great path."

"But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw
directly to the end of it.  We looked down the whole vista, and saw it
closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in
length."

"Oh!  I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long
wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into
it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must
speak within compass."

"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here," said Edmund, taking
out his watch.  "Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?"

"Oh! do not attack me with your watch.  A watch is always too fast or
too slow.  I cannot be dictated to by a watch."

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk
they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,
and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench,
on which they all sat down.

"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund, observing her;
"why would not you speak sooner?  This will be a bad day's amusement
for you if you are to be knocked up.  Every sort of exercise fatigues
her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding."

"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
last week!  I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never
happen again."

"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my
own neglect.  Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with
me."

"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there
is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have
been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room
to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for.  It is
generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price
has found it so, though she did not know it."

"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit in the shade on a fine
day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment."

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again.  "I must
move," said she; "resting fatigues me.  I have looked across the ha-ha
till I am weary.  I must go and look through that iron gate at the same
view, without being able to see it so well."

Edmund left the seat likewise.  "Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look
up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile
long, or half half a mile."

"It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_ with a glance."

He still reasoned with her, but in vain.  She would not calculate, she
would not compare.  She would only smile and assert.  The greatest
degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and
they talked with mutual satisfaction.  At last it was agreed that they
should endeavour to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a
little more about it.  They would go to one end of it, in the line they
were then in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by
the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other
direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, and be back in a few
minutes.  Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, but this
was not suffered.  Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an
earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench
to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that
she was not stronger.  She watched them till they had turned the
corner, and listened till all sound of them had ceased.



CHAPTER X

A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still
thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption
from any one.  She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to
listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices
again.  She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and
feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not
those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford
issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before
her.

"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?" were the
first salutations.  She told her story.  "Poor dear Fanny," cried her
cousin, "how ill you have been used by them!  You had better have staid
with us."

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the
conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the
possibility of improvements with much animation.  Nothing was fixed on;
but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally
speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,
and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to
hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own
beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron
gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their
views and their plans might be more comprehensive.  It was the very
thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way
of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he
directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly
the requisite command of the house.  Go therefore they must to that
knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked.  Mr. Rushworth
wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether
he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come
without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil.
They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so
doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring
outright that he would go and fetch the key.  He set off accordingly.

"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from
the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when he was gone.

"Yes, there is nothing else to be done.  But now, sincerely, do not you
find the place altogether worse than you expected?"

"No, indeed, far otherwise.  I find it better, grander, more complete
in its style, though that style may not be the best.  And to tell you
the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think that _I_ shall ever
see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now.  Another summer
will hardly improve it to me."

After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are too much a
man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world.  If other
people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will."

"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be
good for me in some points.  My feelings are not quite so evanescent,
nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be
the case with men of the world."

This was followed by a short silence.  Miss Bertram began again.  "You
seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning.  I was glad to
see you so well entertained.  You and Julia were laughing the whole
way."

"Were we?  Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least
recollection at what.  Oh!  I believe I was relating to her some
ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister
loves to laugh."

"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"

"More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know," smiling,
"better company.  I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish
anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."

"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to
think of now."

"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high
spirits would denote insensibility.  Your prospects, however, are too
fair to justify want of spirits.  You have a very smiling scene before
you."

"Do you mean literally or figuratively?  Literally, I conclude.  Yes,
certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful.  But
unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint
and hardship.  'I cannot get out,' as the starling said."  As she
spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed
her.  "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!"

"And for the world you would not get out without the key and without
Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I think you might with
little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my
assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more
at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited."

"Prohibited! nonsense!  I certainly can get out that way, and I will.
Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know; we shall not be out
of sight."

"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will
find us near that knoll:  the grove of oak on the knoll."

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to
prevent it.  "You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram," she cried; "you
will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes; you will tear your
gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better
not go."

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,
and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said, "Thank you,
my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye."

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant
feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard,
astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford.  By taking a
circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable
direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some
minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion.
She seemed to have the little wood all to herself.  She could almost
have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was
impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:
somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk.  She
expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath,
and with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday!
Where are the others?  I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."

Fanny explained.

"A pretty trick, upon my word!  I cannot see them anywhere," looking
eagerly into the park.  "But they cannot be very far off, and I think I
am equal to as much as Maria, even without help."

"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key.  Do
wait for Mr. Rushworth."

"Not I, indeed.  I have had enough of the family for one morning.  Why,
child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother.  Such a
penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so
composed and so happy!  It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had
been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and
let it pass:  Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt
that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her
if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

"Yes, yes, we saw him.  He was posting away as if upon life and death,
and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all
were."

"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."

"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern.  I am not obliged to punish myself for
_her_ sins.  The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt
was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away
from."

And she immediately scrambled across the fence, and walked away, not
attending to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of
Miss Crawford and Edmund.  The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of
seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued
absence, however, as she might have done.  She felt that he had been
very ill-used, and was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had
passed.  He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit; and
though she made the best of the story, he was evidently mortified and
displeased in no common degree.  At first he scarcely said anything;
his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation, and he
walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.

"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say that you
would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts."

"I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly; "I see
nothing of them.  By the time I get to the knoll they may be gone
somewhere else.  I have had walking enough."

And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky."  And she longed to
be able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well have staid
for me," said he.

"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."

"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid."

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced.  After another pause,
he went on--"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a great admirer of this Mr.
Crawford as some people are?  For my part, I can see nothing in him."

"I do not think him at all handsome."

"Handsome!  Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome.  He is not
five foot nine.  I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot
eight.  I think he is an ill-looking fellow.  In my opinion, these
Crawfords are no addition at all.  We did very well without them."

A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict
him.

"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key, there might have
been some excuse, but I went the very moment she said she wanted it."

"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner, I am sure, and I dare
say you walked as fast as you could; but still it is some distance, you
know, from this spot to the house, quite into the house; and when
people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half minute
seems like five."

He got up and walked to the gate again, and "wished he had had the key
about him at the time."  Fanny thought she discerned in his standing
there an indication of relenting, which encouraged her to another
attempt, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you should not join
them.  They expected to have a better view of the house from that part
of the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing
of that sort, you know, can be settled without you."

She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a
companion.  Mr. Rushworth was worked on.  "Well," said he, "if you
really think I had better go: it would be foolish to bring the key for
nothing." And letting himself out, he walked off without farther
ceremony.

Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so
long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to go in search of
them.  She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had just
turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford
once more caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings
brought them before her.  They were just returned into the wilderness
from the park, to which a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very
soon after their leaving her, and they had been across a portion of the
park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning
to reach at last, and had been sitting down under one of the trees.
This was their history.  It was evident that they had been spending
their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of their
absence.  Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had
wished for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back
for her, had she not been tired already; but this was not quite
sufficient to do away with the pain of having been left a whole hour,
when he had talked of only a few minutes, nor to banish the sort of
curiosity she felt to know what they had been conversing about all that
time; and the result of the whole was to her disappointment and
depression, as they prepared by general agreement to return to the
house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and
Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, just ready for the
wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the
house.  Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster.
Whatever cross-accidents had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her
nieces, she had found a morning of complete enjoyment; for the
housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants,
had taken her to the dairy, told her all about their cows, and given
her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's leaving
them they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a most
satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his
grandson's illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him
a charm for it; and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest
nursery of plants, and actually presented her with a very curious
specimen of heath.

On this _rencontre_ they all returned to the house together, there to
lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and
Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of
dinner.  It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen
came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than
partially agreeable, or at all productive of anything useful with
regard to the object of the day.  By their own accounts they had been
all walking after each other, and the junction which had taken place at
last seemed, to Fanny's observation, to have been as much too late for
re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had been for determining on
any alteration.  She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth,
that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there was
gloom on the face of each.  Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much
more gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during
dinner, to do away any little resentment of the other two, and restore
general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home
allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sitting down to
table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage
came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained
a few pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made
abundance of civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the
way.  At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope
I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air
in so exposed a seat."  The request had not been foreseen, but was very
graciously received, and Julia's day was likely to end almost as well
as it began.  Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different,
and was a little disappointed; but her conviction of being really the
one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to receive Mr.
Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought.  He was certainly better
pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending
the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word," said
Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park.  "Nothing but pleasure
from beginning to end!  I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to
your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go.  A pretty good
day's amusement you have had!"

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, "I think _you_ have
done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap seems full of good things,
and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my
elbow unmercifully."

"My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old
gardener would make me take; but if it is in your way, I will have it
in my lap directly.  There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me;
take great care of it:  do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just
like the excellent one we had at dinner.  Nothing would satisfy that
good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses.  I stood out
as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I
knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with.  That
Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure!  She was quite shocked when I asked her
whether wine was allowed at the second table, and she has turned away
two housemaids for wearing white gowns.  Take care of the cheese,
Fanny.  Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well."

"What else have you been spunging?" said Maria, half-pleased that
Sotherton should be so complimented.

"Spunging, my dear!  It is nothing but four of those beautiful
pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me:  she
would not take a denial.  She said it must be such an amusement to me,
as she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures
of that sort; and so to be sure it will.  I shall get the dairymaid to
set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have
them moved to my own house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great
delight to me in my lonely hours to attend to them.  And if I have good
luck, your mother shall have some."

It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and the drive was as
pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when Mrs. Norris
ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those within.
Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the
day had afforded most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of
almost all.



CHAPTER XI

The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss
Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the
letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield.  It was
much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to
think of their father in England again within a certain period, which
these letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return.  Sir Thomas wrote of
it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise.
His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to
take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked
forward with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in
November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a
husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness
would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness
should depend.  It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to
throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should
see something else.  It would hardly be _early_ in November, there were
generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring
_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or
their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of.  It would
probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November was
three months off.  Three months comprised thirteen weeks.  Much might
happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that
his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have
found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the
breast of another young lady.  Miss Crawford, on walking up with her
brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news;
and though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness,
and to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it
with an attention not so easily satisfied.  Mrs. Norris gave the
particulars of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea,
as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny
looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr.
Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the
pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,
and saying, "How happy Mr. Rushworth looks!  He is thinking of
November."

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.

"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."

"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but
including so many dangers."

"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your
sister's marriage, and your taking orders."

"Yes."

"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind
of some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits
in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."

"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious
smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; "it is entirely her own
doing."

"Oh yes I know it is.  I was merely joking.  She has done no more than
what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being
extremely happy.  My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."

"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's
marrying."

"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience
should accord so well.  There is a very good living kept for you, I
understand, hereabouts."

"Which you suppose has biassed me?"

"But _that_ I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.

"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would
affirm myself.  On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a
provision for me probably did bias me.  Nor can I think it wrong that
it should.  There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I
see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that
he will have a competence early in life.  I was in safe hands.  I hope
I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure
my father was too conscientious to have allowed it.  I have no doubt
that I was biased, but I think it was blamelessly."

"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short pause, "as
for the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general
to be in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that.  Nobody
wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve
them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they
appear."

"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good.  The profession, either
navy or army, is its own justification.  It has everything in its
favour:  heroism, danger, bustle, fashion.  Soldiers and sailors are
always acceptable in society.  Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers
and sailors."

"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of
preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" said Edmund.  "To be
justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty
of any provision."

"What! take orders without a living!  No; that is madness indeed;
absolute madness."

"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to
take orders with a living nor without?  No; for you certainly would not
know what to say.  But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from
your own argument.  As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which
you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in
their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are
all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his."

"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to
the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing
nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat.  It is
indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed.  Indolence and love of ease; a want of
all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to
take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.  A
clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the
newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife.  His curate
does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine."

"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common
as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character.  I
suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,
you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose
opinions you have been in the habit of hearing.  It is impossible that
your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.
You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men
you condemn so conclusively.  You are speaking what you have been told
at your uncle's table."

"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion
is general, it is usually correct.  Though _I_ have not seen much of
the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any
deficiency of information."

"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are
condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,
or (smiling) of something else.  Your uncle, and his brother admirals,
perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or
bad, they were always wishing away."

"Poor William!  He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the
Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose
of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,"
said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me
so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of
seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my
own brother, Dr. Grant.  And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good
scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very
respectable, _I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who
must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a
finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook
makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife.  To own the
truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a
disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better
of.  My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."

"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word.  It is a great
defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to
such feelings as yours.  Fanny, it goes against us.  We cannot attempt
to defend Dr. Grant."

"No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession for all
that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
taken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy
or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he
has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor
or soldier than as a clergyman.  Besides, I cannot but suppose that
whatever there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in
a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly
profession, where he would have had less time and obligation--where he
might have escaped that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at
least, of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he
is now.  A man--a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit
of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice
every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as
he does, without being the better for it himself.  It must make him
think; and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain
himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman."

"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better
fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness
depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a
good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling
about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."

"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund
affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons."

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time
to say, in a pleasant manner, "I fancy Miss Price has been more used to
deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited by the
Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,
leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her
many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful
tread.

"There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he presently.  "There goes a
temper which would never give pain!  How well she walks! and how
readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the
moment she is asked.  What a pity," he added, after an instant's
reflection, "that she should have been in such hands!"

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the
window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes
soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was
solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an
unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods.
Fanny spoke her feelings.  "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose!
Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what
poetry only can attempt to describe!  Here's what may tranquillise
every care, and lift the heart to rapture!  When I look out on such a
night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor
sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the
sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more
out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."

"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny.  It is a lovely night, and they
are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,
as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in
early life.  They lose a great deal."

"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."

"I had a very apt scholar.  There's Arcturus looking very bright."

"Yes, and the Bear.  I wish I could see Cassiopeia."

"We must go out on the lawn for that.  Should you be afraid?"

"Not in the least.  It is a great while since we have had any
star-gazing."

"Yes; I do not know how it has happened."  The glee began.  "We will
stay till this is finished, Fanny," said he, turning his back on the
window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him
advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument,
and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent
in requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's
threats of catching cold.



CHAPTER XII

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to
call him earlier home.  The approach of September brought tidings of
Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter
to Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford
demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and
altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual
comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it
was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even
want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty
required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but
pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear
that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more
than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of
Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time,
she did not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took
Mr. Crawford into Norfolk.  Everingham could not do without him in the
beginning of September.  He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such
dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their
guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the
absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not
to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of
shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought to
keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own
motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity
was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad
example, he would not look beyond the present moment.  The sisters,
handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind;
and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of
Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was
welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with
further.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the
repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his
dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their
qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not
find their way to female feelings without some talent on one side or
some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and
Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much
more.  Each sister believed herself the favourite.  Julia might be
justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit
what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.
Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; his
manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground
with either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the
steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general
notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but
since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with
either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or
censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her
exercise of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was
seeing clearly, and judging candidly, she would probably have made some
important communications to her usual confidant.  As it was, however,
she only hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost.  "I am rather
surprised," said she, "that Mr. Crawford should come back again so
soon, after being here so long before, full seven weeks; for I had
understood he was so very fond of change and moving about, that I
thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take
him elsewhere.  He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield."

"It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say it gives
his sister pleasure.  She does not like his unsettled habits."

"What a favourite he is with my cousins!"

"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please.  Mrs. Grant, I
believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much
symptom of it, but I wish it may be so.  He has no faults but what a
serious attachment would remove."

"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny cautiously, "I could
sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia."

"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,
Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before
he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or
intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the
woman herself.  Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found
himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,
after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong."

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think
differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could do,
and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she
occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say
that Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to
think.  She was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on
the subject, as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs.
Rushworth, on a point of some similarity, and could not help wondering
as she listened; and glad would she have been not to be obliged to
listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and
she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing
for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a
partner then depended.  It was Fanny's first ball, though without the
preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the
thought only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a
violin player in the servants' hall, and the possibility of raising
five couple with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of
Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit.  It had, however, been a very
happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be
losing even a quarter of an hour.  While waiting and wishing, looking
now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two
above-mentioned ladies was forced on her--

"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.
Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we shall
see some happy faces again now."

"Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper, "there
will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was
rather a pity they should have been obliged to part.  Young folks in
their situation should be excused complying with the common forms.  I
wonder my son did not propose it."

"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss.  But dear
Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true
delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that
wish of avoiding particularity!  Dear ma'am, only look at her face at
this moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!"

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with
pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her
partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster
together.  How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for
she had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young
people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing!  I
cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight.  And what do you say,
ma'am, to the chance of another match?  Mr. Rushworth has set a good
example, and such things are very catching."

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.

"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?"

"Oh dear!  Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford.  Yes, indeed, a very pretty
match.  What is his property?"

"Four thousand a year."

"Very well.  Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they
have.  Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very
genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy."

"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet.  We only speak of it among
friends.  But I have very little doubt it _will_ be.  He is growing
extremely particular in his attentions."

Fanny could listen no farther.  Listening and wondering were all
suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though
feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it
must happen.  He came towards their little circle; but instead of
asking her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of
the present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from
whom he had just parted.  Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the
modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable
in expecting it.  When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper
from the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you
want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal
civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance.  "I am glad
of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the
newspaper again, "for I am tired to death.  I only wonder how the good
people can keep it up so long.  They had need be _all_ in love, to find
any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy.  If you look at
them you may see they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and
Mrs. Grant--and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover
as much as any one of them.  A desperate dull life hers must be with
the doctor," making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the
latter, who proving, however, to be close at his elbow, made so
instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary, as Fanny,
in spite of everything, could hardly help laughing at.  "A strange
business this in America, Dr. Grant!  What is your opinion?  I always
come to you to know what I am to think of public matters."

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

By Jane Austen



Chapter 1


It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
of some one or other of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? How can it affect them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the
party."

"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five
grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty."

"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."

"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighbourhood."

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to
go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no
newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to
visit him if you do not."

"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though
I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are
all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these last twenty years at least."

"Ah, you do not know what I suffer."

"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood."

"It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
visit them."

"Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all."

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,
she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.



Chapter 2


Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring
his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with:

"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."

"We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother
resentfully, "since we are not to visit."

"But you forget, mamma," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him."

"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
of her."

"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do
not depend on her serving you."

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."

"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times
them ill."

"I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is
your next ball to be, Lizzy?"

"To-morrow fortnight."

"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back
till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself."

"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to _her_."

"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
myself; how can you be so teasing?"

"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,
Mrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as
she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
take it on myself."

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense,
nonsense!"

"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do
you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read
great books and make extracts."

Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.

"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr.
Bingley."

"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.

"I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If
I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called
on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
cannot escape the acquaintance now."

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while.

"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a
word about it till now."

"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose," said Mr. Bennet; and,
as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

"What an excellent father you have, girls!" said she, when the door was
shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball."

"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I'm the tallest."

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
dinner.



Chapter 3


Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.

"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,"
said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for."

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about
ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had
heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and
the report which was in general circulation within five minutes
after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he
was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving
one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his
having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
to join it.

"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
dance."

"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this
it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to
stand up with."

"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Mr. Bingley, "for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in
my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
uncommonly pretty."

"_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."

"Which do you mean?" and turning round he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no
humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
good deal of curiosity as to the events of an evening which had raised
such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.

"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
her twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her
twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and
asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,
and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,
and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--"

"If he had had any compassion for _me_," cried her husband impatiently,
"he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
his partners. O that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!"

"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown--"

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man."



Chapter 4


When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
much she admired him.

"He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much
ease, with such perfect good breeding!"

"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man ought
likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete."

"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
did not expect such a compliment."

"Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between
us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman
in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
stupider person."

"Dear Lizzy!"

"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable
in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your
life."

"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak
what I think."

"I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
others! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it
everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the
good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing
of the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,
too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his."

"Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep
his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
neighbour in her."

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,
and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine
ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and
conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the
first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of
associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect
entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of
a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their
own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
purchase.

His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,
though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
means unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation
to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for
half-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal
rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.
In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means
deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,
reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not
inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley
was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offense.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive
to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt
acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not
conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received
either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one
whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such
commendation to think of her as he chose.



Chapter 5


Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the
honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;
and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,
where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,
unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all
the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By
nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.
James's had made him courteous.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest
of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
Elizabeth's intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over
a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

"_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil
self-command to Miss Lucas. "_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice."

"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better."

"Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be
sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
about Mr. Robinson."

"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many
pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,
beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'"

"Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as
if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know."

"_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza," said
Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
is he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_."

"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite
a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips."

"Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?" said Jane.
"I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."

"Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at
being spoke to."

"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much,
unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably
agreeable."

"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had
heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
the ball in a hack chaise."

"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long," said Miss Lucas, "but I
wish he had danced with Eliza."

"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with _him_,
if I were you."

"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him."

"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend _me_ so much as pride
often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,
should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
to be proud."

"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive
_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_."

"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
reflections, "is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have
ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human
nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may
be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."

"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas, who came with
his sisters, "I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day."

"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said Mrs.
Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle
directly."

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
would, and the argument ended only with the visit.



Chapter 6


The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on
the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,
a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards
the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest
pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment
of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It
was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and
to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions
of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.

"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose
on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in
the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."

"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can
perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to
discover it too."

"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."

"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
it, he must find it out."

"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they
always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his
attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for
falling in love as much as she chooses."

"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in
question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined
to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,
she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character."

"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four
evenings may do a great deal."

"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they
both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."

"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and
if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a
twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or
ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
life."

"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself."

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly
had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made
himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough
to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.

"What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?"

"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."

"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
turned to him and said:

"Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
Meryton?"

"With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady
energetic."

"You are severe on us."

"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased," said Miss Lucas. "I am going
to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."

"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken
a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would
really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
hearing the very best performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
she added, "Very well, if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing
at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of
course familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I
shall keep mine to swell my song."

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that
she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,
with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in
dancing at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was
his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:

"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There
is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first
refinements of polished society."

"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance."

Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully," he
continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; "and I doubt
not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."

"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir."

"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
you often dance at St. James's?"

"Never, sir."

"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"

"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it."

"You have a house in town, I conclude?"

Mr. Darcy bowed.

"I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond
of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
London would agree with Lady Lucas."

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed
to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
her:

"My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow
me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You
cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you."
And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though
extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:

"Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you
not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."

Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of
her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at
all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny
me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
for one half-hour."

"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.

"He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,
we cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a
partner?"

Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:

"I can guess the subject of your reverie."

"I should imagine not."

"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the
nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would
I give to hear your strictures on them!"

"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you
joy?"

"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."

"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you."

He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.



Chapter 7


Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,
in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
had left her four thousand pounds.

She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to
their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
headquarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge
of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a
secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.
Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of
felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and
Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation
to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the
regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
Bennet coolly observed:

"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
I am now convinced."

Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,
and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
next morning to London.

"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so
ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however."

"If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it."

"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."

"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
foolish."

"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will
not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when
I liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my
heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in
his regimentals."

"Mamma," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with
a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,

"Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,
Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."

"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--

"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,
we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,
for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a
quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the
gentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,

"CAROLINE BINGLEY"

"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
_that_."

"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."

"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.

"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
rain; and then you must stay all night."

"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that
they would not offer to send her home."

"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."

"I had much rather go in the coach."

"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?"

"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."

"But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose
will be answered."

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a
bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before
it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
Jane certainly could not come back.

"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet more than
once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the
next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note for Elizabeth:

"MY DEAREST LIZZY,--

"I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not
hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.
Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been
to me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the
matter with me.--Yours, etc."

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she
should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."

"Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling
colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is
all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage."

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking
was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.

"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a
thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there."

"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want."

"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for the
horses?"

"No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing
when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner."

"I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary, "but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required."

"We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and Lydia.
Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
together.

"If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along, "perhaps we may
see something of Captain Carter before he goes."

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last
within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.

She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such
dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their
brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there
was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.
Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the
brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as
to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
thinking only of his breakfast.

Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not
well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed
for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the
extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
her.

When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught
a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were
the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in
fact, nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very
unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply
of clothes.



Chapter 8


At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then
poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain
dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the
same, and added:

"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
looked almost wild."

"She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!"

"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
hide it not doing its office."

"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was
all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite
escaped my notice."

"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am
inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such
an exhibition."

"Certainly not."

"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by
it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,
a most country-town indifference to decorum."

"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said
Bingley.

"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, "that
this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise." A
short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:

"I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very
sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with
such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is
no chance of it."

"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on
Meryton."

"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."

"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it
would not make them one jot less agreeable."

"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world," replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on
leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and
when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular."

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great
reader, and has no pleasure in anything else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am
_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."

"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and
I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well."

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the
table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
others--all that his library afforded.

"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
than I ever looked into."

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
in the room.

"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left
so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at
Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"

"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many
generations."

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books."

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
these."

"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
half as delightful as Pemberley."

"I wish it may."

"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
finer county in England than Derbyshire."

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."

"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."

"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."

Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very
little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew
near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his
eldest sister, to observe the game.

"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will
she be as tall as I am?"

"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller."

"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished
for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite."

"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished as they all are."

"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"

"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and
net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure
I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
informed that she was very accomplished."

"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has
too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very
far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished."

"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.

"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your
idea of an accomplished woman."

"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it."

"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really
esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides
all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half-deserved."

"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must
yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
extensive reading."

"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."

"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
this?"

"I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe united."

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.

"Elizabeth Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,
"is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the
other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."

"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
"there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
despicable."

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief
to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.



Chapter 9


Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughter all
attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

"Indeed I have, sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be
moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
a little longer on your kindness."

"Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
sure, will not hear of her removal."

"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
"that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she
remains with us."

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not
know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers
a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it
in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease."

"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I
should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here."

"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.

"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.

"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly."

"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
through I am afraid is pitiful."

"That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate
character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."

"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in
the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."

"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a
studier of character. It must be an amusing study."

"Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
least that advantage."

"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but a few subjects for
such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and
unvarying society."

"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever."

"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning
a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
going on in the country as in town."

Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
victory over him, continued her triumph.

"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for
my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?"

"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it;
and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."

"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing
at all."

"Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
which you must acknowledge to be true."

"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting
with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families."

Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards
Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.

"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So
genteel and easy! He had always something to say to everybody. _That_
is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very
important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter."

"Did Charlotte dine with you?"

"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,
I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend."

"She seems a very pleasant young woman."

"Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody
better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was
sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he
did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses
on her, and very pretty they were."

"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has
been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"

"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy.

"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is
strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."

Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own
easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:

"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of
the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill."

Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to
wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she
added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not."

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.



Chapter 10


The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by
messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in union with her opinion of each.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a
year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
pens remarkably well."

"Thank you--but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley's."

"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
present I have not room to do them justice."

"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"

"They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me
to determine."

"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
ease, cannot write ill."

"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her
brother, "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?"

"My style of writing is very different from yours."

"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."

"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast."

"And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?"

"The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?"

"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,
I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
precipitance merely to show off before the ladies."

"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better
stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
go--and at another word, might stay a month."

"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did
not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much
more than he did himself."

"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my
friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could."

"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions
as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"

"Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
himself."

"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,
but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to
stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,
that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and
the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering
one argument in favour of its propriety."

"To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
with you."

"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
either."

"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"

"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
between the parties?"

"By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
when he has nothing to do."

Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
brother for talking such nonsense.

"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. "You dislike an argument,
and want to silence this."

"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."

"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
Darcy had much better finish his letter."

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity
to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books
that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her
because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,
however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something
more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in
any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by
a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her:

"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
opportunity of dancing a reel?"

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
surprise at her silence.

"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before, but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
you dare."

"Indeed I do not dare."

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy
had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some
assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.

She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.

"I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery
the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses."

"Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?"

"Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the
judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different
lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for
what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"

"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be
copied."

At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
Elizabeth herself.

"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some
confusion, lest they had been overheard.

"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "running away without
telling us that you were coming out."

Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,
and immediately said:

"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue."

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
laughingly answered:

"No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear
to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
fourth. Good-bye."

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.



Chapter 11


When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;
Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had
something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also
made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire
to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from
the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
delight.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and
the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets
and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
Bennet.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she
was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant
it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library."

No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing
her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
towards him and said:

"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are
not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
pleasure."

"If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he
chooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send
round my cards."

"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
the day."

"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball."

Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but
Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In
the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,
turning to Elizabeth, said:

"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so
long in one attitude."

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down
the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would
interfere. "What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
meaning?"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?

"Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe
on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing
about it."

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in
anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his
two motives.

"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon
as she allowed him to speak. "You either choose this method of passing
the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret
affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be
completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better
as I sit by the fire."

"Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard anything so
abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"

"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We
can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate
as you are, you must know how it is to be done."

"But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has
not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of
mind! No, no--feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will
not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a
subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself."

"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a
laugh."

"Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me more credit than can be.
The wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their
actions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in
life is a joke."

"Certainly," replied Elizabeth--"there are such people, but I hope I
am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,
and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely
what you are without."

"Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study
of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule."

"Such as vanity and pride."

"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;
"and pray what is the result?"

"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise."

"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other
so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost
forever."

"_That_ is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me."

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

"And _your_ defect is to hate everybody."

"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand
them."

"Do let us have a little music," cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share. "Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst?"

Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for
it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.



Chapter 12


In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them
very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work
on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.
He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope
of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her
to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of
the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their
father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of
its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and
Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human
nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of
threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information
for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said
in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers
had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it
had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.



Chapter 13


"I hope, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
breakfast the next morning, "that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party."

"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners
are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home."

"The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger."

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. "A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
Bingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be
got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this
moment."

"It is _not_ Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person whom I
never saw in the whole course of my life."

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:

"About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago
I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."

"Oh! my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
to do something or other about it."

Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They
had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which
Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail
bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet, "and
nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
softened by his manner of expressing himself."

"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of
him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did
before him?"

"Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
head, as you will hear."

"Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.

"Dear Sir,--

"The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but
for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might
seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone
with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.
Bennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having
received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be
distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de
Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has
preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be
my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which
are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I
flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and
that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate
will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the
offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the
means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for
it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
amends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting
on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight
following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine
is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided
that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I
remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and
daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

"WILLIAM COLLINS"

"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,"
said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most
conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will
prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
indulgent as to let him come to us again."

"There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if
he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
discourage him."

"Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean
to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
credit."

Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady
Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
his parishioners whenever it were required.

"He must be an oddity, I think," said she. "I cannot make him
out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
mean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
would help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?"

"No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him."

"In point of composition," said Mary, "the letter does not seem
defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
think it is well expressed."

To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in
need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a
tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this
instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This
gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.
Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.

"You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
oddly."

"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate."

"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
will go when once they come to be entailed."

"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and
could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,
when we are better acquainted--"

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;
and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its
cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who
assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a
good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
quarter of an hour.



Chapter 14


During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for
his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
he protested that "he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in
a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of
preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
people he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.
She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or
two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly
approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
to suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet upstairs."

"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and
I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"

"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."

"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?"

"She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
extensive property."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than
many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?"

"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the
handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks
the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many
accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am
informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies."

"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
court."

"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the
British court of its brightest ornaments. Her ladyship seemed pleased
with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable
to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that
her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
pay."

"You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you
that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
moment, or are the result of previous study?"

"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
give them as unstudied an air as possible."

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
in his pleasure.

By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad
to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,
glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily
assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything
announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and
begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at
him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the
volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three
pages, she interrupted him with:

"Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me
so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:

"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin."

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
for backgammon.



Chapter 15


Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part
of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had
given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a
good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which
he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found
them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face
confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a
quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at
Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. "As to
her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could
not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her
_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged."

Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
the day before was now high in her good graces.

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were
immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and
nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in
a shop window, could recall them.

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking
with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was
the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came
to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,
determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under
pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately
had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a
commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.
His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of
beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.
The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness
of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and
unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together
very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy
and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and
Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated
it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,
after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
Mr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of
Mrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
invitation.

Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,
from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was
eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as
their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing
about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the
street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility
was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She
received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with
as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an
excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon
put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that
Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the
last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the
occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the
officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid,
disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses
the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either
or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain
such behaviour than her sister.

Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring
Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady
Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;
for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even
pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be
attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so
much attention in the whole course of his life.



Chapter 16


As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and
the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
the house.

When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast
parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what
Rosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the
description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
with the housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and
the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive
listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.
The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,
breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
interesting by the skill of the speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he
had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.

"I know little of the game at present," said he, "but I shall be glad
to improve myself, for in my situation in life--" Mrs. Phillips was very
glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.
Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore
at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear
him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be
told--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

"About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
understand."

"Yes," replied Mr. Wickham; "his estate there is a noble one. A clear
ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more
capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for
I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my
infancy."

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"

"As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth very warmly. "I have
spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
disagreeable."

"I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being
agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_
to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else. Here you are in your own family."

"Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in
the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
him more favourably spoken of by anyone."

"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short
interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen."

"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.

"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is
likely to be in this country much longer."

"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."

"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense
of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he
is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never
be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by
a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the
memory of his father."

Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that
he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very
intelligible gallantry.

"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added,
"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be
a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
elsewhere."

"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be? How could his
will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?"

"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
to it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain
it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was
of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and
I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can
recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort
of men, and that he hates me."

"This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced."

"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_."

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
ever as he expressed them.

"But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive? What can
have induced him to behave so cruelly?"

"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had
not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort
of preference which was often given me."

"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be
despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
this."

After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_
remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of
his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition
must be dreadful."

"I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham; "I can hardly
be just to him."

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To
treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his
father!" She could have added, "A young man, too, like _you_, whose very
countenance may vouch for your being amiable"--but she contented herself
with, "and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,
connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"

"We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest
part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,
appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of
use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the
Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,
and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself."

"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable! I wonder that the very
pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better
motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for
dishonesty I must call it."

"It _is_ wonderful," replied Wickham, "for almost all his actions may
be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has
connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are
none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger
impulses even than pride."

"Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?"

"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what
his father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up
as the most attentive and best of brothers."

"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?"

He shook his head. "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to
speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very
proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond
of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is
nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her
home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
education."

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
help reverting once more to the first, and saying:

"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you
know Mr. Bingley?"

"Not at all."

"He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is."

"Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not
want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is
a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His
pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something
for fortune and figure."

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success was
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every
point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,
he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged
that she would not make herself uneasy.

"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a
card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I
am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters."

Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him
a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
notice, but he certainly has not known her long."

"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."

"No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday."

"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
self-destined for another.

"Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman."

"I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have
not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her
nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an
understanding of the first class."

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper
put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise
of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to
everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name
as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.



Chapter 17


Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she
knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The
possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to
interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be
done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,
and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be
otherwise explained.

"They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way
or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side."

"Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on
behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
somebody."

"Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such
a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is
impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
excessively deceived in him? Oh! no."

"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it
be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
looks."

"It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to
think."

"I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think."

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,
if he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair
became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had
been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal
invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed
for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their
dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly
asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To
the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet
as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an
activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if
eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered
by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
society of her two friends, and the attentions of her brother; and
Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look
and behavior. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended
less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they
each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,
he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball
was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she
had no disinclination for it.

"While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough--I
think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those
who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for
everybody."

Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did
not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if
he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
dance.

"I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball
of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,
can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing
myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair
cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of
soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,
a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
cause, and not to any disrespect for her."

Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins
instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help
for it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce
delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first
struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy
of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
was extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose
to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this
time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there
was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton
once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very
shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the
improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.



Chapter 18


Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in
vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty
of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose
the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though
this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who
told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the
day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,
"I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here."

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every
feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She
was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition
to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;
they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstasy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took
her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,
without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
mind; Charlotte tried to console her:

"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."

"Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find
a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an
evil."

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding
it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again
silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
with:--"It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked
about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size
of the room, or the number of couples."

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
said.

"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But
_now_ we may be silent."

"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?"

"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of
_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the
trouble of saying as little as possible."

"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
imagine that you are gratifying mine?"

"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great
similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."

"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,"
said he. "How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_
think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."

"I must not decide on my own performance."

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just
been forming a new acquaintance."

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his
features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
as may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of
_retaining_ them, is less certain."

"He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship," replied Elizabeth
with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
his life."

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on
his dancing and his partner.

"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at
her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then
flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that
young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me."

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
he turned to his partner, and said, "Sir William's interruption has made
me forget what we were talking of."

"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.
We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we
are to talk of next I cannot imagine."

"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.

"Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
feelings."

"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions."

"No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
something else."

"The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?" said he,
with a look of doubt.

"Yes, always," she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
by her suddenly exclaiming, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
created_."

"I am," said he, with a firm voice.

"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"

"I hope not."

"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
to be secure of judging properly at first."

"May I ask to what these questions tend?"

"Merely to the illustration of _your_ character," said she, endeavouring
to shake off her gravity. "I am trying to make it out."

"And what is your success?"

She shook her head. "I do not get on at all. I hear such different
accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."

"I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that reports may vary
greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."

"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
opportunity."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied.
She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,
for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards
her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another.

They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and
with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:

"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!
Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand
questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late
Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to
give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's
using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but
I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he
cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother
thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to
the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself
out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent
thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,
considering his descent, one could not expect much better."

"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same," said
Elizabeth angrily; "for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
assure you, he informed me himself."

"I beg your pardon," replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
"Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant."

"Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself. "You are much mistaken
if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
Darcy." She then sought her eldest sister, who has undertaken to make
inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.
Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way
before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.

"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
you may be sure of my pardon."

"No," replied Jane, "I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,
Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has
been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard."

"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"

"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton."

"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
satisfied. But what does he say of the living?"

"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
him _conditionally_ only."

"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth warmly;
"but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but
since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of
both gentlemen as I did before."

She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,
and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
to make a most important discovery.

"I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that there is now
in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made
in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to
do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology."

"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!"

"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight."

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him
that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction
as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that
it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her
with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she
ceased speaking, replied thus:

"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in
your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your
understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide
difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,
and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that
I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with
the highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of
behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to
follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to
perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to
profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young
lady like yourself." And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.
Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose
astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced
his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of
it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the
words "apology," "Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh." It vexed
her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time
to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,
was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.

"I have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied with my
reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying
that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him."

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the
train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of
endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon
be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet
seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the
match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but
three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and
then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
nothing _he_ may not like to hear."

"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you
to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
so doing!"

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would
talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and
blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
steady gravity.

At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and
chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and
she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,
but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of
exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's
eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her
progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very
ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks
of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to
favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.
Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was
weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at
Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs
of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, "That will do
extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
young ladies have time to exhibit."

Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.

"If I," said Mr. Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,
to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time
to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make
such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
that he should have attentive and conciliatory manner towards everybody,
especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit
him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an
occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
family." And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had
been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many
smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his
wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,
and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably
clever, good kind of young man.

To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to
expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or
finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,
and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the
gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though
he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her
power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;
though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by
a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of
an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how
heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and
were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord,
how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and
addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he
would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,
and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next
day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the
delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four
months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.



Chapter 19


The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at
the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On
finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,
soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:

"May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
course of this morning?"

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet answered instantly, "Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy
will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I
want you upstairs." And, gathering her work together, she was hastening
away, when Elizabeth called out:

"Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse
me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am
going away myself."

"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are." And upon
Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
escape, she added: "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.
Collins."

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to
conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between
distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as
they were gone, Mr. Collins began.

"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the
purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of
my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for
marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design
of selecting a wife, as I certainly did."

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could
not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,
and he continued:

"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will
add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought
to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
left Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose
a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice
and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be
acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy
myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not
be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and
I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

"You are too hasty, sir," she cried. "You forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for
the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to
decline them."

"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."

"Upon my word, sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is a rather
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_
happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation."

"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins
very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of
seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your
modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification."

"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may
be considered, therefore, as finally settled." And rising as she
thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus
addressed her:

"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I
shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on
the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
female character."

"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
to convince you of its being one."

"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is
unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo
the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females."

"I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind
of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking
the truth from her heart."

"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
being acceptable."

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make
no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if
he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could
not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.



Chapter 20


Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open
the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
warm terms on the happy prospect or their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.

This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been
glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,
and could not help saying so.

"But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be
brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very
headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will
_make_ her know it."

"Pardon me for interrupting you, madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if
she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not
to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity."

"Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is
only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure."

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you
are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make
Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you
do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_."

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
her communication.

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had
finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"

"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."

"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business."

"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
marrying him."

"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
library.

"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for
you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was.
"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"

"I have, sir."

"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?"

"Yes, or I will never see her again."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you
again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
if you _do_."

Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,
but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to
_insist_ upon her marrying him."

"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request.
First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
library to myself as soon as may be."

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane
in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined
interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and
sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner
varied, however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin
could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such
fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him."

Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone,
"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves."

Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned
as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it
into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied."

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with
an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to
the girls, "Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation
together."

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
conversation: "Oh! Mr. Collins!"

"My dear madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me," he presently continued, in a voice that marked his
displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation
to inevitable evils is the evil duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a
young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;
and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt
of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;
for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as
when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect
to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to
your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my
behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my
dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all
liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.
My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise."



Chapter 21


The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her
mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly
expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,
but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke
to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and
especially to her friend.

The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill
health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.

"I found," said he, "as the time drew near that I had better not meet
Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
might arise unpleasant to more than myself."

She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to
her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw
her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected
herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
